"We are given refreshers in etiquette and manners," Renauld explained softly, his voice imbued with a lilting, elegant cadence. "We are seen by the finest physicians, healers, nutritionists… trained in physical health and poise. Everything we need to thrive is granted to us. Education, the highest standards of care, and above all—respect."
Caralee listened, mesmerized, her gaze drifting over the young man who now knelt before her like a knight pledging loyalty. In truth, he was unlike any man she had ever encountered. He radiated a grace and composure that were both disarming and enthralling.
Renauld offered his hand with a gentle smile, palm up, fingers open in invitation. "We are treated as esteemed guests of honor. Our accommodations are the finest, and we are free to visit our families whenever the need arises."
Curiosity blossomed within her as she placed her hand into his. It was warm and steady, his fingers closing over hers with a tenderness that held no expectation—only purpose. With a soft chuckle, he guided her to the center of the chamber, where the lamplight bathed them in gold. Then, turning to face her, he took both of her hands, holding them reverently between his own. His eyes, an arresting shade of crystalline blue, locked onto hers.
"The most effective method for providing nourishment," he began, "is through direct consumption—fresh, uncooled blood taken straight from the vein. It delivers the highest potency of nutrients. The neck is ideal, though I am, of course, here for your comfort, not merely efficiency. If you prefer the wrist, or elsewhere, that is entirely your choice. My only desire is to ensure you are at ease and well cared for."
Caralee's lips parted slightly, struck again by his sincerity. His words were not rehearsed or performative—he meant them.
"There is something sacred," Renauld continued, "in the bond between vampire and feeder. It is a relationship rooted in trust, generosity, and care. To know that I am offering you strength, clarity, and comfort—it brings me joy, my lady."
A blush crept up her neck as his words landed gently in her heart. They were unexpectedly soothing, sincere in their gentleness.
"I—I'm afraid I've only ever fed from the neck," she admitted, voice nearly a whisper. "So I suppose that's fine."
He grinned then, a flicker of mischief brightening his features. "Excellent."
With a sudden flick of his wrist and a dancer's precision, he drew her into a smooth turn, one hand remaining at her waist while the other cradled her palm. Caralee let out a startled squeal, a laugh escaping her lips before she could restrain it. They twirled once, then twice, their movements light as breath.
"I should warn you," he said with a wink, "I studied ballet as a boy. My mother insisted. And it does come in handy."
She couldn't help it. She giggled.
As he slowed to a halt, he caught her securely in his arms. She stumbled into his chest, laughter giving way to a soft hush. He was stronger than he looked. Lean and elegant though his frame appeared, there was a sculpted power beneath the silk of his shirt, a lithe strength that was unmistakable beneath her fingertips.
Their laughter faded into a softer stillness. He smoothed her hair once, twice, then drew back just enough to look into her eyes. The air between them shifted, charged with unspoken energy.
Renauld knelt slowly, purposefully, and bowed his head. "My lady," he said with quiet reverence. Tilting his head, he offered his neck, pale and smooth, the thrum of his pulse visible just beneath the skin.
Caralee lowered herself beside him, her movements slow and careful. He guided her gently, using the strength of his arm to support her. She sat on his knee like a throne of flesh, her body fitting naturally against his. One arm curled around her waist, the other steadying her back. She had never felt so secure—so held.
His scent reached her then. Not just his cologne—though she detected notes of cedarwood and bergamot—but him. The warm, living perfume of his blood. It called to her, in that primal place deep in her chest, where instinct now ruled as much as reason. Her fangs ached in response, sliding forth from their hidden sheath.
She leaned in, pressing her lips gently to the crook of his neck. She paused there, inhaling deeply. A shudder coursed through him, subtle but undeniable. His breath hitched.
Caralee remembered Merrick's words, distant yet lingering in her mind like a hymn.
Trust your instincts. Give in to your nature.
She kissed his neck once more, then drew her tongue across the tender flesh. Renauld gasped, gripping her tighter, his pulse fluttering like a caged bird. Her lips parted.
And she bit.
Blood surged into her mouth with a rush of warmth and flavor—complex, rich, like fine wine warmed by the sun. She drank slowly, savoring each mouthful, the sweetness of his essence suffusing her senses. Her fingers slipped along his chest, mapping the muscles hidden beneath his fine shirt. Her palm brushed over one of his nipples, and he groaned softly, his body responding to the contact.
A wave of pleasure rolled through them both, echoing between the bond of giver and receiver. Her cheeks flushed, the taste of his life-force sending shivers down her spine. She felt him harden against her thigh, the heat of his arousal impossible to ignore. It pulsed, insistent and urgent, as his breath came faster, his hands clutching her more tightly.
Caralee, dazed by the sensation, pressed herself closer, even as caution stirred. She knew she must not lose control. With care, she pulled back, licking the wounds closed with a languid sweep of her tongue. The bleeding stopped. She kissed the spot where she had fed, resting her head on his shoulder as his heartbeat slowed.
Renauld held her close, their bodies still humming with shared ecstasy. They sat like that, suspended in the warm afterglow, neither willing to disturb the moment.
When at last he pulled back to look at her, his eyes were filled with something deeper than desire—something like awe.
Their lips met, slow and deliberate. The kiss was not of passion, but of understanding. Of closeness. It lingered, then faded, as gently as it began.
He helped her to her feet, then stood himself, smoothing the front of his clothes with a practiced hand. His cheeks were flushed, his lips parted. He took her hands again, this time with quiet reverence.
"My lady," he whispered, "you are radiant. That was… that was the most fulfilling feeding I have ever had the honor to give. You are truly divine."
The word struck her like a bell tolling in her bones.
Divine.
That word—the weight of it clung to her. Her smile faltered for the briefest second, a knot tightening in her stomach. The mention of her supposed destiny sent ripples through her resolve. She didn't feel divine. She felt… confused. Young. Lost.
Still, she masked her discomfort with grace.
"You flatter me, Lord Renauld," she replied softly. "But it is you who have provided me with such care, such comfort. Your companionship has been a blessing during these bewildering days."
They bowed to one another, mutual respect shining between them. Then, with one last beaming smile, he turned and walked toward the door. Just before exiting, he paused—adjusting himself with subtle discretion—then disappeared into the hallway beyond.
Moments later, Lydia entered.
The older woman's eyes swept the room, pausing on Caralee's serene posture and flushed cheeks. A knowing glint softened her face. She offered a low curtsy.
"Your Highness," she said with warmth, "Jacobo is here to escort you. His Majesty requests your presence."
Caralee rose with newfound grace, the flush still blooming on her skin, her body humming with purpose. Her fingers brushed her neck, tracing the line of her collarbone.
A new resolve bloomed in her chest.
She was ready.