The Villains Must Win

Chapter 364: Alistair Cain 24

Alistair hissed sharply, his eyes flashing crimson as his fangs slipped into view. "Lower your voice," he growled. "I know I’m bleeding. It is nothing serious."

Nothing serious, he claimed—yet his body betrayed him.

Whatever had wounded him was no common blade.

Silver, perhaps. Or something blessed. The kind of weapon forged specifically to bring creatures like him to their knees.

Vampire hunters.

The thought sent a chill down Selene’s spine.

She did not ask him what had happened. She did not ask where he had gone after leaving her the night before, nor what horrors he had faced before returning like this. Some truths were better left untouched, at least for now.

She didn’t want to push him by asking questions in his condition right now. There was a ninety nine percent chance that he would kill her due to irritation.

Instead, she made her choice.

Her hands trembled as she loosened the knot of her robe. Fabric slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. She stood bare before him, pale skin catching the light, her red hair falling forward as she swept it aside, baring the delicate line of her neck.

"My Lord," she said softly, steady despite the hammering of her heart. "You need blood to heal properly."

Alistair stilled.

"I may not be a virgin anymore," she continued, lifting her chin, offering herself without hesitation, "but my blood will still help you recover faster."

For a heartbeat, he did not move.

Then his restraint shattered.

He caught her by the shoulders, his grip firm but not cruel. His other hand cradled the back of her head as he drew her close, his breath hot against her skin.

Without another word, his fangs sank into her neck.

Selene gasped, a sharp sound torn from her chest, her fingers clutching at his shirt.

The sting was unmistakable—burning, intimate, a reminder that he was not a man but something far more dangerous.

As he drank, warmth bloomed low in her stomach, spreading outward in slow, dizzying waves. She shuddered, her knees weakening, senses blurring as the strange, intoxicating pull of his saliva seeped into her blood.

It was not pleasure—not entirely—but something perilously close, something that left her breathless and aching all the same.

Alistair’s hold tightened as he fed, his wound already beginning to close beneath the dark miracle of her offering.

And Selene, trembling in his arms, knew she might die at this rate.

Selene’s vision swam.

The room tilted, shadows stretching and folding into one another as if the manor itself were breathing with them. Her fingers dug into Alistair’s coat, clutching the fabric as though it were the only thing tethering her to consciousness.

Each pull of his mouth at her neck sent a tremor through her body—slow, and painfully sweet.

Too much, a distant part of her realized.

He was taking too much.

Her knees buckled.

Alistair felt it instantly.

With a low, frustrated snarl, he tore himself away. The sound was wet, obscene in its intimacy, and Selene cried out as the sudden loss left her swaying, empty and cold all at once. His arm wrapped around her waist before she could collapse, hauling her against his chest.

"Enough," he rasped, voice roughened by hunger and fury—at himself, more than anything else.

Her blood sang on his tongue, rich and incandescent. It carried more than life; it carried her fear, her resolve, her stubborn, infuriating willingness to break herself open for him. It ignited something feral in his veins, something he had spent centuries learning to leash.

Barely.

He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing hard though he had no need to breathe. His fangs slid back into place, but his eyes still burned, crimson rimmed with black.

"You are reckless," he said hoarsely.

Selene laughed weakly, the sound breathless and unsteady. "So are you."

He stiffened, then exhaled slowly through his nose. The wound in his side—ragged moments before—had already sealed, leaving only torn fabric and a faint scar that would fade within the hour. Her blood had done its work. Too well.

He lifted her effortlessly, as though she weighed nothing at all, and carried her to the chaise near the fire.

He set her down with care that bordered on reverence, pulling a throw from the armrest and wrapping it around her bare shoulders.

"Do not move," he ordered.

Of course she couldn’t move even though she wanted too!

Her head felt light, her limbs heavy. The warmth of the fire and the lingering haze from his bite made her sluggish, pliant.

She watched him through half-lidded eyes as he crossed the room, pouring a dark liquid from a crystal decanter into a glass.

He returned and held it to her lips. "Drink."

"What is it?" she murmured.

"Wine," he replied. "Fortified. You will recover faster."

She took a cautious sip, then another, the warmth spreading through her chest. Color slowly returned to her cheeks, though she still looked fragile beneath the heavy blanket, like something precious cracked by careless hands.

Alistair sank onto the edge of the chaise beside her, elbows braced on his knees. He scrubbed a hand down his face, then froze when he noticed the faint smear of blood on his fingers.

Her blood.

His jaw tightened.

"I told you," he said quietly, "I did not need your blood. I won’t die from that wound."

Selene turned her head to look at him. Even drained and trembling, her gaze was sharp. "You were lying."

His lips curved humorlessly. "You dare to accuse your Lord of lying?"

Selene smiled a little. "I’m merely your human blood bank, my Lord. My life is insignificant compared to yours."

He looked at her then, truly looked at her, and something in his expression shifted. The vampire-born arrogance—the lordly detachment—fractured just enough to reveal something raw beneath.

"You have no idea what you offer when you bare your throat to me," he said. "Do not mistake my restraint for weakness."

"I don’t," she said softly. "I trust it."

The word landed between them like a blade.

Trust.

He rose abruptly, turning away as though the weight of it were too much. He crossed to the window, staring out at the night-shrouded grounds of the Manor.

The storm clouds had thinned, moonlight bleeding through in pale ribbons that caught in the frost-laced hedges below.