Page 48 of Blood Freed

I sense him before I see him – a ripple in our connection, like a stone dropped in still water. Then he’s there, in my bedroom, his presence both solid and ethereal. The moonlight should make him look softer, but instead, it highlights the sharp angles of his face, the tension in his jaw.

“Maxwell is dead,” he says without preamble. The agony in his words takes the air from my lungs, and through our connection, I feel the raw edges of his grief.

“I’m so sorry, Soren,” I whisper. “Lucien?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

Soren nods, raking a hand through his disheveled dark hair. “He made it look like suicide. The trial…” He pauses, and I feel his struggle to maintain composure. “The trial is set for tomorrow at midnight. Lucien’s orchestrated everything. Without Maxwell’s testimony…”

“We can still fight this,” I start, but he cuts me off with a sharp gesture.

“You don’t understand. Lucien has the Assembly in his pocket. He’s eliminated the one person who could have exposed him, and now he’s moving to tie up loose ends.” His eyes meet mine, intense and haunted. “The trial is just a formality. The verdict has already been decided.”

“You were hoping you could protect us – me and Maxwell – by taking the blame.” Of course I’ve known it. I just want him to admit it.

“Yes.” He nods. “I’m so sorry, Mia. I did what I thought was right. But I can see that it’s pointless now. Lucien Marlowe operates on a level of deception that just can’t comprehend.”

“I know,” I say softly. “That’s because you are a good man, Soren. An honest man. And he is pure fucking evil.”

“Yes,” he says. The bond between us pulses with his fear – not for himself, I realize with startling clarity, but for me. Images flash through our connection: Maxwell’s ashes, the cold cruelty of Lucien’s planning, the growing isolation as former allies distance themselves.

“That’s why I’m here,” Soren continues, his voice low and urgent. “The Blackwoods are next. Your blood…it’s what he’s wanted all along. Maxwell wasn’t sacrificing me – he was protecting his entire line. Your family is the answer. I won’t let him take you again, Mia. I can’t.” His voice cracks. “I won’t be there to protect you next time.”

“I’m not afraid of Lucien Marlowe,” I say, reaching my hand up to cup his cheek. Something twitches at the edges ofmy consciousness as I say it. Something dark and dangerous. Marlowe better not threaten what is mine.

Soren reaches up and rests his hand over mine, where it cradles his cheek. He leans into my palm for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut.

God. So much pain.

I imagine how I’d feel if I lost Mom or Dad. The mind-numbing grief. Only his link with Maxwell lasted hundreds of years. It must feel as if a part of himself has been ripped away.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper again, stepping up to him and sliding my arms around him, pulling him close.

For a long moment, Soren just stands in my embrace, his face buried in my hair. I feel the subtle tremors running through his body – centuries of control cracking under the weight of his grief. My heart aches for him. Through our bond, his pain flows into me like a dark tide.

My sweet, sweet man…

I tilt my face up, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. His breath catches. When I pull back slightly to look at him, the raw vulnerability in his eyes makes my chest tight.

“Let me help,” I whisper, rising on tiptoes to brush my lips against his again. The kiss is tender, gentle – an offering of comfort rather than passion. His mouth is cool against mine but warms quickly as I linger there.

He makes a sound deep in his throat, his arms tightening around me. The kiss deepens naturally, need threading through the tenderness. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, and I open to him with a soft sigh.

This man. This beautiful, complicated man who protected me for a year in that horrible place. Who defied his maker and put his life on the line to free me. Who’s now willing to die to keep me safe.

My fingers thread through his dark hair as the kiss grows heated. His hands slide down my back, pulling me closer until I’m pressed fully against him. The hard planes of his body align with my curves perfectly, as if we were made to fit together this way. Maybe we were.

“Mia,” he breathes against my mouth. The word holds volumes – need and warning and surrender all at once.

“I’ve got you,” I tell him, walking backward toward my bed. “Let me take care of you.”

He follows, his eyes never leaving mine. When my legs hit the mattress, I sink down onto it, drawing him with me. He braces himself above me, hesitating.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he whispers.

In answer, I pull him down for another kiss. This one is deeper, hungrier. I pour everything I’m feeling into it – my gratitude for his protection, my fury at what’s been done to him, my determination to save him the way he saved me.

His control splinters. With a groan, he surrenders to the kiss, to my touch, to us. Our clothes fall away between increasingly desperate kisses. Each newly revealed inch of skin demands to be touched, tasted, treasured.

I trail my fingers over the thick muscles of his broad chest, marveling at how someone so powerful can feel so vulnerable under my hands. His own touch is reverent, as if he can’t quite believe I’m real. Although, in this moment, I’m not. This is yet another fantasy that blurs the lines between reality and dreaming.

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