Page 13 of The Pureblood Princess
“Our bond supersedes any agreement I entered before we met,” Theodore says, lifting a hand and brushing a thumb gently beneath Nadia’s eye. His touch is a candle in the darkness, a fire in a hearth on a frigid winter’s night. “Though the Kazamirs are upset now, theywillmove past it.” He takes her chin and tips her head back, forcing her to meet his eyes. “You’re the one I want. You, Nadia Magdalena, will be my wife.”
His gaze is green fire rimmed in molten gold, and it makes her longing for him rise like a viper waiting to strike. The sadness and pain swirling through her coalesce and transform into a desire so strong she can scarcely hold it back.
“You must make it up to me,” she whispers.
Something like a smile flickers at the edges of his lips, and his gaze shifts to her mouth. “I’ll do anything, my bride.”
My bride.
Those two words send a cinder of joy burning through her veins.
Lifting a hand to his cravat, she seizes the ivory fabric and rips it from his neck, leaving his throat exposed. Then she’s gripping his overcoat, pushing him back against the bookshelves so there’s nowhere for him to go.
Though surprised at first, he looks delighted to have been trapped—wolfishly so.
Nadia pushes the overcoat from Theodore’s shoulders, and it falls to the floor with a whisper of fabric. Her fingers work thebuttons on his waistcoat, and then she’s freeing him of it. Layer after layer, his clothing comes away in her hands until she finally lifts his cotton tunic over his head, exposing his muscled torso. She runs her hands down his chest, and the need to drink grows within her. This close to him, all she can smell is his scent, that mix of smoky and sweet, this time with an underlying hint of want. It’s intoxicating, enough to become drunk on.
Her tongue wets her lips, and then she runs her mouth up his chest, along his collarbone, and to his neck. He lets out a groan of pleasure, and the veins along his throat thrum with an elevated rhythm.
There’s a moment of pain as Nadia’s fangs elongate, pushing through her gums, and then she’s finally pressing them to Theodore’s neck, pulling his body against hers as she sinks her teeth in and begins to drink.
His arms come around her, one hand grasping the fabric of her gown, the other reaching to cradle the back of her head.
She closes her eyes as his blood flows into her mouth and down her throat. The taste of him is fine wine under silver starlight, ripe red strawberries drizzled with rum and chocolate. Amélie’s blood is nothing like this, could never satisfy in the way Theodore’s does.
It’s as if his blood was made for her and her alone.
And with his blood comes power, comes fire. It licks through Nadia’s veins, burns through her body until she thinks her skin must be aglow.
When she pulls away, freeing his throat from her jaws, she finds his eyes narrowed,hungry. He swipes a thumb across her lower lip, and it comes away red with blood. Then he pushes that thumb into her mouth, onto her tongue, and she sucks it clean.
“My turn,” he whispers.
Theodore lifts her in his arms and turns her about so that she is the one trapped against the bookshelves, her low backpressing into a wooden shelf. He cradles her face in his hands, and then his mouth is on hers, and she melts beneath his touch. A moan slips from her lips as his tongue tastes hers, and his fingers curl into the hair at the nape of her neck.
His growl is delicious against her mouth, and when he tips her head back with one hand, she delights in the anticipation of his fangs finding her skin. He makes her wait for a moment, then two.
“Please,” she begs, yearning for him, yearning to behis.
There’s a wave of pain as his fangs pierce her neck. She sees red, still tastes his blood in her mouth, and everything is fire and agony.
But soon that agony yields to ecstasy, and she can hardly stay standing for the euphoria singing through her body.
Wax drips down the candelabras as Theodore drinks from her, and the candlelight makes his dark hair shine. The scent of blood—hers and his—permeates the room. Should anyone walk by, they would know immediately what is going on behind the closed library doors.
Theodore slides his fangs from Nadia’s neck, his breathing heavy, his body still pressing against hers.
“What do you want?” he whispers against her throat, his nose tickling her earlobe delicately.
A memory flashes before her eyes. She sees Honora dancing with him that evening in the Rosetti ballroom, so perfect and golden and glowing, and jealousy seizes her heart. Now more than ever, she needs to feel him, to know he’s hers and only hers.
“You to have your way with me,” she says.
His growl is more animal than human.
Gripping Nadia’s hips, he spins her around, and she gasps as he lifts her skirt. Now all that separates her from him is a light chemise, and soon he’s lifting that as well.
When Nadia glances back over her shoulder, she finds her backside exposed, her pale skin almost glowing in the warm light from the flickering candles. Theodore holds her skirts up with one hand and uses the other to unbutton his trousers. Trembling breaths fall from her lips as she watches, anticipation mounting.
