Page 26 of My Blood Is Yours

His lip is curled in disgust as he finally stands in front of us, safely behind the bars.“God, you reek, Elowen. You’re covered in him.”

The words make my chest swell with satisfaction.

ELOWEN

Forsythe keeps his distance from me, scarcely looking in my direction, as we return home. He even made me sit on a sheet in the carriage,‘lest the beast’s filth sully the velvet seats’of his precious carriage. And blessedly, I’m left to bathe in relative peace. Relative because my thoughts are awhirl with conspiring a way to free Sariel. And perhaps an even greater question lies in how the hell we’ll sustain ourselves afterwards. It’s not like there are any jobs available fordaemonsin this world—though it goes without question he intends to return to his realm.

Howto do so is a question I’ve been meaning to ask. But with his talk of me having to turn into a daemoness, drink blood, and bear children, I hadn’t quite had the presence of mind to ask.

And on top of that, my body seems at war with my mind because, despite the absolute-fucking-pickle we’re in—there’s a desperate and demanding ache that I promptly return to Sariel and beg him to fuck me and fill me with his seed. To fulfill ourbond.

Images of attempting to smother Forsythe with his own bed pillows are a constant moving picture in the back of my mind.

Rat poison?

No—his nose is too sensitive, and I gather he has at least some of the immortality Sariel possesses. Poisoning him would likely only result in a pair of soiled trousers.

A giggle bubbles up my chest at the thought. For some reason, I am utterly delighted at the thought of Forsythe shitting his pants. Considering how obsessive-compulsive he is in regards to his personal hygiene, he’d probably be in such duress over such an incident, he might just die of humiliation.

Another giggle rises, intensifying until I’m wheezing with silent laughter, and tears stream down my cheeks.

And then I’m sobbing.

How cruel is fate that the moment my soulbound and I are united, Forsythe has to get in the way—and we may very well die trying to escape?

My sobs slow as something like realization washes over me. Something seems to click into place, but I can’t yet see what.

Something about this seems so very familiar, as if history is repeating itself.

My mother had dreams and visions. Though they were in such a multitude, and I was so young at the time, that I could never make much sense of what little she would tell me about them. If so, I might wonder if she, too, had experienced The Summoning? Did she have a daemon mate out there somewhere? My heart aches to imagine suffering through not merely three years but a lifetime of dreaming about a male you know isyoursbut that you never get to meet.

My mind races back through linear time—Forsythe had been one of the consulting physicians at the asylum where my mother was frequently hospitalized. My mother at the time suffered only from an illness of the mind, one that induced auditory and visual hallucinations. It wasn’t until sometime after that that we’d met Evandriel—through Forsythe. I never knew the nature ofmy mother’s and Evandriel’s relationship, but I’d gathered they were friends. Though I can scarcely imagine why.

Forsythe had attempted to help my mother, but her condition eventually spread from her mind to her body. She remained under his care until her passing.

Rage and nausea churn through me in equal measure as the realization hits me that Forsythe likely had something to do with her death.

All these years, I thought he’d been helping her.

London is nota safe place for women to walk around alone at night. Sariel would be furious if he knew I was sneaking out of my bedroom window to head towards one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in the whole city. I slipped a paring knife into my garter belt and sent a prayer up to whatever god will listen. Crawling on hands and knees over the roof, I reach the eave, ready to try and shimmy my way down a rainwater pipe—only to find Evandriel, the cursed male himself, already leaning against his hearse carriage, staring up at me from beyond the garden wall on the adjacent side street.

Despite the distance and the dim light, I can clearly make out the gleam of his too-sharp teeth as he grins before taking a pull on his pipe and exhaling a billowing plume of fuchsia-colored smoke.

Attempting to descend via the rainwater pipe proves futile. Instead, I slide halfway down before the strength in my hands gives out, and I fall backwards. The breath is knocked out of me with awhoosh,and I can hear Evandriel hiss a curse before there’s a thud by the garden wall, and in the next second he’s standing above me.

I wheeze for air, rolling over to crawl to standing, and quietly growl several curses. As Forsythe’s only servant, I possess the keys to every gate and door in his house.There’s no fucking way Evandriel climbed the fence that fast.I’ve always known Evandriel was somethingother, like Foresythe, but had never really witnessed any proof of my suspicion. He tends to make himself rather scarce in my presence.

Yet here he is, a smirk tilting his lips as soon as I shove his helping hands away.

“You alright, girl? Took a nasty spill there.”

“What areyoudoing here?”

“Oooh, just because, I imagine after speaking to yoursoulbound,it might have gotten a few of your wheels turning. Thought you might have a few questions for me—and I wanted to save you and myself both the trouble of having to rescue you from any unsavories and their ill-willed ambitions.”

The bottom half of my jaw nearly falls straight off my face. Evandriel takes another drag from his pipe and blows a large plume of smoke into the air. It doesn’t smell like tobacco. Instead, the scent is floral, sweet, and spicy.

He gives me a moment to gape, as though this was all so very expected, as he continues to puff away. Finally, I muster the fortitude to ask for answers I only now realize I’m terrified to discover.

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