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“Thank you,” I murmured. “For coming.”

Raphael slowly let go, his burned fingers trailing over the back of my hand before dropping to his side.

“Of course.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

I hadn’t seen Titusagain in the past two weeks, but he’d done his job and ruined any semblance of peace I’d found. His words got under my skin—not just the threat, but the insinuation there was more to learn about the kingdom. In the hours before daybreak, sleep constantly evaded me while guilt twisted in my gut. It was a betrayal not to tell Raphael that King Stormblood’s spymaster was lurking in their midst, but I had no way to explain myself without casting suspicions on how I knew him. Even if I managed a convincing lie, when confronted, Titus would tell them everything.

Hopefully, if Titus was going to do something, Amalthea would see it, and I wouldn’t have to intervene. That was the point of having an oracle, right?

That morning, as I lay in the nest I’d made under the bed, the guilt was especially terrible. My stomach seemed unable to unclench. I tried to sit up and everything seemed to shift. I slumped against my pillow, pulling my legs closer against me. Something felt really wrong.

I lifted the blanket.

Blood.

Between my thighs.

I’m going to be sick.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

“Samara? Open the door.”

Raphael. “One minute!” I called. I forced myself to ignore the pain and slid out from under the bed, grabbing my pillow and blanket. Why it was critical to not let Raphael know I was sleeping under the bed while I wanted to curl into a ball and hold my stomach could only be attributed to whatever fragment of pride I still had. My entire center of gravity seemed to shift as I stood, my feet wobbling as I started towards the barricaded door.

“I’m coming in,” he declared.

“Wait—”

But the locked door was already swinging open, the furniture I’d lodged against it splintering as he pushed his way inside.

Of course. Why had I deluded myself into thinking some measly wooden furniture would protect me from vampire strength? I felt like heaving. Raphael stood in the doorway, impeccably dressed, while I stood from halfway across the room with my loose bedclothes hanging off me.

He inhaled sharply through his nose. “Oh.”

And then he was gone, the door shut behind him.

I crumpled to the floor, bile in my throat, my stomach still miserably cramping. My thoughts were fuzzy, like I was high in the air without the ability to draw a deep breath. Instinct took over, and I rushed to the toilet. I sank to my knees on the cool stone and heaved, expelling everything inside me. Footsteps sounded beside me, and I tried to lift my head to react, but all at once there were fingers on my back, through my hair.

“It’s okay,” Raphael said. “You’re okay.”

“I’m bleeding,” I hissed. My lower area ached like a cramp rather than a cut.

He pulled my hair away, one hand on the small of my back as I clutched the sides of the basin. “I know. I’ve sent for a healer—a human one. She’ll be here soon. I can get Amalthea as well, if you’d find comfort in her presence.”

Finally, I lifted my head, but it was impossible to fully meet Raphael’s eyes. “Maybe later.”

It was mortifying enough to be like this around Raphael. I debated sending him away, but that was the last thing I wanted, and I didn’t have enough pride to pushhim away. He stayed at my side for several long moments until I felt certain I wouldn’t vomit again.

“There’s a change of clothes on the stool.” He gestured to the side of the room. “I’ll be right outside. Unless you want me to stay?”

I shook my head. Raphael left the room, and I took a few moments to note the blood seemed to have stopped. Was it from training too hard? I’d never experienced anything like this before. The cramps had eased slightly, but I wanted to get back under the bed as soon as possible. Maybe I could rest a little more before training. Just the thought of running through drills with Iademos made me want to vomit again.

I briefly washed my pelvis and thighs, then put on the loose dress he’d left me. When I opened the door, there were two figures. Raphael was joined by a woman with graying dark hair and an apron that had a dozen pockets so overflowing I wondered how it stayed up. A thin sheen of sweat dotted her brow as she shifted on her feet, the scent of herbs wafting over me as she neared.

“Hello, dear. My name is Charlotte. Raphael says you had need of a healer?” She gestured to the bed for me to sit. I went to the settee instead, but Raphael beat me there and dragged the massive piece of furniture away from the wall and over to the fireplace with startling ease. I’d have marveled more if my abdomen wasn’t begging for me to sit down.