Page 48 of Heir of Blood and Moonlight

“Soon,” I admitted begrudgingly. “But not yet, and not from you.” At his wounded expression, I added, “I won’t take yourblood when you’re weakened from a fight. Besides, I’d like to have the modified tincture first, so I can go more than an hour without, well, you know.”

“Fucking someone?” Bastian offered unhelpfully.

“Ugh,” I said, letting my head fall back and fake crying. “Yes.” I glanced at him sidelong and cringed. “No offense.”

He pressed his lips against my temple. “None taken.”

27

Assured that Micah wouldbe fine—though he would be asleep for the next eight to ten hours, courtesy of the mild sleeping draft the healers had given him—I left him to slumber through the worst of the pain as the poultice that covered his stitched wounds worked its magic. When he woke, his wounds would be little more than scars—tender, new scars, but a vast improvement over the inflamed, seeping wounds he had come into the infirmary with.

Bastian had been gone for about fifteen minutes, the healers having done quick work on Micah’s injuries, and I sensed him in the general direction of the kitchen at the back of the manor. I figured that meant Bastian had found some food. I considered joining him, but I wanted to speak with Gavin alone about searching for Javier, and I doubted I would get another opportunity for a while.

I left the infirmary and made my way up the three flights of stairs that comprised the main staircase to the second-floor gallery, my fingers trailing over a railing I hadn’t touched innearly three decades. And yet, it felt like just yesterday that I had last been here, climbing these steps.

I passed under the arched entrance to the west wing, and started down the long, residential hallway, following the vague, vicious sense that wasGavinin my mind. Traditionally, the royal quarters were in the east wing on the opposite side of the house, with the rooms in the west wing belonging to the High Queen’s advisors. Closed doors to private suites intermittently broke up the intricate wood paneling and ornate furnishings lining the walls.

Lured onward by an awareness I didn’t fully understand, I passed several doors, stopping at the third on the right. Gavin was in there. I knew it. I couldfeelhim—his raging bloodlust, his rampant need, his struggle for control over his savage emotions.

Picking up on the faintest murmur of voices from within, I pressed my ear to the solid mahogany door.

“—can help you,” a woman said, practically begging. “Please, let me help you.”

“No,” Gavin growled. “Give me your wrist, Daisy, or I’ll go find someone else interested in offering me bloodwithoutthe strings.”

“You never minded the strings before,” the woman—Daisy, apparently—said, her voice teasing.

“Things have changed,” Gavin said.

“I know,” Daisy said, sounding defeated. “I know. I just thought it would be different for us. After serving you for all these years, I thought I was more than just a walking blood bag to you.”

“Daisy . . .” Gavin’s voice was rough, and I could feel his conflicted emotions.

They were quiet for a moment, and I held my breath, my heart breaking for a woman I didn’t know, who I had yet to even see. She clearly had a strong attachment to Gavin. She had servedhim for years. As what, exactly? As a companion? A mistress? Alife partner?

“I can feel you out there, Sophie,” Gavin called in my direction.

I jerked away from the door. Was he asking me to come in, or was he telling me to leave? He was so conflicted within himself, I couldn’t get a clear reading on his desires. I supposed there was only one way to find out.

Gritting my teeth, I reached for the doorknob and twisted, pushing the door open. If Gavin didn’t want me there, he could tell me to leave.

The room was furnished with simple, sturdy items—a couple of armchairs and end tables, a sofa and coffee table, some tall bookcases, and a dining table with chairs for four. The style was so different from the furnishings throughout the manor’s public spaces that it had to reflect Gavin’s personal taste. I found it suited me much better than the more ostentatious decor throughout the house.

Gavin sat in one of two tall wingback armchairs arranged in front of the ornate fireplace in the wall to the right, still dressed in his bloody, torn clothing from earlier. A beautiful, voluptuous woman with honey hair and pale skin knelt on the floor at his feet, clutching Gavin’s pants leg, the skirt of her violet silk dress pooled around her on the floor. Crimson blood dribbled from the bite mark in the crook of her neck, and dark lines streaked down her cheeks where her tears had made her mascara run. Apparently, this little tête-à-tête had been going on for a while.

I had caused this. Unintentionally, perhaps, butIwas the reason this woman’s life was being upended. She looked desperate, less a rejected woman than an addict looking for a fix. And her drug of choice was Gavin. I could hardly blame her for that.

I swallowed roughly and licked my lips. “Give her what she wants, Gavin,” I told him, my voice breathy.

The idea of being there while he fed from another woman, while he took her body as he consumed her blood, sent a thrill of desire through me. Suddenly, it was all I could think about. Besides, Gavin had watched me with another man. It was only fair.

Daisy turned pleading, hope-filled eyes from me to Gavin. “Yes,” she begged.

“Go on, Gavin,” I said. “Give her what she wants.”

Gavin narrowed his eyes at me. “Sophie . . .” My name was little more than a growl.

“Do I need to repeat myself?” I asked softly, a needy ache igniting in my core.

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