Page 20 of The Shadow Bride (The Scarlet Veil #2)

Chapter Twenty

Blood Sharing

Michal eyes me warily for several seconds, as if I’m a strange and dangerous animal that could turn at any second.

I quite like it.

“Shall we?” I gesture to the hard ground, relishing the twinge of pain on his face as he finally nods and eases down the wall. That vindictiveness fades, of course, when I move to step over him and catch sight of his chest again. My breath hitches. “Why did you do it?” I ask him again. “You never answered me.”

He tugs the cravat loose at his throat. “My priorities have shifted.”

“And that means—?”

“Célie,” he pleads.

“Right,” I say hastily. Later. “Should I just—?” I motion toward his lap, refusing to feel awkward, even as Dimitri’s laughter echoes in my ears. Vampires don’t share blood with other vampires outside of very intimate situations. Sex, Célie. I mean sex.

But none of that matters now. Michal is hurt , and besides, nothing fundamental changed between us after I drank from him in Cesarine. Now I can return the favor. Now I can help him too. “Should I sit with you?”

He nods again, resting heavily against the wall and closing his eyes. Whatever triumph he might’ve felt at provoking me seems to have yielded to exhaustion. “Your shirt,” I remind him. “We should take a better look at your chest.”

“I can’t get it over my head.”

“I can do it.”

Trying not to disturb him, I sink onto his legs as gently as possible, careful not to brush my shoulder against his chest. With slow, painstaking movements, I first ease the leather surcoat from his shoulders, down his arms, before sliding his shirt up his body and over his head to reveal the wound beneath. It looks all the more shocking without clothing to shield it. All the more gruesome. “Is there a particular place the blood tastes best?”

With a ragged breath, he eases his knees farther apart, and my backside settles in the cradle of his thighs. I swallow hard as the billowing train of my gown floats around us. “Anywhere,” he says faintly. Though he does not open his eyes, he drapes one arm across my legs, while his other hand settles lightly upon the small of my back.

Anywhere.

It becomes impossible to swallow now. My throat constricts to the size of a needle, and—as if sensing my irrational nerves—he begins to draw slow, soothing circles upon my back. “This dress is beautiful,” he murmurs. “You should wear it always.”

“I—” I gape at him, momentarily distracted, and wonder if his heart transplant has also transplanted his personality. Then I remember my manners, glancing down at the voluminous violet skirt. “Thank you. I believe Romi created this one under Monsieur Marc’s guidance. Would it be all right if we use my, ah—” I shake my head quickly to clear it. “What I mean to say is—do you find my wrist—?” Acceptable , my mind screams. Do you find my wrist acceptable ? But the distance between my brain and mouth proves too far to travel, and I stumble over the words.

His eyes open to slits. “I find your wrists perfect.”

Oh God. We’re sitting entirely too close for him to look at me this way, but I cannot think how to move without making the situation worse. Indeed, his body seems to fill the entire passage—all long legs and broad shoulders and blood —until the scent of him overwhelms everything. Until my head spins with it. I should hold my breath. Yes, I should hold my breath and look away, should offer my wrist without further conversation, yet now my mouth decides to speak. “O-Or you could drink from my throat if you prefer.”

His hand pauses on my back. “Is that what you would prefer?”

“I just meant—if it would help—”

“Célie.” He speaks my name softly—so softly I must lean closer to hear it—and brushes the hair from my neck with aching tenderness. “While I appreciate the offer, there are... things you should know before we do this.”

The way his voice lowers on the word things feels strangely significant. “Is this more nonsense about blood sharing?”

“It isn’t nonsense.”

“Of course it is.” I blink at him anxiously, searching the planes of his beautiful, ashen face; his color has grown worse, and his mouth tightens with pain. He needs to feed, and he needs to do it quickly. When I move to twist in his lap, however, to straddle his waist and ease his access to my throat, his hands slide to my hips, stilling the movement. “I understand the implication of intimacy, but it isn’t like we’re actually having—” My throat closes around the rest of the sentence, and I pivot hastily at his strained expression. “I thought you said vampires share blood all the time—”

“Not all the time, but they can, yes. They do .”

