I swallowed hard. “What…”
“Your aunt,” he said shortly.
“Is she…”
"Drained. Every last drop."
My hands flew to my mouth, but nothing could prevent me from wailing. My heart felt as if it had been ripped from my body. How had this happened? How did Viktor even know about my aunt? He was going to go after Pierre next, wasn’t he? And then my parents.
And then me.
I had been a fool to think this was over.
A terrible sound filled my ears, and it took me a moment to realize the wailing was coming from me. Maxwell stood before me, forcing me to stand, but I couldn’t be consoled.
“You need to calm down,” he was saying over and over.
Because when has that ever helped a woman?
“My drinking your blood will allow me to help you,” he said. “I can give you peace—”
“No!” I shoved him away, only he wouldn’t let me, so I had my arms braced against his chest, trying to push back, but I was pinned between him and the side of the bed.
“Why are you so against me drinking your blood?” he demanded, his voice as sharp and harsh as mine.
A memory came to me. My blood being drained. The feeling of my growing weaker and weaker with every heartbeat. My blood rushing and pounding in my ear to then the deathly silence of nothing. The feeling of my skin tearing, ripping…
My hand came to my neck. After I had killed Magnus, I fled, and I stumbled to the nearest hospital. There, a nurse pulled me aside and applied something to my neck. The wound had closed immediately. I couldn’t recall if I thanked her, paid her, but I rushed out of there, bought this dress, and immediately bought a plane ticket to come here.
I hadn’t brought toiletries. I hadn’t brought any other clothes.
I hadn’t looked back.
PTSD. Maybe that was what was causing me to freak out because I knew that there was no reason for me to be afraid of Maxwell. He wouldn’t hurt me.
Not physically.
Emotionally…
But that was on me, not him.
And I was being far too emotional right now.
“It’s because of Magnus, isn’t it?” Maxwell asked harshly.
“I…” I sat down on the bed and stared at Maxwell’s chest. As always, he was wearing a suit. This time, he was wearing ouroboros cufflinks. The golden necklace I had refused before was on the desk opposite the bed, but I hadn’t put it on. As I wasn’t leaving the grounds without Maxwell, as I wasn’t going to leave the grounds with him either, I saw no point in wearing them. Wife should mean more than Chosen, shouldn’t it?
Apparently not.
“He… He drank my blood. A lot of it. And something happened to him. Blood should strengthen a vampire, but he… he grew weaker. Maxwell, he was so weak that a regular knife killed him. It shouldn’t have…”
8
“Blood can’t weaken a vampire,” Maxwell said.
I blew out a breath. “Of course you wouldn’t believe me, but look.”
I maneuvered away from him and crossed over to the desk. In the top drawer, I retrieved my knife. With it still shut, I tossed it to Maxwell, who caught it easily and flicked it open. He examined it critically.
“It’s unremarkable,” he said dryly.
“It shouldn’t have—”
“It didn’t kill Magnus.”
“It did,” I hissed. “If it hadn’t, if I hadn’t killed him, Amber and Aunt Petunia would still be alive! Viktor wouldn’t have gone after me if I—”
“Magnus is dead. I don’t deny that, and yes, Viktor blames you—”
"Well, then!" I threw up my arms in frustration.
“I need proof.”
“Proof?” I repeated, stunned. “What do you want me to do? Have you suck my blood, and I knife you?”
He said nothing.
“No, I won’t do that to you or anyone else. No. I refuse.”
We stood there, my chest heaving, him seemingly unaffected. A staredown. I had no chance of winning, of course, but I glowered anyhow, not stopping when I blinked. Just glaring at him as I crossed my arms.
But my thoughts drifted to what I had said, to Aunt Petunia being alive if not for me, and I began to tremble.
“You’re shaking,” Maxwell murmured, and he closed the distance in the blink of an eye, rubbing my arms. He hadn’t shown much affection at all physically, not since our wedding night, and I gaped at him, unsure what to do. What I wanted was much clearer, but when he slowly pressed his lips to mine, I gave in. I wrapped my arms around his neck and clung to him as if he were the anchor that would keep my beaten down raft from running aground.
His arms lifted me, and I wrapped my legs around him. In two steps, he carried me over to the bed, laying me down. I shimmied out of my clothes as he watched, and when he moved to remove his coat, I didn't let him. Instead, I pushed it off, pressing my breasts against his clothed chest in the process. Was it my imagination, or had he sucked in a breath?
Not willing to wait to decipher what might not have even been there, I unbuttoned his shirt, kissing every inch of the exposed skin.
When it was unbuttoned, Maxwell didn’t let me remove the shirt, and it was so incredibly sexy to have his silk shirt brush against my thighs as his lips, tongue, and teeth kissed, licked, and nipped my skin. I so badly wanted him, to feel him inside me—whether it was his cock, his fingers, his tongue, but he drew back.
Feeling vulnerable and bereft, I lifted up, my hands on the bed behind me, and I sucked in a breath as he picked up the knife. It was still open, and he pricked his finger on the tip. Slowly, he brought the knife to my knee, and he gently teased the tip up my thigh, moving the blade closer toward the inside.
“Some like to partake in a little something called
