But no matter how long I lock myself in my chambers, no matter how often I toss in my rickety bed or stare into the warped mirror on my stone-pebbled wall, no matter how many times I burn the outer layer of my skin away, I cannot adequately punish myself for what I’ve done.
So a few days pass, and I dress in my apprentice robes and return to work.
I scent Blaise well before I reach her cell.
If music had an aroma, it would be hers, and if I let myself, I could drink myself to death on her scent alone. It’s like an opiate, saturating my blood and racing straight to my head, threatening to launch me skyward.
But I don’t let it.
Now that I’ve scented her blood, things can’t be the same. I might have satiated my hunger on Claudia, but the desire for Blaise’s blood will never leave me; the temptation for just a sip will never stop caressing my cheek, whispering in my ear.
I’ll just have to be more careful.
She’s not the first human whose blood I’ve scented and refused to indulge in, and she won’t be the last.
That doesn’t stop the desire from welling as soon as I crack the dungeon door. It doesn’t stop the nerves in my muscles from firing, from begging me to let them run to her.
Fates, she’s beautiful. When I enter her cell, she’s perched on her dais with her ankles crossed, an ancient book spread across her lap. Her brow is furrowed, but as soon as she looks up and finds me standing there, her cheeks flush red with blood and I have to clamp my jaw to keep my extra set of canines from introducing themselves.
She must realize she’s flushed, because she swallows, and I can’t help the way her throat bobbing redirects my attention to her reddening neck. She blinks rapidly and tucks her long raven hair behind her ear, exposing her pulse as she averts her eyes and returns her attention to her book.
The memory washes over me, bathing me in warmth as I relive pressing my chest against her back, allowing my touch to linger at her hands as I tucked the tossed quill into her fingers.
I dig my fingernails into my palms.
Fates, I knew it would be difficult seeing her after my bloodlust was triggered, but it’s never been this intense before. It probably doesn’t help that I was attracted to her before I scented her blood.
I find myself wishing she would say my name, express a sort of excitement that I’ve returned.
It pricks at my pride that she doesn’t—the way she’s ignoring me, but it’s probably for the best. Besides, I don’t know why I’m expecting a prisoner to jump up and down with enthusiasm at the return of her torturer.
Still, I don’t think my desires were playing tricks on me when I sensed her heart race at my nearness, the way her breath went shallow as I whispered into her ear.
“Blaise,” I say, because I can’t seem to help myself.
She looks up from her book again, but she’s clearly steeled herself from blushing this time, which is likely for the best, but also a very specific brand of torture for me.
“You’re back,” she says, though it’s with hesitation that she says it. I suppose that’s sensible of her after the way I behaved.
What if I’d rather keep you?
Ugh.
Those words have tortured me relentlessly the past few days, the possessiveness that overcame me. How she must have interpreted them.
How she was right to interpret them.
I rub the back of my neck, half because I’m embarrassed, half to tether myself. Like I think I can physically hold myself back if I need to. But then I find myself by her side, like I’ve simply taken a step, and the space between us has shrunk to accommodate my desire. She’s close enough that I can feel the heat emanating off of her. “Blaise, about the other day—”
“I think I’ve found something,” she says, quickly gesturing toward the book and scooting away from me in the process. Her gaze darts to the corner. “Gunter won’t admit it, but he’s impressed.”
I straighten and turn, noticing for the first time that Blaise and I are not alone in the room. I’m not sure how I missed Gunter’s presence, the sound of his breath, but I did. I suppose I was too fixated on Blaise to process anything else.
“I see you’re up and well,” Gunter says through gritted teeth, and though his tone is cheerful, his expression is not.
Shame washes over me, enveloping me, and I hurriedly cross the room, putting my back and as much distance between myself and Blaise as possible.
Blaise clears her throat much more loudly than I imagine servants are taught to do. The effect is dramatic, as I imagine she means it to be, and I have to admit that it works in dissolving the tension in the room. “This right here”—I suppose she’s gesturing to the grimoire in her lap, though I keep my gaze fixed on the notes I left on the counter three days ago—“contains some rather interesting notions regarding celestial magic. I’m assuming you’ve heard of it,” Blaise says, mimicking a rather condescending tone.
Gunter says nothing, at which point I realize she’s addressing me. I chance turning to face her and instantly regret it, because she’s got her head cocked to the side and resting on her hand as her dark hair falls in loose waves and pools on the dais.
My throat tightens. “Yes, I’ve heard of it.”
Her brown eyes shutter, and she looks taken aback. “I wasn’t asking in earnest, but all right,” she says, looking mildly offended. “Anyway, this magister wrote about fae ascetics who separated themselves from the Old Magic in their blood for religious reasons. Apparently it’s quite difficult to do, but they managed it by harboring celestial events, usually comets, and amplifying them with a blood sacrifice. Obviously. Because when does a blood sacrifice not come in handy?”
Blaise flicks hers palm outward, but even the word blood forming on her lips has my stomach lurching. She must glimpse a shadow of the bloodlust on my face, because she frowns then shakes her head, like she’s ridding herself of a mirage.
“Blood is the most potent of binding agents,” Gunter recites, probably for the thousandth time.
Blaise continues, “It seems the ascetics’ favorite celestial event to harbor was Lazarus’s Comet. At least, that’s the name that keeps popping up.”
“Lazarus’s Comet won’t return for another century,” I say, to which she scowls and flicks her wrist, as if to banish my negativity.
“Well, what about a full moon?”
Gunter grunts.
“If you’re asking whether it will return sooner than Lazarus’s Comet, the answer is yes.” It comes out with more bite than I mean it to, and I cross my arms to hide the fact my knuckles are paling.
