"Do you know him?" Lydie asked softly, pausing beside the velvet stool where Caralee sat, a silver toned brush poised uselessly in her hand.
Caralee stood frozen.
The blood roared in her ears like an oncoming tide. Her stomach twisted. She wanted to scream, to run to him, to collapse into his arms and weep against the familiar strength of his chest. But Donovan did not move. He was on his knees, motionless in the center of the chamber, his posture unnaturally still, his arms loose at his sides like a marionette with cut strings. His eyes—those warm, honey-brown eyes that had once gleamed with pride and tenderness—were vacant. Hypnotized. Empty.
"No," Caralee breathed. Her voice came out brittle, fragile. "I—I was just startled. I've never seen an enthralled human before."
Lydie offered a small, understanding nod, mistaking the tremble in Caralee's voice for delicate sensibility. "I suppose, living among the humans, you have not encountered many slaves. It must be quite a shock to see one so thoroughly tamed. But I assure you, Your Majesty, His Grace is by far the gentlest master of any among the royal houses. His servants, and even his slaves are well-treated. Clothed, fed, and sheltered—far better than most."
Caralee blinked rapidly, her gaze fixed on the man in front of her. Donovan. Her Donovan.
A jagged pain tore through the hollow cavity where her heart had once beat. He looked so terribly out of place in this gilded room of silks and perfume. A man carved of pride and purpose, now displayed like a domesticated animal—an offering.
She tried to remain upright, regal, composed. But her insides were unraveling like threads in a fire.
Donovan's tall, muscular frame was bowed ever so slightly at the shoulders in subservience. His head was held forward in presentation, the collar of his shirt tugged down slightly to expose the length of his throat. He was presented like prey—no, worse—a trophy. A delicacy offered for her pleasure. Her stomach rolled.
The thirst clawed at her throat like rusted wire. Her fangs pressed against her gums, aching, burning. She hadn't fed since the night before, and the hunger had grown into a gnawing, ceaseless drumbeat. Her tongue tingled, her jaw trembled with restraint.
The scent of him—him—hit her like a punch to the ribs. Familiar. Salt and clean linen. The barest hint of horsehair and sunlight. And beneath it, that deep, intoxicating pull of his blood. A resonance that called to her in a way no other ever had. Her fangs surged downward of their own accord, slicing through her gums with a brutal sharpness that made her wince. The taste memory of his skin against her lips lanced through her mind, vivid and searing.
She swallowed hard, trying to breathe.
The thought of biting him, of reducing him to food, sickened her. But if she didn't, if she refused to feed, what excuse could she possibly give? Her sire would be informed. Questions would be asked. And in her state, she was perilously close to losing control. She could feel it creeping up her spine—a black wave rising to drown her reason.
The idea of snapping and feasting on the unsuspecting young maid in the other room sent bile rushing up her throat.
She glanced away from her reflection in the tall, ornate mirror. Even without looking directly, she could see her eyes in the periphery—dark, hollow, ringed with the feverish glow of bloodlust. She didn't recognize herself anymore. Her body was changing faster than her mind could keep up.
The head maid, Lydie, motioned toward the door, her expression unreadable.
"Leave us, Sylvia," she said quietly.
The young maid bowed and vanished, leaving them in silence.
Lydie turned back toward Caralee. "He is but a slave," she murmured, voice gentle. "Compelled. Entranced. I assure you, my lady—he will feel no fear. No pain."
But that was precisely what made her ill. Donovan was feeling something. He had always felt—everything. Laughed loudly, loved fiercely, protected her without hesitation. And now… he was a hollow shell.
Caralee's voice was hoarse when she finally spoke. "I understand."
Lydie nodded in approval and turned away. Caralee tightened her grip on the vanity's edge, her knuckles white. Her entire body was trembling.
She didn't look at him at first. She couldn't. She didn't trust what she might do. But the scent drew her eyes, coaxed her attention like a siren's song.
And then—she turned.
