Chapter 7

I groan as I wake to the sting of a crest in my neck, feeling the heat of a vampire’s claim.

Griffin’s mark still burns on my skin… but it’s the memory of Aemon’s touch that haunts me more.

I open my eyes, feeling warm. Not just heat but thick, velvet warmth, like the sun pooled into stone and held there just for me.

My lashes flutter open to shadows brushed with gold. The room is vast—walls carved from obsidian stone, draped in dark, sheer fabrics that shimmer faintly in the setting sun.

The window is high and arched, and through it, the light from a dying sun slants across the floor in long, golden bars, casting everything in a burnished, otherworldly glow.

The bed beneath me is absurd. Black silk sheets. Pillows that smell faintly of whiskey and something... masculine. Familiar. My wrists twitch. No chains. Just soft linen, cool air, and his scent woven into the fabric around me.

A click makes my head turn.

The door creaks open, and Aemon steps in. Still dressed in black, but different now. No jacket, just a shirt clinging to his chest, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and his hair slightly tousled like he ran his hand through it too many times. His shirt is completely buttoned, though. Such a shame.

“You’re awake,” he says in his rough voice.

I sit up slowly, tucking the sheets higher, even though I’m fully dressed, well, not fully since these clothes couldn’t be any shorter. “Where am I?”

He walks closer, and I track his movements like a deer in the brush. Everything he does is too quiet, and so damn fluid.

“My room,” he says; for less than a second, his tone sounds like even he is surprised by the fact that someone is sleeping in his bed.

I blink. “Your room?”

He tilts his head, watching me blush like he already knows I’m imagining things I shouldn’t. “You passed out after... be branded.”

I clear my throat. “Right. And what happens now?”

He sits in the chair across from me, sprawled like he owns the entire mountain, not just the room. “I spoke to Griffin. Usually, each vampire is assigned more than one human, uh, donor.” He says it like it’s a word that tastes funny in his mouth. “And I convinced him to let you be one of mine.”

One of. The phrase lands like a slap.

I stare. “How many do you have?”

His eyes flick to mine, gleaming with amusement. “A few.”

My jaw tightens. I hate how jealousy twists in my gut. I’m not his. Not really. But the thought of him sinking his fangs into someone else—of someone else moaning under that blue gaze—

“You’ll also be Griffin’s,” he adds like it’s no big deal.

“What? Why?” I ask indignantly, but I can feel the butterflies dancing in my belly.

“Well, your blood is... quite rare,” Aemon says it with a smirk, like he’s enjoying the way the word rare makes me shift.

I shoot him a glare.

“Then I guess you two will have to split it.”

For Goddess’ sake! Can my brain stop picturing both of them sinking their fangs in my neck at the same time?

He leans forward slightly, his dark voice low. “If it’s up to me, you’ll be mostly mine, Blake.”

My breath catches. I hate that I like the sound of the possessiveness in his voice. I hate how my body responds to it—how I can feel my skin flushing, how my thighs press together beneath the sheets.

Aemon stands, nodding toward a sleek, dark closet built into the stone wall. “I left something for you to wear. You’ll come with me to the gathering tonight.”

I take a deep breath, and finally ask, trying to keep my voice cool. “When will I be, uh, needed? I mean, my blood.”

He lets out a low chuckle before saying with a brow arched, “I’m hungry now.”

But Aemon doesn’t look at my neck when he says it. His eyes have dropped to where my hard nipples are pressing against the thin fabric of my shirt. I tug the sheet tighter around me, pulse skipping.

Well, hell. He saw how he affects me.

Then he frowns. “But first, you do need to shower. You still smell like wolves.”

“Ugh,” I mutter, climbing off the bed.

I take the shower like I’m shedding skin. The water is hot, the soaps rich and herbal, and when I step out of the bathroom, it smells like him. I wrap myself in a towel and look at the dress he laid out. Silk. Deep red. Low cut.

Instead, I dig through his closet and find a long-sleeved white shirt—oversized, soft, barely worn—and white socks that reach my knees. It’s freezing here. And he didn’t say when it’s the gathering.

When I emerge from the bathroom, the room is darker than before. The bed has been stripped and is already made. Someone—probably him—has removed every trace of the linens I slept in.

My cheeks burn.

He sits on the edge of the mattress, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor like he’s been thinking too hard. When he hears me, he lifts his head.

His piercing blue eyes drag over me slowly. I shift under the weight of it until he meets my eyes. Every part of me that his eyes have lingered is now burning hot.

“You didn’t put on the dress,” Aemon says.

“Can I do it later? I’m not exactly built for snow and castles, you know,” I say. “Thanks for the socks.”

He smiles faintly. Just quiet. Warm. But I don’t see his dimples.

Feeling shy, I take a few steps closer. “You stripped the bed.”

His brows rise. “It smelled like a wet dog.”

“Oh, thanks. But don’t hold back, please. Speak your mind, Aemon.”

He presses his teeth on his bottom lips for a second. “You smell better now.”

Then he stands, stepping toward me, and instantly, my lungs forget their purpose. He’s so tall. Broader. And now close.

He leans down, just enough to speak against the shell of my ear, his breath ghosts over my skin. “Right now? You smell like mine.”

My knees threaten mutiny.

“Aemon,” I murmur, surprising myself with how natural his name feels in my mouth.

Drawing back, his lips curve. “You like it, don’t you, love?”

I tilt my chin up, defiance and desire warring in my pulse, only to find his gaze already locked on me—to my lips this time—and for a second, the space between us turns electric. I can feel the cold radiating from his skin, I can taste the hunger in the way his breath hitches, just slightly, when my lips part.

And then, his fingers brush my cheek—

—only to cruelty retreat, leaving my scorched skin aching for more.

“The party’s in an hour,” he says. “I’ll pick you up. Don’t leave the room.”

Aemon heads for the door, pauses, then glances at me over his shoulder. “Don’t wear the socks, Blake.”

And just like that, Aemon’s gone, melting into the dimming hallway before I can throw something at him.

As I touch the crest mark on my neck, I can’t help but notice that he didn’t tell me when he’s planning to sink those fangs into me.