When Blood Runs Cold - Chapter 223

Drawing away like a wolf from its prey, I wipe my bloodied mouth on the back of my hand, all but gasping for breath. There is something about the taste of Azrael’s blood that is entirely unnatural, bitter and acrid on the tip of my tongue, as though it is some sort of disease invading my body. There is no hiding the choking cough that escapes my lips as my body heaves and grunts its disapproval of the foreign liquid that has managed to seep its way into my stomach. My insides churn.

“Serena?” Azrael half demands, half frets, his fingers trying to find their way around my arm to steady me, but he misses by a mile. It seems I am not the only one intoxicated by blood. But it would seem that my ailment is a very different kind of intoxication. “Serena answer me please, what is wrong why wont you-”

My feet stumble out beneath me as another wave of liquid seeps up to my stomach, reaching the back of my throat.

The room spins around me in a mesmerising array of flickering lights, my head pounding as though it has been hit by a jackhammer, stomach whirling in a woozy agony. Azrael’s face before me is little more than a muzzy whirl of white and red, flesh and blood all spinning before me in the colours of blood and death. For a moment, an expression that might have been worry catches on his face, before he begins to stride forward to hold me in place. This time, his fingers to not miss. With a gruff growl, he latches firmly onto my arm, but by then it is too late.

Clutching my stomach, I sink to my knees.

“What’s wrong?” he asks forcefully once more, his voice gritty with a sense of worry, but laced with an unfathomable anger that shakes me right down to the core. Had I not felt so dizzy, I might have even answered him. But another rolling wave of nausea slaps me in the face, and the next thing I know is I am bent double, spilling up my guts onto the polished wooden floor.

Blood spews from my mouth in a watery stream, streaking the floor with nothing but a bubbling watery residue, and the stink of bitter iron.

Breathing heavily and at last feeling the nausea subsiding, I fall backwards, only to be caught by the firm embrace of Azrael, whose body remains stiff for a moment, surveying the scene. His eyes narrow at the pool of blood- his own blood, in disgust, upper lip curling into what might be a snarl. Perhaps it is fortunate for him that the mess of sticky, puddle of barely digested blood missed him entirely as it certainly keeps me out of his wrath. But to be honest, the situation would be much more amusing if I had projectile vomited over him. Perhaps I will have to remember to do that next time.

“Sit on the bed,” he commands, his voice barely a whisper, but holding enough authority that I know messing around would only be at the expense of my own wellbeing- and my life. Besides, it is not really like I have a choice anyway, I am supposed to be under control, regardless of what I feel like doing. For now, I am going to have to listen.

With a dazed expression that is far from fake, I plop myself down on the bed, my legs dangling over the side as I wait for him to plod over to me. The tap of his heels fill the air as he walks over, lowering himself to me as he leans down on his haunches, his eyes meeting mine.

“Serena,” he says, body rigid with something that might just be fear. “What happened? Why did you reject my blood?”

At first, nothing but stutters escape my lips, a string of wordless sounds as I fumble for a coherent sentence of words. But none come out. I have no answer, not for this.

“Enough,” Azrael commands at last, rolling his eyes. Obviously, he realises that no cognitive sentence will be leaving my mouth any time soon, not if he believes the shock that is plastered across my face is genuine- which it very much is.

“Stay still, let me inspect you,” he mutters indifferently. Clenching my hands, I hide them beneath myself, eager not to display any fear that lingers there. There is no affection in those eyes, just a disapproving cold, and a blazon wanton that shivers through the dark flecks of black.

Silently, he hooks his hands around my shirt, popping open the buttons with such a determination that I realise there must be something he is looking for- some sign or signal that will give him answer to the questions that revolve around his head. I know in any other situation, I would have smacked him for the bold actions he has taken here, flung him halfway across the room and ensured that a neck snapping would have ensued. But I reign in my dissatisfaction, watching instead with an idle curiosity as his hands continue to work on my shirt, half surprised he didn’t pull it right off. Besides, its not like I am exactly certain what is going on with me either, and I would rather like some answers to assure I’m not, well, dying.

Again.

There are a few seconds of fruitless searching as Azrael’s fingers delve across my subtle flesh, pressing, prodding, searching for something that I am not privy to. Grumbling, he rips open my shirt a little further. With my body exposed in front of him, Azrael at last finds what he is looking for.

Breathlessly he runs his fingers across my skin, his lips trembling as they trace an unseen swirling pattern down the valley of my breasts. With a pang of realisation, I understand what he is looking for. Shakily, I recall that my once tattooed skin is now masked thanks to the hand of Soren, who blurred my markings from visibility up in the maze. Although Azrael cannot see them, I can tell he senses they are there, his fingers grazing over my skin like a hand dancing across the heat of the fire.

He is terrified. Terrified of what he will find there. Terrified that I won’t belong to him.

And sure enough, his fingers pause over the valley of my breasts, lingering, as though sensing something there. Then, with a surprising tenderness, he presses his fingers down against my skin, eliciting a tingling sensation to run through it.

Faint black markings surface in the patterns of thorns and roses to the top of my pale skin. All of this Azrael watches with narrowed eyes, his expression marred by indifference. Then he lets his finger brush over the markings, before pulling back in shock, as though he had been zapped, his fangs baring to a bitter snarl. Clutching his hand, he curls his fingers into a ball, his expression going sour.

“Soren did not fully turn you,” he half whispers, half growls, staring at the markings on my chest as though it meant the end of the world.

Nervously, I blink, feigning innocence.

“W-what? Why would he do that?” come the words from a jumble in my mouth, brows furrowing as my eyes meet his expectantly for answers. Azrael shifts a little, standing now as he cracks out his knuckles, hawling me to my feet.

“So that I could not… bind to you. And so that you wouldn’t be able to take anyone else’s blood, and that you would not feel pleasure from mine. He has made you his. Completely and utterly his,” he growls, gaze returning to the mess of blood that I spewed up on the floor with a disdainful grimace.

Inwardly, I recall the words Soren had spoken to me in his garden, my distress at having to suck blood, or being compelled to do so. And how he had lulled me into a soothing calm, reassuring me that his blood would be the only blood I would want to take, as my body would not be fully turned.

I wonder now if perhaps he had realised that all along. Perhaps he intended for things to turn out this way.

But while I am reminiscing over the fond memories of my husband, Azrael’s anger only seems to become more and more inflamed.

“Treacherous brother,” he whispers in a voice that is more animal than human, his fingers clenching into tight fists as he paces the room, eyes flaring. “I should have known that you would pull a stunt like this, you foul weasel.”

Silently, I shrink back into the shadows, scooting far along the bed and out of range of whatever projectiles Azrael might be brewing- I know better than to trust an unpredictable, sleezy little snake. The reason for his anger is obvious enough- he can’t touch me, cannot take my blood, cannot toy with me the same way he had his other victims, have me falling apart at his every touch, even if I could pretend as such. The most infamous act of bonding between vampires, as I have recently learned, is their blood sharing, but to be able to not do that seems to shake Azrael down to his core…