The world shifted.
Donovan remained kneeling precisely as before, like a statue carved from memory and sorrow. His gaze was unfocused, his lips slack. But the shape of him—his hands, his jaw, the curve of his neck—was so familiar it hurt.
Her breath left her in a choked, strangled gasp. She jolted back inwardly, as if struck, waves of guilt washing over her. He was her beloved, her true love. He had promised his heart to her and she to him. Only, now her heart did not beat.
She had given the final beat of her heart to another man. Without a second thought. In fact she hadn't thought about him at all from her turning till now. All through the moments spent in the arms of Merrick. She felt so dirty, so ugly, so treacherous.
She choked back a sob.
It was him.
Not a dream. Not a ghost conjured by hunger and guilt.
He was really here.
Caralee stood on shaking legs, every step toward him weighted like iron. Her feet refused to obey. Her lungs refused to fill.
"Would it be alright," she whispered, not turning to meet Lydie's gaze, "for me to have a moment to myself? I… I'm still unused to feeding. I am still a bit self-conscious."
There was a pause. Lydie hesitated, studying her face. Then, mercifully, she nodded. "Of course, Your Majesty." Without another word there was a rustle of skirts, and the soft click of the door as she exited the room, shutting the door behind her.
She was alone, with Donovan. Just like she had been so many times before, only this time it was different. There was no smirk of enjoyment on his lips, no sparkling gleam of affection in his vacant eyes.
Caralee rushed toward, and dropped to her knees before him. Her body moved without permission, driven by instinct and grief. She reached out and touched his face, cupping his cheeks as though he might wake from this terrible spell. Her fingers slid into his hair. His warmth was as real as it had been the last time she saw him, weeks ago. The last time he wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her feverishly. How could they have known that he was kissing her goodbye.
Tears spilled from her eyes, unbidden.
Had he been here the whole time? Locked away while she laughed and fed and fell into the arms of another man? Had he heard her voice in the night—heard her cries of pleasure and confusion? Was this Merrick's punishment? Some twisted game? To break her will? To torture Donovan for attempting to keep her from him?
Her lips brushed the side of his neck.
His pulse fluttered.
She didn't want to do this.
She had to do this.
Her mouth opened.
Fangs pierced soft skin.
His blood rushed into her mouth like liquid fire.
The taste was agony and ecstasy in one. It shattered her. Familiar and electric, it burned through her like molten gold. Her fingers clutched at his shirt as her body trembled.
It was him—his essence, his warmth, the echo of love still humming in the crimson flood. She drew once. Twice. A third desperate swallow—and then pulled away, gasping. Tears streamed freely now as she licked the wounds gently closed, her heart—or what remained of it—splintering.
He didn't react.
He didn't even blink.
She rested her forehead against his chest, sobbing silently, her hands fisting into his shirt. Blood smeared her lips. His blood. She couldn't bring herself to wipe it away.
After a long moment, she straightened and then whispered, "Lydie, you may return."
The door creaked open. Lydie returned soundlessly, her expression unreadable, a cloth in hand. She dabbed at Caralee's chin without a word.
Caralee rose, unsteady. "Thank you," she hugged herself and looked away as she whispered. "Please… return him."
Lydie curtsied and obeyed.
Caralee didn't look as Donovan was led away. She couldn't.
She sat again, collapsing into the vanity stool, staring blankly into the mirror without seeing. Her fingers trembled against the lacquered wood. A cool draft from the open door kissed her skin, but she felt nothing.
She had fed.
She had tasted him again.
And she said nothing.
The hunger had abated. But the fire that now burned in her throat, as if the thirst still lingered, but this had nothing to do with thirst.
It was absolute and all consuming guilt. Guilt for thinking he had betrayed her. Guilt for falling into the arms of another man, while he suffered no doubt. Guilt for using him as a sub-satisfactory snack. A last resort so she did not restort to brutal slaughter.
And she feared it would not ever fade.