I had just finished eating to find Lord Fashire watching me.
A lump formed in my throat and I swallowed hard, averting my gaze from the Lord. It then fully dawned on me that I was in his bed, staining it with my sweat and… I glanced down.
Someone had changed my clothes while I was unconscious. I didn't want to think about who could have done it.
"My lord."
Lord Fashire finally tore his eyes from me and directed them to the newcomer. Dressed in a black maid's uniform similar to what I had worn while working in Lord Lorn's castle, the lower-ranking vampire walked in. Her voice echoed with the same cool tone I had heard earlier.
Raven-dark hair pulled tightly into a bun accentuated her small, oval face, enhancing her striking features. Her red eyes met mine, and hardened into an unmistakable glare. I stiffened when I sensed the immense animosity emanating from her.
If Lord Fashire noticed her scornful look, he did not address it.
Her lips turned down in an even deeper frown as she paused to scrutinize the mess I had made. She cleaned my mess with visible disgust, then left without a word.
The thump of Lord Fashire's footsteps against the floor drew my attention. I looked up, my eyes meeting his. Whatever distance between us had been closed in an instant and Lord Fashire leaned over me, a small glass bowl in one of his hands.
I instinctively recoiled, but he caught hold of my wrist with his free hand.
My muscles seized up. I had no inkling as to what he was going to do next and that terrified me more than anything.
"My—" I managed, my voice coming out in a low, embarrassing squeak. "My Lord—"
He let go of my arm and clutched my jaw. I froze as his thumb reached for my lips, dragging across them in a slight caress. I stilled. He wasn't looking at me but at my mouth. Why?
I flinched as he leaned forward, a knee digging into the soft edge of the bed. I felt my blood run cold as he sniffed at my mouth, slightly open from shock.
What was happening?
An inscrutable expression settled upon his relaxed features as his thumb ventured into my mouth, pressing against my bottom teeth, and urging my jaw to open wider.
A sudden realization dawned on me, accompanied by a surge of fresh fear.
He was examining me.
He let go of my face and I leaned back, gasping. The corners of his lips crept up in an unpleasant smile that made me shudder.
"Stay still," he cautioned, taking a gentle hold of my wrist. My skin prickled where he touched me and I realized it was the first time he had held me—or any part of me—gently. I was severely uncomfortable by this, and the discomfort grew when he focused on the wrist he held.
His jaw ticked.
A lone vein strained against the exposed underside of my wrist, and the fixed stare he had on it rattled me. He was going to bleed me.
I tried to reassure myself. He needed me alive. He said it himself. I noted the bowl he held and my pulse spiked, quickening with each passing second. There was no blade.
If he were going to use his fangs to draw out blood, I would have another ghastly wound. But I was sure that would injure him too, and if he had no blade to cut me open, then what did he plan on—
A soundless cry escaped my lips as his nail sliced swiftly across the tender flesh of my wrist. I stiffened, my eyes watering as a thin line appeared, reddening almost instantly.
Blood welled from the cut and began to seep into the bowl. I shrank back, desperately trying to retract my injured hand. But he held fast, effortlessly tilting my wrist and forcing the crimson stream to flow into the vessel.
His nail emitted a low hiss, sizzling against the blood it had come into contact with. We both paused to watch as the blood on it bubbled and drizzled, causing his long nail to melt away. The thick, red mess plummeted onto the sheets, rapidly drying into a flaky layer that stained his blanket.
I slowly tilted my head upwards to gauge Lord Fashire's reaction. His brow furrowed with a pensive frown as he touched the stain, swiping his finger along the fabric, and transforming the dried residue into a powdery substance.
Then, he brushed away the remnants of what had once been my blood and stepped away from me. I jolted as he vanished in a blur, and I soon heard a soft click of a swiftly closing door.
I quickly crawled to the edge and got down from the bed. My wrist throbbed with residual pain and I stopped when I noticed the wound he had given me was gone. I stood in a daze, staring at where the slashed opening was supposed to be.
I wasn't as surprised as when I noticed the healing scar on my shoulder, but a sense of loss filled me.
I didn't want to believe that I wasn't human.
I had been fine, perfectly ordinary before I came to work for the castle. I had avoided any injury when I started taking the potions my aunt gave me, but if Lord Fashire had given it to random villagers and they had died from it, why was I not affected by it even after taking multiple larger doses?
What could possibly be happening to me?