Bound by Blood and Fang

Chapter 17

Alora

A growl rumbles past Damitri’s lips at my act of defiance. It's the kind of sound that vibrates through the air rather than simply being heard. He studies me for a long, unreadable moment. Like he is peeling me apart layer by layer and deciding which pieces he wants to keep.

My pulse hammers against my ribs, too loud, too fast. I fight to slow it, to keep my breathing even, to not let the tremor building in my hands reveal itself. His gaze drops — not to my throat, not to my chest — but to my mouth. And before I can stop myself, my tongue darts out, tracing a path along my bottom lip.

Traitor.

The word ricochets through my skull, sharp and panicked. His description of whatever this actually is as a game is starting to look more and more accurate. And I'm wondering if it's working in my favor anymore or his.

I froze, heat prickling across my skin as the realization that I might not be as in control of this as I thought I was hits. His eyes darken even more, the red swirling through his bronze eyes like stirred embers.

“Well,” he says at last, his voice smooth again, civilized in a way that feels far more dangerous than the growl from seconds ago. “Have you given up on the idea of running every five minutes yet?”

An icy chill floods my veins, cold and immediate. Of course, he would say something like that. Running is the logical reaction for anyone with a functioning survival instinct in this situation. But I refuse to let him see how the question affects me. I am indeed plotting my escape, or attempting to.

I inhale slowly, steadying myself before I speak. I lean back in my chair to try and put a little more distance between us; having him sitting so close has my thoughts jumbled more than I would like. The smooth fabric of my dress shifts with me, the material cool against overheated skin. I cross one leg over the other beneath the table, slow and deliberate, letting the slit in my dress fall open just enough to reveal the length of my thigh.

His eyes follow the movement like a predator.

"And if I haven't?"

It's a stupid question and even more reckless. One that I should not ask, but my stubborn streak doesn't care for the consequences that may follow. His eyes flash as they meet mine again. The glass in his hand stills completely, the liquid inside going motionless. Even his chest seems to have stopped rising. The entire room now holds its breath with him.

Then his mouth curves, revealing the points of his fangs.

“Careful, Love,” he murmurs, the threat that is laced in his voice is as smooth as velvet. “You might discover you enjoy being chased.”

Heat crawls up the back of my neck before blooming across my skin. My core tightens in anticipation — the feeling unwanted, uninvited, and entirely infuriating. I hate the way my body reacts to him before my brain has the chance to stop it.

I choose to ignore him and reach for the water glass in front of me, my fingers brushing against the stem. Miraculously, I manage not to shake as I lift it to my lips and take a slow sip. The cold water anchored me, giving myself something — anything — to do besides stare at the very dangerous vampire who is sitting far too close.

But even as I lower the glass, I can feel his gaze on me.

Heavy.

Unrelenting.

Hungry.

I force my body to relax, which is far harder to do than I thought it would be. My shoulders loosen by degrees, but my spine straightens, and I turn to face him. The first thing I notice is the smug curl of his lips. The second is the way his very presence seems to brush against mine, like a cold hand trailing down my arm.

“I highly doubt you would be able to catch me if I did,” I find myself taunting him, the words slipping out without very much thought.

His lips pull into a full grin, and I have to look away before it does something catastrophic to my composure. Fates, this is not fair. I am supposed to hate him. Correction: I do hate him. I hate everything about this monster in front of me, but for some reason, my body doesn't seem to comprehend that sentiment.

“Oh, Love,” he purrs, leaning back in his chair like he has all the time in the world. “Would you care to try it out? See just how far you make it this time before you're on your back in the dirt?”

His smile shifts — turning darker, wickeder — and the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

“And make no mistake… You will be on your back. This time willingly. Without the enhanced effects of the potion.”

I meet his gaze head-on, narrowing my eyes to tiny slits. “I think that the two of you have very skewed understandings of what the word consent means.” I bite out.

Something in his eyes flickers for a brief second before it is gone. His fingertips rap against the tabletop in precise, measured taps. Calculating.

“These pretty little marks,” he says as he reaches out and traces one of the marks at the base of my throat. His mark, to be exact. “Is all the consent that I need, Love.”

My anger spikes, hot and immediate. If he thinks that just because he marked me that he now has some sick twisted right to my body, then he is dead wrong. I pull away from his touch and watch as his hand falls to the table once more with a soft thud.

