Page 41 of Fangs

I shake my head. “I am nothing. I am just—”

“You are not nothing.” His hand lifts. His fingers brush my cheek. “Your blood made me stronger. The bite yesterday allowed me to regain power. What I felt for you—it was beyond the magic restrictions. Beyond the curse. I did what I thought was impossible. I saved you. And I regained my vampire body.”

I should be terrified. I should run. Instead, I ask, “Mirrors? The portrait is a mirror?”

“Yes.” His eyes meet mine. “Mirrors are magical portals. The most powerful weapon against us.” He pauses. “That is why my prison is a mirror. They trapped me in my own reflection.”

“What happened to you?” I whisper. “How did you end up cursed there?”

His expression shuts down. “My own personal friends betrayed me.” The words are clipped, final. “But I do not want to talk about that now.”

He turns the question back on me. “Why did you jump, Lucille? Are you losing your mind? Do you want me to lose mine? Do you want to drive me crazy?”

The use of my full name jolts me. “Stop calling me Lucille. No one calls me that. Only Lucy.”

He arches a brow. “Lucy,” he repeats, drawing the name out. “Fine. Why did you jump, Lucy?”

“I told you. I thought it was all a dream. I wanted to wake up. I did not know—I could not—” I stop, my voice cracking. “Everything was so confusing. I didn’t know what was real. I still don’t know.”

His expression softens. “You are not dreaming, Lucy. This is real. Every moment. Every shadow. Every bite.”

He steps closer. His hand finds my chin again, tilting my face to the side. His eyes fix on the wound on my neck. “Thomas’s bite. It still aches, does it not?”

I nod, unable to speak.

“It is poisoned. His bite was not like mine. He was younger. Crueler. He did not want to give you pleasure—he wanted to take.”

His fingers trace the wound. I shiver. “I can heal it. But it will cost you.”

“What cost?”

He leans in. His breath is cold against my neck. “You have to trust me.”

I close my eyes. “I trust you.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

His tongue drags across the wound. The pain vanishes. In its place, heat floods my veins—liquid fire that pools in my belly and spreads lower. My body arches toward him. A gasp escapes my lips.

He pulls back, eyes dark with satisfaction. “Better?”

I nod, unable to form words. My skin tingles. My heart pounds. The heat between my legs is unbearable.

“You are in heat,” he murmurs, and there is a knowing smile on his lips. “I can smell it.”

“Stop talking,” I manage.

“Or what?” He grins. “Are you going to push me out the window?”

I reach for him instead. My hands find his chest, solid and cold beneath his velvet coat. I pull him toward me, and I do not know if I want to kiss him or slap him.

He laughs, low and rough. “That is more like it.”

He kisses me, and I forget everything. The manor, the masters, the danger, the fear. There is only him—his mouth on mine, his hands on my waist, the impossible truth that this is real.

This is all real.

And I’m in so much trouble.