Page 27 of Wicked Chains (Serpentine Academy #2)

Twenty-Five

Lucien

I stand with my arms clasped behind my back, watching winter transform the landscape. I never tire of this sight, the world rendered clean, if only temporarily. A blank canvas hiding the ugliness beneath, a deception as beautiful as it is fleeting.

Memory is a curious thing for vampires. Some recollections fade like old parchment, crumbling to dust over centuries. Others remain painfully vivid, as though they occurred moments ago rather than lifetimes.

I remember my first encounter with snow. I was perhaps three years old, the son of a nobleman with all the privilege that afforded, on a large estate. The winter had been harsh, and my nurse had forbidden me to go outside, claiming the cold would settle in my chest and kill me before spring.

One morning, I escaped her watchful eye.

I still recall the bite of cold air in my lungs, the crunch of fresh powder beneath my small boots.

I remember reaching down with ungloved hands, feeling the strange burn of ice against my warm skin.

The world had transformed overnight into something magical, a kingdom of crystal and silence that belonged to me alone.

My father found me there, making angels in the snow.

I expected punishment; his hand was quick and his temper quicker.

Instead, he laughed. It was the only time I can recall him laughing in my presence.

He showed me how to form the snow into balls, taught me to aim and throw.

For one precious hour, we were not lord and heir, but simply father and son.

Three months later, he was dead from fever. Three decades later, I killed my first human. Both memories remain equally visceral.

A presence interrupts my reminiscence, and I sense her before she reaches my door, her heartbeat, the scent of her skin, earth and life, sex and darkness. My fangs ache to descend while my body tightens with unwelcome desire.

I straighten my cuffs, masking my features into careful neutrality as her footsteps pause outside my door.

One knock. Then two.

I wait a moment longer than necessary before opening it. Control, always control.

"Rose," I say, greeting her.

She stands in the corridor, cheeks flushed from the cold, snowflakes melting in her dark hair. My coat is draped over her arm, and the sight of it there, this piece of myself she has carried with her, causes a peculiar sensation in my chest.

"Hi," she says, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "I brought back your coat."

This is unlike her. Rose Smith does not come to me. Rose Smith does not stand awkwardly in doorways, uncertain of her welcome. Rose Smith charges forward, consequences be damned. Something has changed.

"How considerate," I say, stepping back from the doorway. "Please, come in."

She hesitates for only a moment before entering my quarters.

She hands me the coat, our fingers brushing briefly in the exchange. The contact sends a current through my skin, and I wonder if she feels it too. I hang the garment carefully in my wardrobe, closing the door with a soft click.

When I turn back, Rose has made herself comfortable on the edge of my bed, as though claiming territory in this most private of spaces. She sits with her back straight, chin lifted in that defiant posture I have come to recognize.

One eyebrow rises of its own accord. "Make yourself at home," I say dryly.

"Thanks, I will." She meets my gaze directly. "So are we going to talk about this, or what?"

"This?" I feign ignorance, but I know precisely what she means.

"Whatever this is between us." She gestures between our bodies. "The thing where you kiss me and then run away. The thing where you protect me from Thorne but work for Ash. The thing where you look at me like you want to eat me, and not in a scary vampire way."

I allow myself a small smile at her phrasing. "I believe that would still qualify as a 'scary vampire way,' Rose."

"Don't." She cuts me off. "I'm too tired for games, Lucien. I want to know what you feel for me. The truth. I need to know."

Her directness catches me slightly off-guard, though I should know better by now. Rose has never been one for subtlety or patience.

I move to the window again, considering my response. Revealing my true feelings would be tactically unwise. It would paint a target on my back, more than the one already there. It would give Ash leverage he does not need. It could see me banished from the academy, and from Rose.

But Ash already suspects. His taunts in the hallway made that abundantly clear. He knows, or believes he knows, the truth. Perhaps honesty is the better strategy now.

"I have lived a very long time, Rose," I begin, keeping my back to her. "I have seen empires rise and fall. I have watched the world transform itself a dozen times over. In all that time, I have learned to guard myself carefully. Attachment is a liability for monsters like me."

"That's not an answer," she says simply.

"You fascinate me," I admit. "Your defiance.

Your resilience. Your refusal to submit even when submission would be easier, safer.

You remind me of what it is to be alive, truly alive, in a way I have not been for centuries.

