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“I wasn’t particularly kind to you,” he murmurs.

“I wasn’t kind to you either.” My heart clenches in my chest with the memory, with the idea of what it must have felt like for him to be seen forwhathe was and what he could provide me with his bite, and not for who he was.

“You were young.”

“I knew better.”

He hums low in his throat. “Well, then, I accept your apology. If you can accept mine.”

“Yours?” I peer up at him in confusion.

“Yes, mine. I was unkind and quick to judge you that night, and that was wrong of me. So, if you’re willing to accept my apology as well, perhaps we can move on.”

More protests swirl in my mind, more self-recriminations and reasons I need to keep apologizing.

Like he can feel the turbulent tangle of those thoughts, Cas starts moving his hand again—through my hair, over my jaw, down my throat, pressed to my collarbone. Warm touches make it all melt away until one question pushes itself to the front of my mind.

“Move on. What does that mean?”

He’s quiet for a moment before he answers. “I don’t know, Ophelia.”

Silence falls again, and Cas keeps up his slow caresses. His lips follow, ghosting over my cheek, brushing faintly against my mouth, dropping to my neck where he runs his tongue over his mark. Sleepy warmth spreads through me, but it feels less like arousal and more like comfort this time.

“Why does it do that to me?” I reach up and run my thumb across his bottom lip, then over his fang when his mouth falls open in a small, surprised inhale. “Your bite. Why does it do that to me?”

Cas takes my wrist in his hand and presses the tip of his fang into the pad of my thumb with just enough force to draw a single drop of blood to the surface. He catches it with his tongue, eyes dark and hungry as he watches the flash of heat climbing my cheeks and no doubt hears how my heart rate ticks up at the pleasure-pain of the small hurt.

“I don’t know.” With another flick of his tongue, the wound closes. “I don’t know why it does that to you, Ophelia.”

I open my mouth to ask another question, but he catches my lips in a slow, languid kiss before I can. By the time he pulls away, I’ve forgotten what it is I wanted to ask.

I’ve forgotten anything but the waves of exhausted pleasure settling themselves into my muscles and bones, tugging my eyelids even lower.

Dimly, I feel Cas stand with me still cradled in his arms.

Dimly, I’m aware of him walking across the room and pulling the covers back on that huge, luxurious four-poster bed.

Dimly, I’m aware of sinking into soft down and clean, crisp sheets. I’m aware of the weight of his body settling in beside me and the steady band of his arms pulling me into him.

But none of it registers, not really.

I’m still lost in a blissful haze of satisfaction and pleasure and bone-deep relaxation as a pair of firm lips press to my temple. Sleepily, I shrug out of my t-shirt and bra, way beyond caring that it leaves me completely naked in a bed that’s not mine with a vampire I absolutely should not be naked around.

But Cas doesn’t seem to care, either. He lowers his lips to my shoulder and murmurs something into my bare skin that soundslikesleep, orit’s alright, orI’ll be right here, or maybe some soothing combination of all three.

It’s the last thing that registers before I turn to face him, snuggle up against him, and finally slide into a dreamless sleep.

18

Casimir

In the dim of the dwindling firelight, Ophelia’s skin is gilded in oranges and golds.

She’s tucked in beside me, her head resting on my shoulder and one hand splayed over the center of my chest. I try not to let myself dwell too long on the sensation of having her there, of the soft, wonderful weight of her against me.

Gods above, she’s warm.

Perhaps less so when her blood still courses through my veins and heats my own body to something above the cold, marble creature I usually am, but still hot enough to scorch.