“For what it’s worth,” Dimitri says quietly, “I did stop when you told me to.”

I rolled my eyes at his half-hearted attempt to justify any of this and turned away. “Maybe for a moment. But the bond still broke you. If Jenny had not stepped in…”

I don't finish the statement because it is an image that is both wanted and unwanted at the same time. I can still feel the way my body called to theirs. How it reached for them even as my mind fought not to. The way, even now, it still calls for them, and I am still fighting against that notion every second.

Then there are the flashbacks from the night of the ritual bombarding me, and I have to shove them away hard.

“And that doesn't necessarily earn you a medal,” I mutter.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see his expression shift — eyes darkening in that infuriating, knowing way that says he can read me far better than I can read him. He exhales in a slow, measured release, but the predatory look doesn't retreat.

He shifts his posture, his shoulders settling, and the expression on his face smoothing to something unreadable. He lifts his glass, swirling the dark liquid inside with a lazy elegance that feels intentional. It's a gesture that is meant to look casual, but nothing about Damitri Valecourt screams casual.

I wonder if that's blood in his glass… or just a really dark mulled wine.

His gaze flicks to me like he can hear the question inside my head. The corner of his mouth twitches — not quite a smile as he takes a long drink from the cup before his gaze drops back to the table, then returns to me again — assessing and choosing his next angle of attack. If he knew where my line of thought was, he doesn't comment on them this time.

Honestly, I am not sure if I really wish to know.

“Tell me something, Alora,” his voice is velvety soft when he speaks again, like he is trying to keep from frightening a small child. “What was your family like?”

I freeze.

It’s too personal. Too sudden. Too deliberate. It's a probe that is clearly meant to slip past my defenses.

Before I can answer — or even decide if I even want to — the omegas enter in a quiet flurry of movement, carrying far more trays than two people could possibly need. Their soft footfalls and murmured coordination fill the room, and I am grateful for their presence because it means that I don't have to answer his question.

Steam rises from silver platters, carrying the scent of roasted herbs, warm bread, and something sweet I can’t quite place. The scents fill my senses, making my mouth water and my stomach growl loudly. One of the omegas sets down a plate in front of me — a beautifully arranged meal, colors vibrant under the candlelight. While another places an identical plate before Dimitri.

I blink.

Because vampires didn’t eat real food.

Right?

All they needed was blood.

My gaze flicks towards him, searching for a tell, a reaction. But Dimitri doesn’t even bother to look at the food that has been placed in front of him. He doesn’t even glance at the omegas as they slip out of the room, the door clicking shut softly behind them. He sits perfectly still, glass still in hand, with his eyes fixed on me with that unnerving, unblinking focus.

The silence stretches between us.

Fine.

If he wants to stare, let him stare.

I pick up my fork and cut into the roasted vegetables on my plate. Steam curls upward, carrying the scent of rosemary and butter. My stomach tightens — I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until now.

I bring the bite to my mouth.

The moment the vegetable hits my tongue, its flavor blooms — rich, warm, savory — across my tongue, and a soft sound escapes me before I can stop it. Just a quiet, involuntary hum of pleasure at the taste. Heat instantly rushes to my cheeks, and I swallow quickly, forcing my expression back into something more neutral, but it’s too late. I can feel his attention sharpen, like a blade turning toward a new point of interest.

Slowly — deliberately — Dimitri tilts his head to the side, still watching me.

His gaze drags from my mouth to my throat, lingering there for a beat too long, and something in his expression shifts. I set my fork down with exaggerated care, refusing to let my fingers tremble.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter.

His lips curve in the faintest hint of a smile. “I’m simply observing,” he says softly. “You’re… expressive reaction to the food.”

The way he says it makes my pulse skip several beats.

I reach for my water again, needing the coolness to dampen the heat that is now growing inside of me. Even drinking half, it does very little to alleviate the warmth in my core. The glass clinks softly against the table as I set it back down, and I force myself to meet his gaze head‑on.

“Your family, Alora?” he asks again.

I push the food around on the porcelain plate, the scrape of my fork against the ceramic far too loud in the quiet. I stall for a heartbeat longer, pretending to consider the arrangement of vegetables like it matters.

“What do you want with my family?” I ask, squaring my shoulders.

