Page 14 of A Touch of Madness

“What about me?”

“You’re…” He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “You’re too close. Your blood—it’s…” He swallows hard, his voice dropping. “It’s difficult to ignore.”

The revelation hits me like a slap, and I instinctively step back. “You mean?—”

“I won’t hurt you,” he interrupts quickly, his voice fierce. “I’d die before letting that happen. But you need to understand… this isn’t easy.”

His emotions project themselves onto me. It’s one of the very first abilities I discovered about myself when I came into my magic—after Lara was first taken. I actually asked Ravenna about this because I couldn’t wrap my mind around why I came into the abilities when I did. She said some witches, ones who are full-blooded, come into their magic at a certain age determined by their lineage. For me, it was a life event that triggered my magic. When I had to stand on my own after Lara went missing, that’s when my abilities finally appeared. To save me. To protect me.

A tense silence stretches between Lucian and me. I’m not sure whether to feel afraid, angry, or heartbroken.

“You could have told me,” I say finally.

“And what would that have changed?” He looks at me, his expression weary. “You’d only worry, and I’d still be the same. Hungry.”

“You don’t have to be hungry,” I whisper.

His eyes snap to mine, wide and disbelieving, the storm within them freezing as though my words have shattered some invisible restraint. “What?”

“I can help you,” I say, stepping closer, the air between us charged and suffocating. My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure he can hear it, but I refuse to back down. With deliberate care, I begin unwrapping the towel from my hand. The red-stained fabric falls away, revealing the fresh wound.

His gaze drops to it, his breath catching audibly, a low sound in his throat that’s somewhere between a growl and a groan. The sharp, coppery scent of my blood thickens the air, and I see the way his chest rises and falls, his breaths becoming shallow, strained.

“Sylvie, don’t,” he rasps, is voice frayed and desperate, each word weighted with warning as he turns his head away from me. “You don’t understand what you’re offering.”

“I trust you,” I murmur, the words trembling with conviction as I take another step closer and gently turn his face toward me. “You’d die before hurting me, remember?” My palm presses lightly against his chest, right over his heart. The fabric of his shirt is cool under my touch, and I can feel the faint rhythm of his heartbeat beneath it, erratic and unsteady. “I’m offering.”

He stiffens, his body coiling as though bracing against some invisible force. His hands hang at his sides, trembling, fingers curling into his palms in a futile attempt to anchor himself. “I can’t,” he says, his voice breaking, his eyes clenched shut like he’s trying to block out the sight of me, of the temptation I’ve become.

“Youcan,” I say softly, tilting my head. His eyes flicker open, and for a moment, they blaze with raw hunger, a darkness, the kind of need that steals the breath from my lungs. “And you won’t hurt me.”

The tension between us crackles like a live wire, and for a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Then, slowly, hesitantly, I lift my hand toward his mouth. His breath hitches, his lips parting slightly as I press my wounded finger to them. The warmth of his exhale brushes against my skin, and for a fleeting moment, he hesitates.

Then his mouth closes around my finger.

A shiver runs through me the moment his lips make contact. The cool press of his mouth is startling, but it’s the heat of his tongue brushing against the cut that sends a jolt through my body, a strange, electric current that races to places I can’t name. My knees feel weak, and I sway toward him instinctively, like a moth to a flame.

Lucian groans quietly, a deep, guttural sound that vibrates against my skin, and his hands shoot up to grip my wrist. His touch is firm but not painful, and I realize he’s not holding me in place to push me away—he’s holding me because he can’t let go.

His eyes are shut tight, his brows furrowed as though he’s fighting some internal battle even now. But the way his lips move against my finger is slow, deliberate, reverent, as though he’s savoring every drop.

The room around us seems to disappear, the edges of my awareness blurring until all I can feel is him. The gentle pull of his mouth, the way his tongue brushes against the wound with a precision that feels both tender and carnal. My pulse thrums wildly, each beat sending a fresh wave of sensation through me, intoxicating and consuming.

I don’t realize I’m leaning into him until his free hand presses against my hip, steadying me. His fingers splay across my side, cool and firm, grounding me even as I feel myself spiraling into something deeper, something I can’t name. My breath catches, and I let my eyes flutter closed, losing myself in the moment.

The sensations are overwhelming—heat and cold, sharpness and softness, hunger and surrender. It’s as though the act itself is more than physical, as though some unspoken connection has flared to life between us, binding us in a way that feels ancient, inevitable.

Lucian’s breathing grows uneven, each exhale warm against my skin, and I can feel the tension radiating from him, the way his restraint is unraveling thread by thread. His fingers tighten slightly around my wrist, his grip almost possessive, painful, and a low, desperate sound escapes him as he draws more blood from the wound, sucking my entire finger into his mouth in an undeniably erotic way.

For a moment, I think I’ll drown in the intensity of it all—the way his touch sets my nerves alight, the way his need feels like a mirror of my own. I can’t even fathom having him truly drink from me. Feed from me. The intoxicating sensation would only be that much more heightened.

It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once, and I don’t want it to end.

But then, suddenly, as if sensing this is real, he pulls back.

The abruptness of the loss sends a wave of cold through me, and I stumble slightly, catching myself against the counter. His hands fall away as though my skin has burned him, and when I look up, his expression is a mixture of anguish and regret.

“Lucian,” I breathe, my voice unsteady, still caught in the haze of the moment.

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