Page 5 of My Blood Is Yours

My laughter renews.“His semen!”

Magda grows thoughtful, taking a long drag of her cigarette. “Hmmmm. But what’s his disposition like? Is he quite passionate and intense? Or soft and gentle like the polished turd?”

Chuckling again, I heave a fool’s sigh as my heart flutters just thinking of him. “Both? He can be rough and demanding but also tender and loving. He’s the best of both worlds.”

Magda’s brows pinch with emotion as a softer smile than I’ve ever seen her wear dances across her face.

“Awe… that’s beautiful. So yer sayin’ he fucks yehandmakes love to yeh.”

Tears well in my eyes.“Yes.”

She gives a wistful sigh as she picks up a deck of oracle cards and begins to shuffle. “Well, let’s see what the future has in store fer ya, love.”

I swipe at my eyes, smiling. “You don’t think I’m insane?”

Magda’s eyes lift from her cards to mine, donning an admonishing look.

“Girl, I can tell ya right now, I’ve seen far more far-fetched things than a man wit’ horns and wings. Yew’d be surprised to discover the creatures hauntin’ these streets—many of them not nearly as human as yew might think.”

My mind wanders to Forsythe, the Master I’ve worked for the last decade, and her words aren’t at all that hard to believe.

ELOWEN

TERRENEA | A FEW DAYS LATER

The Lovers, Ace of Pentacles, Wheel of Fortune, and Knight of Cups.Essentially, Lady Magda’s reading had foretold love, wealth, and prosperity. I heave a sigh, trying to shove away the doubt and anxiety weaselling its way into my mind. As they always do. I seem to go through this never-ending cycle of knowing: when I wake up, I can stillfeelhis touch. His breath upon my neck. His claws digging gently into my flesh. I canhearthe echo of his words and feel every ounce of love that radiates from him; that my dreams, or the male starring in them, are not merely the stuff of fantasy. But when the harsh reality of this world, and his obvious and painfulabsencesettle in… doubt trickles through the cracks.

It’s been a few days since I’ve dreamt of him now, and I feel as though my heart and soul are beginning to wilt like a plucked flower.

And it’s then that the fear that I have inherited my mother’s condition becomes a crushing weight upon my chest, combined with the guilt that I have no other word to describe it. She was a gentle soul tortured by unseen worlds.Lunacy,as I’d often heard others refer to it as. But it was a word that never sat right with me. Not thatconditionwas much better.

The pitter-patter of rain tickles the single-pane windows of Forsythe’s study as I enter with a silver tray of tea. Dr. Cedric Forsythe is a highly esteemed professor at the Eldridge Conservatory of Medicine. A handsome andusuallysoft-spoken man—if not a little mad. Pouring over mountains of documents and scribbled notes, he hardly notices my presence, tugging at his wild, thick dark hair, streaked with shocks of silver that match his moustache and goatee.

My eyes steal a glance at the handwritten document he’s hunched over and catch on a sketch of what appears to be a wolf-man standing on his hind legs. Harshly scribbled notes lie beneath and I try to sneak as much information as I can before he reprimands me.

The Lykanthropic Factor

… a cryptic genetic sequence embedded within the host’s chromosomal structure… not solely dependent on direct inheritance from both progenitors but is influenced by a broader interplay of genetic predisposition and external variables…

… Possessesa stochastic nature of its expression: a singular afflicted ancestor may transmit the factor across generations without predictable patterns, lying dormant for decades before reemerging… May be subject to epigenetic regulation… triggering phenotypic transformation…

Miraculously, he still hasn’t noticed me as I hover and try to decipher a whole load of other information that rises beyond my limited scientific comprehension—desperately wishing that, for once, I would find something that spoke of a daemon-like being.I never do.

“My lord,” I murmur quietly so as not to startle him. He doesn’t look up from his work as a hand slides to the tray to lift a cup of tea to his lips, blowing gently at the curling steambefore imbibing. Again, I’m desperate to feel the solid touch of a man to help me feel not so alone. Or not so deranged, as anyone other than Magda would think if I confessed the nature of my reoccurring dreams.

Finally, it is apparent that I’ve lingered too long because his gaze lifts to mine, brows furrowing. “Is there something else, Elowen?”

My throat works on a rough swallow, heart pounding beneath his penetrative gaze. I open my mouth to speak as crimson blossoms on my cheeks. I must be ovulating, because my body feels even more demanding than usual. His nostrils flare slightly as his brown eyes seem to darken. “You require my touch again? Already?”

I manage a timid nod. “Yes, please.”

He quirks a brow. “‘Yes, please, ‘what?”

“Yes, please, master.”

His lips purse. “I will require something of yours in return. A sample of your blood.”

My lips part as arousal blooms further. I’m not certain why the idea thrills me. It shouldn’t, but for some reason, the thought of him taking such an integral part of me—for whatever reason—makes me slick between my thighs. Forsythe is the only male I’ve ever been intimate with.

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