“Why is there a problem, then?”

“There isn’t a problem. It’s just—when two vampires share blood, they—they change. They change, Célie,” he says softly.

“Michal—” Though I wriggle to free myself, panic mounting at the glassiness of his eyes, his hands remain like manacles around me. “Let me go.” Voice firm, I clap my hands upon his jaw and force him to look at me. “If you don’t feed soon, you’re going to die— really die this time—”

“I won’t die.”

“You don’t know that! No, listen to me.” Careful not to jostle him, I seize his wrists and pry them from my hips, trapping his hands against my chest as I manage to turn at last. Nose to nose now, I ask, “Will it hurt me if we share blood?”

His voice is a whisper. “No.”

“Will it hurt you ?” The barest shake of his head, and at last, his body surrenders, falling back against the wall once more. “Then we’re doing this. Now shut up and take my blood.” And without another word, I release his hands, thrusting my own behind his head and lifting it to the crook of my shoulder, forcing his mouth to my skin.

He exhales once—a cool, delicious breath that sends a shiver down my spine.

Then he parts his lips, and his teeth pierce my skin.

Instantly, I suppress the urge to moan. A languid sort of pleasure ripples outward from the sharp, aching pressure of his mouth, and when he adjusts his grip, biting deeper, harder—his tongue cool against my skin—I tip my head back. I relish the sensation. I forget that I am Célie and he is Michal, and I breathe his name.

His hands curl into fists at the sound.

He keeps them pressed to his sides, however. He takes care not to touch me at all, holding his body completely still—tightly leashed—but I’ve never possessed his strength of will. My mouth parts on a harsh breath at the inexorable pull of his teeth, his tongue , and I cannot help it—I want to touch him now. I want to do more than touch him. Worse still, I want him to touch me too—really touch me—and all at once, I might die if he doesn’t.

My gown.

The thought rises swiftly, imperatively, because the swaths of violet silk are in the way. Wresting my skirt upward, I free my legs before settling against him, skin on skin, my bare knees clamped around his hips. “Michal,” I say again, and he shudders slightly at the plea in my voice. My entire body tightens with him. Because I’ve never felt Michal shudder before. With the realization comes a heady sense of power, and I seize his hands, bringing them to my hips and dragging them up my waist. Gasping at the strength in those fingers. “Touch me. Please, Michal, you have to touch me.”

Beyond the roar of my blood, a distant part of me skitters wildly at the words, at the near frantic roll of my hips. Too much. Too soon. But I want it. Oh, I want it, and when I push closer, our hands slide up my waist, the tips of his fingers brushing the swell of my breast. Every thought empties from my head.

“Célie—” He tears his mouth from my throat with a pained sound, his gaze instantly falling to our hands on my body. Though the wound at his chest has closed, he doesn’t seem to notice. He remains focused upon his fingers as if entranced, and he spreads them slowly, exploring the curve of my waist, before his thumb just brushes the tip of that breast. I gasp. My legs jerk. An almost violent longing rises in his eyes, which shine too brightly in the darkness. “We shouldn’t do this.”

“Why not?” I ask breathlessly.

“Because you thought I died.” He speaks the words quietly, as if trying to convince himself instead of me. Though I pull at his hands, desperate to move them up—or perhaps to move them down, down, down and ease this building tension between my legs—they remain resolute upon my waist. They hold me away from him, even as I strain to press closer. He grits his teeth. “Because you hate me, remember? Because I never intended to ravish you in this filthy passageway.”

I nearly sob in frustration now. “What if I intended to ravish you ?”

He presses a light kiss to my throat before wiping the last of my blood away. His bite has already closed, and for some intolerable reason, confusion flushes through me at the realization—that this moment has finally come, and now it is going, going, almost gone , slipping like water between my fingertips. And I can do nothing to hold it. “Tomorrow,” he promises in a low voice. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

That confusion flares inexplicably hot in response because why not now ? I don’t understand that strange look in his eyes, this deep and unending ache between us. This is no simple flirtation. Sometimes, like now, he even seems to—to want me.

