Page 6 of My Blood Is Yours

In this day and age, I am little more than a thirty-year-old spinster and servant. I was a virgin until Forsythe hired me, and as the years passed and it became clear that I would not marry, I chose to seek out pleasure for myself for once.

“Gladly, my lord. Take whatever you desire.”

Forsythe stands, unbuttoning his waistcoat as he nods at a clear space on his otherwise messy desk. “Lie down.”

His eyes flare with annoyance as I hesitate, instead taking my time to unbutton the front of my dress until my breasts spill out atop the corset. Forsythe proceeds to remove his shirtand trousers, lest they become soiled or wrinkled—he’s rather obsessive when it comes to personal hygiene. I imagine if I hadn’t been a virgin, he would have never been receptive to my wanton pursuit of him. Thank fuck I was; otherwise, this would be an even more lonely and frustrating existence.

Forsythe removes a dropper bottle from the top drawer of his desk—a tonic of his own creation to prevent pregnancy. His knuckles are whitened where he clutches it in his hand as his eyes lock on to the tightening peaks of my breasts, now tender and aching for his ministrations—ministrations that never come. He rarely touches me with anything more than his cock. Finally, I lie back on his desk and hike my dress up as I bring my knees to either side of my waist to reveal just how slick I am.

Forsythe, now standing in only his socks, openly stares between my splayed thighs—where he insists I keep myself thoroughly groomed. He procured a wax from France for me to do so. As painful as it is, I much prefer it, sometimes leaving a teasing strip of hair, other times making myself entirely unobscured by my otherwise thick, dark hair. He also keeps himself well-groomed, and while I haven’t experienced another man, I know that a groomed male is my preference.

Forsythe stares down at the glistening core of me, cursing under his breath. It makes me feel as though I possess some arcane power to control his body as I watch his cock defy gravity, his body shift into something more—trembling with restraint.

“Please, doctor.”

Forsythe’s eyes leap to mine; something unnatural seems to loom behind his dark eyes. He almost looks like a different man now. Larger. More animalistic. The canines in his mouth are notably longer. I know that my master is different from the rest of us, though I’m unsure how. Logic would lead me to believe he is in some way related to all the various creatures he studies in secret when he isn’t teaching or in surgery.

For the most part, he is a man of control, but in heightened moments—such as now—he struggles to restrain himself. His previously toned but slender form now bulges with muscle. I relish in it because it reminds me so very much of the male in my dreams.

I watch with held breath as Forsythe’s hand takes on a slight tremor, lifting the dropper from the bottle and brings it to my mouth. I obediently offer him the flat of my tongue. The concoction is as bitter as it is sweet, but I’ve grown used to it now.

The desk drawer slams abruptly when he returns the bottle to its home. Unable to wait any longer, I begin circling my throbbing clit with my index finger as Forsythe lines himself up with me. Claws that weren’t previously there prick my thighs, where he takes a vicious grip to hold my body still against his soon-to-be punishing thrusts. The head of his cock breaches my entrance. I feel him grow further—previously rather average-sized, I imagine—but in his aroused state, it grows larger to what I estimate is a thick six or seven inches.

He thrusts forward, drawing a sharp whimper from me that seems to spur him on. My eyes slip shut as he withdraws to the tip before sliding forward once more to repeat the action over and over until he finds his rhythm. Forsythe’s eyes remain fixed on where we are joined, and I allow my eyes to slip shut and visualize the hulking silhouette of an entirely different male.

Endowed with horns, wings, and a tail, he is something I’ve only ever seen in fairytales or described in religious texts. Each time I snoop around Forsythe’s study, trying to find hints of a being with such features, I find nothing. Try as I might, the creatures in his documents, fascinating as they may be, have no such endowments.

In my dreams, though I can scarcely recall the minute details of his visage, he is still so visceral, sorealthat when I wakeup, I can still feel a phantom of his touch. Hear his voice. It’s only as the day goes on and my logical mind berates me with undefiable logic that doubt trickles in—making me wonder if I am truly as mad as my mother once was—only for that doubt to be eradicated when I return to my dreams.

My index and middle fingers work faster as that delicious coiling energy begins to rise through my body. Each one of my muscles tightens, and I swear I can hear an echo of the promise given by the male in my dreams.“Soon, mea floarea.”

Forsythe’s thrusts become frantic. My back arches, and my legs spread further as my climax reaches its peak. Grunting, Forsythe's thrusts stutter before swiftly withdrawing to aim his cock into the petite trash bin beneath his desk.

Though the ache in my body is somewhat relieved, the ache in my chest only spreads further. Ever just the two of us, Dr. Cedric Forsythe has been fair to me, but there is no love there. And without it—or the horned and winged male in my dreams—I feel my soul withering like an unwatered, long-forgotten plant on a dusty windowsill.

The sensation lingers the entire day and as night finally claims its victory in the sky, I undress alone in my bedroom to prepare for my nightly bath. Pressing a kiss to my fingers, I then touch them gently to the small portrait of my mother—rose bud lips, heart-shaped face, dark eyes like mine, and her port-wine birthmark on display. Something she never felt the need to hide, no matter who said otherwise.

Removing my mother’s silver and heart-shaped ruby pendant necklace—one of the few items of hers I possess, and undoubtedly her most valuable—I thumb the silver engraving on its back longingly.

Where my heart belongs. Right beside yours.

I never met my father. He passed before I was born, but I envy the love he and my mother had, nonetheless.

SARIEL

ATRATUS

“Any luck today?”

Book in hand, my father glances down at me from the bridge of his glasses. Take away the book, spectacles, newly procured and finely tailored clothing—you’d think he were a daemon come to torture your soul. Lethal horns pierce the air above his head, and between that, his leathery wings, spaded tail, and midnight skin, he looks like one of the creatures found in Terrenean fairytales. And despite my mother’s Sanguinati genes, I’m the spitting image of him.

The only considerable differences are my slightly paler skin—dark grey—and myinfernum—the visible veins of magic marking my body. While mine are gold, in geometric and celestial patterns, my father’s are red and whorling.

My parents and I have searched tirelessly for a realm that matches the one my brother fell into. We spent much of what treasures we’d managed to salvage from the rubble of our palace on seers and mages to help us find him after we willingly stepped through one of the gaping portals into Atratus.

“No. Not yet, but I did read about some kind of enchanted ear that allows you to communicate across realms through telepathy.”

My brows leap. It’s been a year of searching, and even my faith—despite my usual sense of fatal optimism—is beginning to wane.

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