Chapter 4

Her every gesture, her stubbornness and her sensitivity each plucked at Cyrus's nerves like fingers on a string.

She suited his taste far better than I had a hundred years ago.

*****

Not long after the Night of the Blood Moon, at Cyrus's instruction, the steward began addressing Elena as "Miss" the same way he addressed me.

The servants bowed whenever she passed.

Her room was moved from the ground floor up to the second, right next to Cyrus's bedchamber.

Once, passing through the corridor, I overheard the steward bending low to speak with her. "Miss Elena, the lilies the Count prepared for you have been delivered to your room."

Lilies.

Cyrus had scoured the whole of Europe to track down the purest Albanian white lilies.

All because Elena had said lilies were her favorite flower.

I ignored them and walked into my own room.

Roses everywhere is crimson and black and their scent thick in the air, heavy and brooding.

From the day I'd moved into Thornhold Castle, Cyrus had always prepared roses for me, relentlessly.

He had never once asked what flowers I liked.

He had simply, stubbornly decided that only roses suited me.

Standing in the middle of all those blossoms, I suddenly couldn't breathe.

Perhaps the perfume was too thick.

I pushed the window open and let the night wind off the Darkridge Mountains pour into the room.

The ravens roosting on the branches outside startled and scattered into the dark.

I watched in silence as they vanished into the black shadows of the distant forest. For a long time, I did not move.

A month later.

Cyrus was wounded.

When the steward hurried me down to the drawing room, I found Cyrus half-reclined on the sofa, eyes closed.

A long gash had been torn through the front of his shirt. Blood seeped steadily from it, soaking through his coat and cloak.

Elena was kneeling on the floor, clutching his hand, weeping in a way that begged to be pitied.

The steward gave me a brief account of what had happened.

Elena had told Cyrus of how the werewolves of Kentshire had once tormented her. Furious, Cyrus had gone to teach the pack a lesson and walked straight into an ambush.

He had cut his way out, one against ten, but had taken heavy wounds in the process.

"Isolde, you've come." Hearing me enter, Cyrus opened his eyes a fraction and called my name, his voice rough.

Beside him, Elena let out a small sob. "It's all my fault. I shouldn't have told you."

Cyrus waved a weak hand. "Don't blame yourself."

Elena bit her lip and nodded through her tears.

I stepped forward to examine his wounds.

The wound on his chest was the worst. It is deep enough to show bone, the deepest point missing his heart by barely half an inch. His left arm was broken as well, and there were countless smaller cuts across his body.

The steward asked anxiously, "How is he, Miss Isolde?"

"He can still be saved." I knelt down and pressed my palm over the wound on his chest.

Thorns the deep red of blood erupted from my palm and threaded themselves into the wound.

Flesh grew along the branching thorns, and the wound began to knit closed before our eyes.

The familiar pain rose from deep inside me. I knit my brow.

I was exceptionally good at the healing art even stronger than the vast majority of vampires, whether they ranked above or below me.

Ordinary healing magic did nothing for vampires. The secret art I'd mastered was, more accurately, a kind of sacrifice.

I used my own life force to mend another's wounds. The results were unmatched.

The only catch was that every casting brought the wielder unbearable pain.

The servants always marveled at my talent for healing.

But there was no talent to it. I had simply worked harder, endured more pain.

Before I'd become a vampire, I had already grown accustomed to pain.

Half an hour later, I lifted my hand from Cyrus's chest.

Every wound was gone.

Cyrus rose and stretched, his voice gentle. "Thank you, Isolde. That was hard on you."

Elena's tear tracks had not yet dried. She moved to support him, but when she heard the tenderness in his voice for me, she shot me a sidelong and venomous glance.

Back in my room, I was exhausted and sank against the headboard. My hands trembling beyond my control.

The pain of the casting had carved itself into my marrow. It would not fade for a while.

I remembered the first time I'd practiced the art. Every time the pain knocked me unconscious, the first thing I'd see when I woke were Cyrus's red eyes, full of helpless grief.

"Isolde, I can't bear to see you like this. Let's stop the lessons, all right?" he had pleaded.

And I, then so spoiled, had insisted on pressing through to the end.

More than I feared that pain, I hated seeing Cyrus hurt.

The wooden door of my bedchamber creaked softly.

I looked up and saw Cyrus.

It was the first time he had come to my room since the Night of the Blood Moon.

He crossed the room, sat on the edge of the bed, and took my hand. His gaze searched my face. "Are you all right? Does it still hurt?"

I shook my head. "It'll pass in a day or two. You know how it is."

Cyrus spoke with quiet apology. "I was reckless this time. That's why I walked into the ambush those mongrels set and forced you to spend yourself healing me."

I laughed coldly. "Fine. So everything is your fault, and none of it has anything to do with Elena."

Cyrus's brow furrowed, the warmth fading from his face. "Why do you keep going after her?"

Then he reined his temper in and explained, patient. "Elena is innocent. She never asks anything of me. I offered her the Embrace, and she refused... She said she didn't want to take too much from me."