Page 4 of A Steeping of Blood
He forced himself to ignore the way her touch made him feel, the way the low moan that escaped her lips made him want to press his eyes closed and give in to the burning desire inside of him. He drew her blood into his mouth, and it tasted like she smelled: like earthy tea and smoky nights and the enigma that was purely her.
He sucked more, goaded by her moans, by her nails digging into his neck, holding him down. He slipped his fingers through her hair and tilted her head, admiring the shadows pooling into the strain of her throat.
Sweet stars, she was divinely delicious.
He retracted his fangs, smoothing his tongue over the twin punctures before lapping even more, knowing any moment now that it would be too much for her.
As if on cue, she bucked beneath him with a soundless sigh, writhing, thrashing, and when her eyes flared even wider, he clamped a hand over her mouth to stop her from screaming. He’d already listened to one Casimir scream as they were turned today. Her teeth scraped the skin of his palm, and he tucked his leg between hers, trapping her beneath him.
This was what every vampire desired, wasn’t it? An enamored thrall. An endless supply of blood. This heady, breathless, intoxicating air.
He wanted it to stop.
He kept drinking.
And then, at last,at lastit was done.
Matteo peeled his hand from her mouth, pulled away as if not to disturb someone who was fast asleep. Arthie made no sound, no movement. Her eyes were closed, lashes damp. Her neck was jeweled in a pair of rubies that matched her sari.
Even in death she was a glory to behold.
And there, in the grim, still silence of the room, he heard her pulse. Soft, fading, a question in each faint pump. He would answer it a thousand times. He lifted his wrist to his mouth and bit down, drawing blood before pressing it against Arthie’s lips. Then he pinched her nose, forcing her to draw a shallow breath through her mouth.
Matteo knew the moment she tasted it: a sick and twisted secondchance at life. He felt the blood siphon out of him as she sucked in more, and more, until she stopped.
Her eyes flew open with a breathless gasp. She blinked down at his wrist, at the blood covering his clothes and hers, drenching the bed. She touched the punctures at her neck that were already knitting themselves closed and settled her gaze on his as if she’d never looked away.
There was a hesitance there, an uncertainty. At the same time, she looked as though she made good on her promise and remembered every moment since he’d brought her into this room.
Matteo didn’t know what to say or ask, so he did what he did best: He deflected.
“Welcome back, Enchantress,” he said with a wink, and Arthie passed out.
1ARTHIE
The streets of White Roaring were in turmoil. Shouts, screams, protests. Arthie had heard it as she’d wavered in and out of consciousness over the past several days. She remembered waking up in a bed in Matteo’s house, then flashes of a carriage. Now she was in a room she didn’t recognize, not until a pang of sorrow shot through her when she caught the faint whiff of a cigar.
The Athereum.
“You’re awake.”
She looked toward the sound of Matteo’s voice as he entered the room. He snapped the book he was carrying closed and quickly pulled a pair of dark specs from his eyes almost guiltily, as if she hadn’t already seen him wearing them. He’d been a hospitable host during her horrible bouts of pain, as death tried desperately to pull her back into its depths.
“And as stunning as ever, of course.”
She didn’t feel stunning. She opened her mouth.
“Ah.” He wagged a finger, quickly turning serious. “Before you ask, yes, they’re alive. Both Jin and Flick have been found. Not together, but they’re close enough.”
Relief and guilt stirred inside her.
“I never thought I’d set foot in the Athereum again. What’s happening out there?” she asked, nodding to the walls that rumbled from the people out on the street.
“Unrest,” Matteo said, and pursed his lips. “It reminds me of—” He stopped and screwed his eyes shut for a moment, as if to regain his composure. “They’re calling it the Great Press Massacre.”
How original.
“The Athereum’s our only refuge. It may be all but besieged, but no one can get in and it’s better than my house where we have to worry about the Ram appearing on my doorstep in search of the ledger or our heads.” He sighed. “I’m sorry to bombard you the moment you open your eyes. How are you feeling?”
