Page 37 of A Memory Not Mine (Sanguis Amantium #1)

Chapter thirty-five

Baird

B aird cradled Mira in his arms, her body rocking gently against his as he held her close.

Tears slid down his cheeks, falling onto her face—tears for what he had allowed to happen nearly two hundred and fifty years ago…

and for what he feared she would now see in him.

The story was unraveling now, piece by piece.

She mumbled incoherently, starting and stopping, her voice barely more than a whisper. Her eyes were wide, pupils blown, unfocused. Then she began to resist—weakly at first, her limbs trembling against him, then with rising urgency. A muffled cry escaped her, raw, wounded.

And then her gaze locked onto his. He saw the terror in her eyes. He saw the look, like an animal cornered, frantic. Her feet slipped helplessly on the smooth wood floor, struggling for traction as she tried to pull away. Baird released her instantly, his arms falling open the moment she resisted.

He knew better than to hold her against her will.

She crawled backward, dragging herself across the floor, still too shaken to stand. She cowered in the far corner of the room, one arm raised in front of her, palm out—warding him off like he was a fire that could burn her down .

Baird didn’t move.

The pain in his chest was sharp, hollowing him out—because he knew he was the reason for what Mira was feeling. The space between them was only a few feet.

But to him, it felt like the deepest river gorge.

Uncrossable.

He watched her, unsure of what to do next.

“ Tell me! ” she screamed at him. “Tell me what he is! ” Her voice cracked, still locked in the grip of panic, as she pleaded through sobs that fell so fast, she could barely see him through the blur.

Baird crawled slowly toward her, cautious, one hand reaching out to brush her tear-streaked cheek. His voice trembled.

“Please, Mira. Please…ye have to know. The man ye’ve seen in your dreams—and here, following ye through the city—he’s undead.”

“ Undead? ” she snapped, recoiling, eyes wide with disbelief. “What the hell are you talking about? That’s impossible . I’m not stupid , Baird—”

“Mira,” he interrupted, urgent now, his voice raw. “Please. Just listen.” He tried to steady his tone, willing her to hear what he should have told her days ago. What she never would’ve believed—until now.

“Think about what ye’ve seen. What ye feel when he’s near. His eyes—how they glow . The way the air freezes when he looks at ye. The speed…the way he moves. Ye’ve seen him in your dreams, Mira. Centuries ago. And again— this week. The same face. The same man.”

He lowered his voice, trying to soothe her, to call her back from wherever fear had taken her. “Ye know he isn’t human.”

She shook her head, lips trembling, torn between denial and the truth unraveling in her chest .

Baird’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He’s what you’d call a vampire, Mira.” He looked down, unable to meet her eyes. “He has lived for hundreds of years. He’s the painter… Bastien Bethune .”

The name hung in the air like a curse.

Tears streamed down Baird’s cheeks as he finally said the words he had never wanted her to hear. Without coming any closer, Baird took both of Mira’s hands gently in his own.

“Mira…” He slowed his speech when he said her name, almost in reverence—almost in shame. He knelt there, utterly prostrate before her, and for a long moment, neither of them moved.

Then, slowly, he raised his head. His eyes met hers.