Men never see me that way. They covet me—oh yes—in a different way from how they covet women like Lou and Coco. Reid and Jean Luc both placed me high upon a pedestal to admire, and to an extent, so did those in Les Abysses. Léandre too. His tastes might trend darker, more depraved—he wants to break my porcelain skin instead of polish it—but it often feels like two sides of the same coin when men look at me.

No one has ever looked at me the way Michal does.

I push the thought away, agitated, before rising stiffly to my feet. Because clearly he doesn’t want me now either. Clearly this has all been a terrible mistake, and I’ve crossed some invisible line again. I—I should’ve just healed him without complicating everything—he was grievously injured, after all—but I always seem to say the wrong things around Michal. I always seem to do the wrong things. And it hurts .

“Have you ever considered,” I say, “that I might not want to ravish you tomorrow?”

He pauses halfway through tugging on his shirt, his chest whole and unblemished again. Each line of his body long and hard and perfect, from his broad shoulders to his tapered waist. I expect him to placate, or perhaps argue. I expect him to fight back. Instead he gives a soft laugh at whatever he sees in my expression, and the sound of it freezes the heat in my belly to ice. “No,” he says simply. “You probably won’t.”

I lift a hand, instantly regretting the words. “Michal—”

“It’s fine.” He steps away from me, slipping the shirt back over his head, before nodding up the passage. “Someone is coming.”

Though I tense, alarmed, he doesn’t seem concerned at our imminent discovery, and in the next second, it becomes clear why. The dulcet scents of cinnamon and vanilla swirl through the dank passage just before Lou herself rounds the corner, holding five sputtering lights at her fingertips. They cast a faint glow upon her distinctly disgruntled expression. “What are you two doing?” she asks suspiciously.

“Nothing,” Michal says curtly.

She seems to realize she interrupted something, glancing pointedly from Michal’s untucked shirt to his rumpled coat on the ground. “It doesn’t look like nothing—”

“Where is my mother?” Clutching her free hand and dragging her closer—hideously relieved—I inspect every inch of her apparently unscathed person. She still leans against me for support, however, practically sagging in my arms. “Is she all right? Are you all right?” Then, before she can answer, “You look even paler than before. How did you find us? What time is it?”

“Almost dawn.” She flicks the tiny lights above our heads, where they continue to flicker weakly and cast strange shadows upon our faces. “And we’re both fine—though by fine, I mean hysterical, at least in your mother’s case. She allowed me to ward our room, but it took another hour to coax her into drinking that same draught I gave you in Cesarine. Thankfully it knocked her out cold.” She glances at Michal. “You should know, however, Madame Tremblay is not at all pleased with Requiem at the moment, and I cannot say I’m particularly thrilled either.”

He shrugs into his leather surcoat. “Imagine our disappointment.”

My brow contracts at that. “You could thank her, you know. Her magic did save your life.”

“My life was never the one in danger.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing.” He bows curtly, and with supreme effort, some of the ice seems to melt from his expression. “You’re right. Of course you’re right. Thank you, Louise, for aiding us in the coup tonight. Odessa and I could not have accomplished it without you.”

If possible, Lou looks more suspicious now than she did before. Her gaze cuts between us. “You’re welcome—not that Odessa gave much of a choice. It wasn’t meant to shake out like this,” she adds to me before grudgingly disentangling herself and approaching Michal to inspect his chest. He stiffens but suffers her ministrations in stoic silence. “Pasha and Ivan were supposed to sneak us into the hall during Odessa’s procession to heal Michal—there’s another secret passage near the east wing—but obviously that didn’t go to plan.” She cuts a rueful look in my direction. “As soon as we heard the revenant’s scream, I knew everything was about to go to complete and utter shit. Another rather unexpected and unwelcome addition to the plan.”

“You aren’t wrong,” Michal says.

