Page 83 of A Vow of Blood and Tears

“Cirri…” I swallowed, wishing my mouth weren’t on fire with need.

She shoved the journal away in response, tossing the pen after it, and curled up against me. I was powerless to resist the warmth of her pressed into my side, the softness of her head pillowed on my shoulder; my arm slipped around her of its own accord.

My wife inhaled, then reached up and cupped my cheek, her fingertips moving delicately over the striations of muscle and cartilage in my face, tracing the ridge down to my lips.

Her thumb caressed my lower lip, then, with excruciating slowness, she touched one fang, her brow furrowed with concentration.

She signed to me, her words unclear but her determination obvious.

A hand on her chest, then a broad gesture to me.

She turned her head, pressing her lips to my shoulder, and offered her wrist again.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I whispered, and she shook her head. She pressed herself closer, draping one leg over my lap in a billow of thick skirts, the softness of her curves igniting my imagination.

I took her hand, turning over the pale fingers that had been stained with ink; there were still faint patches on her fingers. “You don’t need to wash for this. The taste of you will be delicious regardless.”

She gave me a crooked smile, but now I could see the faint shine of fear in her eyes.

Ancestors, I didn’t want to do this… and I did. More than anything. It was taking every last shred of willpower, scrapedfrom the deepest pits of my being, to not sink my fangs into her flesh immediately.

And when I would have protested again, not wanting to be an animal in her presence, she tilted her head, raising her eyebrows in a furrow:What are you waiting for?

“I will take it slowly,” I told her, feeling her fingers tremble in mine. “There will be a small pain… and then it will fade. We have a venom in our bite, to help bring the ecstasy and make it more pleasant.”

She nodded, lips set, eyes on my face. I brought her wrist to my mouth, inhaling her luscious scent, mastering myself. I was not an animal. I could control the beast.

My throat burned as I carefully, ever so delicately, set my fangs to her arm. With all of my concentration on this small limb, determined not to savage her, I sank my teeth in slowly, allowing my venomous saliva to penetrate her before I went deeper.

By the ancestors and the gods, thedelight. Soft as silk, parting like butter under my fangs…

Cirri drew in a sharp breath, her fingers twitching in my grasp, but she exhaled, settling herself, resting her head on my shoulder.

Her blood, hot as it was and sweet from the vein, soothed the scorching dryness in my throat. I swallowed once, twice, still focused on stopping myself from draining her entirely, and tapered off.

It was enough to soften the pain of thirst. Blood from the vein was far better than blood harvested; my appetite was satiated on that small taste alone.

I couldn’t stop myself from taking another tiny, cooling sip, running my forked tongue over the pinpricks in her flesh and allowing my saliva to close the wounds.

“Did it hurt badly?” I asked her, my voice gruff. She would despise me now.

Cirri examined her arm, the pinpricks, now closed and a muted pink tone, like a constellation inscribed in her flesh. She flattened her hand and tipped it:Somewhat.

The other signs I couldn’t make out, but… she didn’t run, nor was she breathing quickly, with a heightened heartbeat or widened pupils.

Could she truly be unafraid? Had that single bite not frightened her?

My gaze dropped to her throat, wondering… and then her breathing sped up as she noticed where my eyes were focused.

No. The fear was still there, but it was the fear of total vulnerability to a predator.

She grabbed her journal.Small steps, she wrote with a slightly shaky smile.It hurt, but not as much as I thought it would. I really believed it would hurt worse. Even Wyn’s knife has more bite. Next time will be easier.

Cirri glanced at her arm again, taking in the marks that would heal to white scars overnight.

Is that preferable to drinking it decanted?she asked.

“There is no comparison,” I told her with feeling. “Imagine being so thirsty you can think of nothing else, your tongue is as dry as cotton, your throat aches, and before you is a spring of icy, newly-melted mountain water—or a glass of old, yellowed well-water, warmed by the sun.”

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