Page 79 of Bewitched By a Vampire

Antoine.

Andmagic.

Night growled as all the warmth that had been flowing through him turned to icy cold. The female in his arms shifted her hands against his bare chest, rousing rage in his blood, and he tore his fangs from her throat, swiped his tongue over the puncture marks and shoved her away from him. She hit the end of the bed and rolled off it, landing on the floor with a grunt.

The silver-haired witch in the room with him scowled at him as she stooped and helped Lilian onto her feet, but Night kept his glare locked on Lilian.

His blood boiled at just the sight of her as she stood with her gaze downcast, guilt written in every line of her dirty face.

He still couldn’t believe that she was a witch. His scar burned and he resisted the temptation to touch it. Her hand shook as she lifted it and brushed her fingertips over the fresh set of marks on her throat. His marks. Giving him blood wasn’t going to make up for what she had done or what he had been through.

Night looked down at his bare chest.

At all the blood on it.

His blood.

Antoine came to him and pressed a hand to his forehead. “Are you well?”

“As I’ll ever be,” he snarled in response, keeping his glare fixed on Lilian.

His cousin looked from him to her, and back again. “I will drop off some clothes for you later. For now, we will give you some privacy.”

Night was about to thank him.

But then his cousin tacked on, “You look as if you need to talk.”

His head swivelled towards his cousin. Before he could stop him, Antoine had walked out of the room and the silver-haired female had followed him. The door closed.

Leaving him alone with Lilian.

Talk? He wasn’t sure he wanted to talk with her, and he definitely wasn’t sure it was wise for him to be alone with her.

He stared at his chest and pulled down an experimental breath, steeling himself against the pain he was sure he would feel. Only he felt nothing. He felt normal. His ribs no longer burned and ached, and his lungs no longer felt battered and bruised. He touched his side and drew down another breath, and stilled when he caught her scent on him.

The scent of her blood.

It wasn’t only his blood dried on his skin.

His gaze leaped to her, to the ragged marks on the side of her throat, and the memory of what he had done hit him hard, knocking him off balance. He had savaged her throat in a fit of bloodlust that had come upon him out of nowhere and then he had offered his in return.

He had been wild with a desperate need to heal her and make her stronger.

Night stared at her, some of his anger abating. “I’m glad you refused my blood. I don’t want to be bound to you.”

Tears filled her caramel-coloured eyes.

Guilt tore at his chest, ripping through his ribs to his heart. Worry replaced his anger, that damned heart softening as he watched her fighting her tears and was sure he was the cause of them. He hadn’t meant his words in the way she had taken them. He had meant only that he didn’t want to bind her to him as his servant.

Not that he didn’t want her anymore.

Gods, he shouldn’t—she was a witch after all—but he wanted her as fiercely now as he had before he had discovered what she was and had found himself in a cell, held by her coven.

“Did I hurt you?” He reached for her as his brow furrowed, the need to touch her compelling him to make her come to him together with a desire to check the wound he had inflicted and make sure she would be all right.

Rather than coming to him as he wanted, she distanced herself, turning away from him and pacing across the black-walled room.

Night curled his hand and drew it back to his chest, his rage completely deflating as he stared at the distance between them and realised how badly he needed her to come to him, and how cold this space between them made him feel. He was sure a female had never made him feel like this, so torn and confused, desperate and wild, and afraid.

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