" I take a step toward her. "From the moment you arrived at this academy, you have disrupted everything, my routine, my loyalties, my carefully constructed balance. "

She stares at me. "So I'm what, an interesting diversion?"

"No." I shake my head. "You are a revelation."

The words hang between us. I did not plan to say them, did not even know they were true until they left my lips. But they are true. Undeniably so.

"I chose to remain at Serpentine Academy when others fled for a single reason," I continue. "You. I aligned myself with Ash because it was the only way to stay close enough to protect you."

Rose's eyes widen slightly. She clearly did not expect such candor.

"I don't need your protection," she says, but the protest lacks her usual fire.

"Need and want are different matters entirely."

She stands, taking a step toward me. "So you're saying..."

"I am saying that I want you, Rose Smith.

More than I have wanted anyone in a very long time.

Perhaps in my entire existence." The admission leaves me feeling strangely vulnerable, a sensation I have not experienced in centuries.

"But I should warn you, it has been so long since I loved anyone that I am not certain I remember how.

I will not promise you something I may be incapable of giving. "

The silence stretches between us. I wait, unwilling to fill it with empty words. Whatever comes next must be her choice.

Rose crosses the distance between us in three quick steps. Her hands grip the lapels of my suit jacket, and she pulls me down to her with surprising strength. Her mouth finds mine, hot and insistent. She is a different girl than she was under the willow tree. This is a claiming.

I respond immediately, my hands finding her hips, pulling her body against mine. Her tongue traces my lips, and I allow her entry. The taste of her, sweet, vital, intoxicating, triggers my most base instincts. I feel my fangs descend, sharp and ready.

Rose pulls back. Her eyes drop to my mouth, to the fangs now fully extended. She leans in again, slowly this time, and runs her tongue experimentally over the point of one fang.

A growl rumbles from deep in my chest, unbidden and uncontrolled. The small taste of her blood, for she has cut her tongue, just barely, unravels my control. Her eyes darken at the sound, pupils dilating with arousal, not fear.

She steps back, tilting her head to expose the long line of her neck. An offering. A challenge.

"Rose," I say, my voice strained. "You don't know what you're doing."

"I think I do." Her pulse beats visibly beneath the delicate skin of her throat. "No more games."

Horror and temptation war within me. I have not fed directly from a human since Rose arrived at the academy.

Yet I cannot deny that I want this. Want her. My eyes must betray me, for Rose smiles.

"Do it," she whispers.

What’s left of my control shatters like glass. I move us to the wall in less than a heartbeat, pinning her against it, one hand cradling the back of her head to protect it from the impact. My other hand tilts her chin, exposing her throat further. I hover there.

"Are you certain?" I ask, offering one last chance to retreat.

Her response is to press her hips forward, grinding against the evident proof of my desire. "Yes," she says.

My teeth pierce her skin, as gentle as I can make them.

The first taste of her blood hits my system like lightning.

Pure, electric, potent, nothing like the mundane blood I normally consume.

I drink slowly, savoring each draw, each swallow.

Her essence floods my senses, and I can taste everything about her, her power, her fear, her desire. Her need.

Rose moans, and the sound vibrates through her throat, against my lips. Her hips rock against mine in small, greedy movements, her arousal in the air.

Each drink brings a new wave of euphoria. I could lose myself in this, in her. It would be so easy to take too much, to drain her dry without intending to. The thought terrifies me enough to force my head back, breaking the connection.

Blood—her blood—stains my lips. I can feel it there, can see it reflected in her dilated eyes. The twin puncture marks on her neck are already closing, healing faster than they should. A side effect of her natural magic, perhaps.

"Lucien," she breathes, and my name in her mouth is nearly my undoing.

I step back abruptly, putting distance between us. My hands shake. My vision swims red at the edges. I have not felt so out of control since my newborn days, when bloodlust ruled my every thought.

Rose straightens, adjusting her clothing with deliberate movements. Her eyes never leave mine. There is no fear there, only a fierce satisfaction.

"No more games, okay, Lucien?" She touches the healing marks on her neck, a gesture that seems both possessive and proud. "Come find me when you've calmed down."

And then she is gone, slipping out of my quarters as quickly as she came, leaving nothing but her scent and the lingering taste of her blood on my tongue.

I sink into the nearest chair, my legs suddenly unsteady beneath me.

In centuries of existence, I have never been so thoroughly knocked for six.

Rose Smith may very well be the death of me. And for the first time, I find I do not care.