But the question opens a door I didn’t mean to open.

Now that I’m bonded to them…

Will they hurt my family?

Use them?

Leverage them to make me obey?

A thousand different scenarios flash through my mind in half a second — each one worse than the last — and panic claws its way up my throat, sharp and choking. My breath stutters. My fingers go cold, and the room suddenly feels too small, too warm, too full of him.

I grip the edge of the table, my pulse thunders in my ears, drowning out everything else in the room.

Dimitri doesn’t move. He just watches as the panic blooms across my face like he’s cataloging it, studying it, deciding what it means.

“I’m not going to hurt them,” he says quietly, as if it actually causes him pain.

My brows pulled together because how did he instantly come to that conclusion? I'm sure it would be a common worry, but he specifically went with that. Why?

It isn't the first time he has said something that seemed like he could read my mind. In fact, both times were in regard to my escaping, and now this.

“I expect,” he says, voice smooth as poured silk, “that you’re intelligent enough to notice when I’m telling the truth.”

Ha, that's a good one.

I let my fork fall to the plate, and the sharp clatter rings throughout the room. “Intelligence has nothing to do with your being truthful.” I force my shoulders back and lift my chin. “You’ve given me exactly zero reasons to trust anything that you say.”

Neither one of them has since that night. Our imminent death was all the truth they offered, and now he expects me to just believe him when he says he wouldn't hurt the ones I love. Why else would he ask then if it's not to use my mother against me?

“Mm.” His gaze drifts from my face down the length of my body. Taking me in with deliberate attention. “Perhaps that was a bit…premature.”

Heat slowly creeps up the back of my neck when he leans forward. His scent of cool metal and copper surrounds me.

Dimitri’s hand finds the bare portion of my thigh that is exposed through the slit in my dress. The cool touch of his skin against mine sends shivers racing through my body. His fingertips caress my thigh softly, and I have to fight the turmoil that is growing inside me.

“But I think that is something…” he continues, his hand slowly drifting higher, and I start to lose more of my control. I can feel the heat rearing its head, just waiting for a moment to break through. “We can work on.”

My stomach flips once more. The red in his eyes shifts, and he leans in even more. I open my mouth, ready to snap something at him about how there is nothing that I want to “work on” with him whatsoever. But nothing comes out except a strangled squeak that sounds like it should have come from a mouse instead of a human.

The smirk on his lips grows at my reaction, and I wish that I could run clean out of this room, out of this house, and away from him.

“Don't worry, Love,” he murmurs, his voice soft enough to make my pulse stumble. “We have plenty of time to work out our... differences.”

My body leans toward him without my permission.

What the hell am I doing?

The question smacks me hard, but doesn't break whatever is happening. Even my mind isn't fighting as hard as it did earlier. Is this the effects of Jenny’s tea starting to wear off, and that's why I feel like I can't back away from this pull towards the Vampire King?

His hand leaves my thigh, and I instantly miss its presence. Not for long, though, because those same fingers now cup the side of my jaw with a gentleness that feels an awful lot like a trap.

“Alora,” he breathes my name in a breathless moan.

And before I can think — before I can stop him — he closes the distance.

His lips brush against mine in a devastatingly gentle kiss. It's a far cry from the heated kisses he had pressed against my throat the night of the Heat. My breath catches in my chest as my body goes still when his tongue traces along the seam of my lips, asking to be allowed inside. When I don't open up for him, one of his fangs pierces my bottom lip, and he uses it to his advantage.

His tongue then slips inside as he deepens the kiss— and the entire world seems to shift. Stars burst behind my eyes as a warmth coats my skin. Need. It’s returning and with a vengeance that I fear will take me out altogether.

The air tightens suddenly around us, the bond in my chest giving a strange, uncomfortable pull. Then a deep, bone-chilling growl rips through the air a second later, shattering the spell and giving me back control over my body.

The sound does not come from the doorway.

Or from the hall.

It comes from somewhere much closer, almost as if it came from inside my own mind. The growl feels primal inside my chest — wild and furious.

I feel the corner of his mouth twitch, like he had been waiting for this all along. I blinked, stunned for several moments, my pulse roaring in my ears as Dimitri pulled back just enough to look at me and Fates help me…

I’m not sure if I want to shove him away or drag him back.