Page 130 of Midnight Conquest

“I’m no’ a man,” he said, forcing the words past the iron band around his throat. “No’ anymore. I’m… I’m immortal.”

She blinked, confusion flickering across her face like candlelight in a breeze. “Meaning you can never die?”

“Nay, but it means I’ll never age,” he admitted, his voice flat, brittle. “The reason I cannae be wit’ ye durin’ the day is because sunlight would burn me tae ash. I’m no’ even conscious during the day—I fall intae a deathlike slumber until nightfall.”

“And the silver glow in your eyes?” she whispered, her face paling as dread crept over her features. She took a step back, her hands trembling.

Broderick’s fists clenched at his sides, bracing against the distance yawning between them, against the emptiness clawing at his chest. “It’s evidence of the Hunger, a bloodlust I have that drives me tae…consume blood.”

“Blood?” Davina stumbled to the settee and sank onto the edge, her fingers clutching the cushion. Her heartbeat thundered against his ears, her eyes darting as though seeking an escape from the horror unfolding before her.

“Dav—”

“Why are you doing this?” she rasped, her voice breaking under the strain. “Why are you telling me this? Such a thing doesn’t exist!”

Broderick exhaled a ragged breath, bowing his head beneath the weight of her disbelief.

“Nay.” She shook her head vehemently, tears spilling freely down her cheeks. “If you don’t want to be with me, then just say so. You don’t have to…to make up theselies!”

He dropped to one knee before her, his throat tightening as he looked up at her. “I wish it were, lass. I wish I could tell ye I’m just a man, but I’m no’. I’ve been lyin’ tae myself for years, pretendin’ I’m still the man I was before…before this curse. I’m a monster, Davina, but I swear on th’ graves o’ my kin—I’ll never harm ye. Nor Cailin.”

She clutched her arms around herself, her tears falling freely. “Nay…I don’t believe it. Ican’t.”

Broderick stood abruptly. Using his immortal speed, he dashed from the room, through the foyer and the servants’ quarters to the kitchen. He paused only long enough to grab a knife, no one even knowing he was there, returning in the blink of an eye to Davina’s side. The door opened and closed so swiftly it scarcely made a sound. She gasped, eyes wide, lips parted and speechless.

Her heartbeat thundered in his ears, wild and frantic, as he raised the blade. It glinted in the firelight, a sliver of mortal fear. “What are ye doing?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Provin’ it tae ye,” he said grimly.

He dragged the knife across his palm. Blood welled, dark and rich, for only a breath of time before the wound sealed itself, smooth skin left behind.

He reached for her hand, his touch tender despite the storm raging beneath his calm facade. He placed the edge of the blade against her index finger. “May I?” he asked softly, holding her gaze steady with his own.

She hesitated, fear and trust warring within her, then gave a brief nod. He made a small cut, and she hissed through her teeth. He lifted her hand to his mouth, his eyes fluttering closed as he breathed in the scent of her blood—heady, sweet, like the finest ambrosia calling to the Hunger.

When he opened his eyes again, her breath caught in her throat. Reflected in her wide gaze, he saw the unmistakable silver glow in his own. The familiar pain pricked across his gums as his incisors lengthened. He brought her finger to his lips, his tongue sliding over the cut in a slow, deliberate caress, tasting the exquisite bloom of her blood.

In that taste, he felt her terror, saw the image of himself through her mind’s eye—the fangs, the glow, the predator unveiled.

“Nay,” she whispered, covering her mouth with her other hand as terror rooted her in place.

“I ken ye’re afraid,” he murmured, voice thick with anguish, even as the Hunger clawed at his restraint. “But I will never hurt ye, Davina.Never.”

With careful reverence, he took the blood from his palm and pressed it to her finger. Her breath stuttered as she watched the wound vanish beneath his touch, as if it had never been. He pulled the kerchief from his sporran and wiped her finger and his palm clean. She examined his hand in awe.

“The poultice Amice put on yer hands.” He turned her palms up, showing her flawless skin. “It contained some o’ me blood. It’s why ye healed so quickly.”

Davina’s silence stretched between them like a taut wire ready to snap. She stared at her healed finger, her palms, as though they held the answer to a question too vast to voice. Slowly, her gaze lifted to his, and Broderick felt the weight of her unspoken thoughts pressing down on him—so close, yet still just out of reach, her mind still guarded against him.

Her walls were up.

He couldn’t breathe, even though he didn’t technically need air. Every second of her silence was a knife carving him open, each cut deeper than the last. He wanted to beg her to speak, but he didn’t trust his voice not to crack under the weight of his despair.

Finally, she spoke, her voice quiet but steady. “How many people?”

He blinked, not understanding at first. “What?”

Her hands clenched in her lap. “How many people have you killed?”

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