“Anyway,” Lou continues, ignoring him, “Odessa thought if we told you about”—she waves her hand at his chest—“all of this, you never would’ve agreed to it.”

“And she would’ve been right,” I say indignantly. “Everything spiraled completely out of control. Even without the revenant, how could anyone think this plan was a good one? When does faking one’s death ever work out in the end?”

Michal reties his cravat with deft fingers. “Is that a rhetorical question, or would you like an answer?”

My eyes narrow at him. “Now that you mention it, I think I would like an answer.”

“All right.” He lifts a shoulder, thoroughly unbothered. “It works out this time. The whole of Requiem thinks Odessa overthrew a corrupt and inconstant king. The isle is renewed, united under her leadership, which enables her to do what is necessary to protect it. The vampires trust her. They believe in her. They also believe I am dead, which enables me to do what is necessary as well.”

“Which is?” I ask swiftly.

He merely smiles in answer. Sleek and knife sharp.

Lou shakes her head as if thoroughly exasperated by both of us—or perhaps the entire species. Then she sighs and spreads her fingertips against Michal’s chest to inspect something we cannot see. “Tonight was indeed a clusterfuck, but it looks like you figured out how to heal Michal on your own.”

“His body didn’t desiccate”—I ignore his probing look—“and flowers bloomed around his body in the spirit realm. Heather, I think.”

Lou purses her lips. “Dames Rouges often use sprigs of heather in protective enchantments. They allegedly bring luck.” She removes her hand with a nod of approval. Then she flicks his torn shirt, which mends itself instantly in a small burst of magic. The blood vanishes from our clothing, but a fresh trickle appears down her nose instead. She wipes it away hastily. Fresh guilt seeps into my stomach at the sight. She cannot be near the maelstrom. “I’m not a healer by any means, but everything feels right to me. Does it feel right to you?” she asks him.

Michal nods.

“Excellent.” Lou claps her hands in grim satisfaction. “Then I’ll be going. I sent Talon along first to explain everything to Reid, and Odessa has arranged passage for Satine and me to return to Cesarine at daybreak—less chance of meeting any unsavory characters that way.” She grimaces at Michal, who once more looks the perfect aristocrat after buttoning his coat. “Vampires do prefer to sleep during the day, right?”

When he nods, I stare at her, inexplicably stricken, but—but of course she must leave. The more distance she puts between herself and the grotto—between herself and this door, this unnatural entrance to whatever lies beyond the spirit realm—the better.

With a bleak smile, Lou squeezes my hands, and Michal tactfully turns away to give us the illusion of privacy. “I spoke to Father Achille before I left,” she says quietly. “After we deal with the revenants, he might be open to a reconciliation with Requiem, but until then, Reid will keep Jean Luc from doing anything stupid. Coco has already summoned a council of trusted Dames Blanches and Dames Rouges to Chateau le Blanc. If all goes to plan, they’ll ally with the Chasseurs to oversee graveyards throughout the kingdom, and together—hopefully—we’ll be able to contain any new revenants. Beau is also establishing a curfew to keep the streets as empty as possible for patrols.”

I glance at Michal, who still pretends to ignore us. “We’ll investigate the revenants as well. Someone on this isle must know more about them—specifically, how to lay them to rest.”

Lou nods swiftly. “We’ll scour the libraries at Chateau le Blanc as well, but, Célie—” She wrings my hands, her expression solemn. “None of this will matter if we don’t close the veil, and you are the only one who can do it. You know that, right?”

Swallowing hard, I squeeze her hands harder still. “Yes.”

“Of course you do. Good.” She nods again, and again, inhaling deeply, her fingers still refusing to relax around mine. “Good. That leaves just one more itty-bitty, teensy tiny problem before we go.” If possible, my heart sinks lower at the apprehension in her voice. Anything that makes Lou feel apprehensive must be very unpleasant. “It’s, er—your mother,” she says, and my worst fears are confirmed. “She refuses to leave without you, and nothing I’ve said has changed her mind.”