Page 73 of The Witch in the Dead of Night

Too much blood.

My pulse rang in my ears as my magic sparked to life. Heat surged through me, preparing to launch itself into the world. But it was short-lived. My will sputtered and died like a doused candle. I was powerless.

Panic seized me. I tried desperately to pry his hands off of me, but my flailing was useless. My feet slipped against the porcelain, sending more water spilling over the lip of the tub. He was a thousand times stronger than me, and though I struggled like a wild beast, leaving scratches down his arms, there was no escape.

My eyelids fluttered feebly and closed.

I heard a distant bang.

My skin tore as he was ripped away, blood gushing from my throat in his wake. I slid downward until copper-scented bubbles tickled my nose. Frantic footsteps splashed through the water that had spilled onto the floor. A chorus of bone-chilling snarls erupted around me followed by an earsplitting crash. I whimpered at a sudden pressure against the gaping wound on my neck. The pain was agonizing, like someone had put a burning torch to my flesh.

“Don’t do this,” urged a voice. It sounded far away. “Open your eyes.”

I didn’t want to open my eyes. I wanted to sleep.

“Get him under control!” The crashing intensified, as if a tempest had collapsed the walls around us.

The pressure grew worse. Something warm splashed across my face. As I opened my mouth to protest, it seeped between my lips. It was foreign. Viscous. Delicious. Like something that should be served at the table of the gods. Trapped somewhere between confusion and pleasure, I explored the source with my tongue. The warmth that had been leeched from my body slowly trickled back, spreading from my lips to my extremities.

Beads of sweat pearled on my chest as I drank. I was consumed by hunger, sinking my nails into something soft as the liquid spilled down my throat. My surroundings slowly came into focus.

I snarled like a feral cat when the stream was unceremoniously stoppered. I needed more. Furious, I glanced up and found myself staring into the face of a vampire. Mordric.

No, not Mordric. As his face came into focus, I realized that the curve of the cheekbones was sharper, the hair shorter. And the eyes, the eyes were entirely the wrong color.

Enhart’s face was the last thing I saw before everything went black.

“–Foolish thing you’ve ever done.”

“Don’t you think I know that?”

“She could’ve been—”

“I know, godsdamnit.”

I gazed up at the canopy of the bed, watching the draft tug at the linen curtains above my head. I had been bathed and dressed in a shift the color of the hoarfrost that coated the grounds outside my window. At the opposite end of the chamber, Mordric and Enhart argued in hushed tones.

“You know that I’ve never lost control like that before. It was different,” Mordric said.

“So I gathered.”

“Then perhaps instead of berating me, you should get a handle on your woman. She’s the one who put the ridiculous idea in Finn’s head.”

A low growl sounded. “Genevieve is not my woman, as you are well aware. Need I remind you of the reason I’ve been keeping her company to begin with?”

“You need not.”

“Besides, I’ve already dealt with her.”

I sighed. They had been talking in circles for what felt like hours. I lifted myself onto my elbows. “I’m awake,” I announced.

The look of shock on their faces nearly made me laugh. “And I feel fine,” I informed them matter-of-factly.

Mordric flew to my side. “Finn, thank the gods,” he said.

I heard the door creak shut as his brother slipped away, leaving us alone. Good. I couldn’t bear to look at him. Humiliation twisted in my gut as I recalled the look on his face when I’d finally regained consciousness. In the bathtub. Naked. Letlas save me.

I cleared my throat. “How long have I been asleep?”