Page 71 of The Vampire Curse

Lawrence is on his feet, palms coming down hard on the desk. The resounding slam echoes through the room.

“Why have you not reported it?” he sneers.

I drop my hands. “No, I have taken care of it.”

“Who is responsible?” He stands before me now, fists grabbing my shirt and his eyes flashing with bloodlust and rage.

Vampire law dictates that she must pay with her life for what she’s done. But it’s not what Rosalie would want.

I hate Clara for what she did, but in the same breath, I desire her, and even care for her. A voice in the back of my mind whispers that I would be incapable of following through with punishing her—even if I hadn't turned Rosalie one hundred and seventy-two years ago.

I grab his wrists and twist until he lets go and bare my fangs. “It has been taken care of.”

His breaths come out in short pants as he restrains himself. I am two ranks above him. If we fought, he would lose. Lawrence balls his hands into fists, and for a second, I think he will fight me anyway.

Then, to my relief, he turns and storms out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Clara

Alaric’s powerlingers in my veins, caressing every part of me, humming with energy and want. But I’ll be dammed to the Otherworld if I’m going to be sent to my room like a child. I slept all day. I don’t need or want any more.

I head downstairs, intent on doing anything other than sequestering myself. Cherno flies in circles over my head.

I pause on the bottom step. “Bat…” I growl through clenched teeth. I close my eyes and count to three, then blow out a breath, tamping down my irritation. It isn’t fair to Cherno to take my frustration out on them. “Will you please give it a rest?”

Wings brush against my hair and their little feet land, gripping thick locks. I half sigh, half laugh.

Reaching up, I grab Cherno and move them to my shoulder. Leathery wings cling to my neck as I continue toward the library—my sanctuary away from my room.

“Alaric thinks—” Cherno starts.

“I don’t care what he thinks,” I snap. Hearing his name twists my gut.

I’m feeling too many things and I need peace to sort through it all.

When I finally agree to accept his mark, he makes it feel cold and impersonal. Like a transaction between strangers. He knew how it would affect me and sent me away, instead of…

I squeeze my eyes shut and swallow, trying to push that thought away. Already, my body reacts, and the desire to run to him is overwhelming. My injured pride is enough to keep me from giving in.

Inside the library, the room is cold and dim, as if no one has been there for days. Outside, the sun has just dipped below the horizon, leaving the deep purples and blues of night to swallow up the last of the light.

I don’t know what I expected or wanted from him, but his blatant disgust wasn’t it. Somewhere in the space between the two of us pretending to be lovers and his unexpected kindness, I have started to see him asmorethan just an ally.

I bite my lip, thinking of the conversation we had about Rosalie. Of course, we weren’t friends.We could never be friends.How could we be when I killed his only family? It’s unforgivable.

Walking past several shelves, I grab a random book without so much as glancing at the spine. I take it to the window seat and drop down with a bone-weary sigh. Cherno snuggles into my neck, tangling a wing into my hair. I would never admit it, but the little demon’s presence is somewhat comforting. Even if only because their power is an echo of the power I crave.

I open the book and peer down at the pages, my eyes roll over the words, but I see none of them. All I see is Alaric’s office, all I feel are his arms around me and—demons and saints—his mouth pressed to my neck.

I had expected the bite to hurt, or at least sting, but it was warm. I’d wanted him to kiss me, to touch me, to dofar morethan that. Once more, I push those thoughts down.

I force myself to focus on each and every word in excruciating detail.

It’s a large tome about a man’s journey through the Otherworld where he unleashes demons from their prison, allowing them to make their way into our world. The story is entirely fantastical, the language is archaic and rhythmic, like an incredibly long children’s bedtime story. One meant to get them to behave and stay inside at night, where they will be protected and safe.

Hours later, Mrs. Westfield enters with a small tray of bread, cheese, and cider. She says nothing, her expression remains as impassive as ever. Her eyes flick to where Cherno is still perched on my shoulder. She gives me a curt nod, then leaves.