Chapter 24: More Dangerous Than Blood
{IRIS}
"I . . . I am sorry, Lord Val."
The words left me in a frail whisper, thin as spider silk, fraying at the edges. Shame sat heavy on my tongue, in my cheeks, in the way I could not quite lift my eyes to his.
"This is not your fault," he replied, voice low and measured, yet burdened with something that sounded almost like regret. A fleeting shadow crossed his gaze, a gleam like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath. "It slipped my mind that you wolves bleed every month."
Heat surged to my face so swiftly it made me dizzy.
How could he say it so plainly? So indifferent to the humiliation clawing at my insides?
"Ah—actually, it is women who bleed—"
His eyes cut to me, sharp and warning, silencing the rest upon my tongue.
"I will bring you something to mask your scent," he said, gaze sliding toward the door as though already calculating the dangers beyond.
Before I could answer, a sound unfurled through the walls—a hiss, low and guttural, like steam forced through broken stone.
My blood ran cold.
Vampires.
They had caught my scent.
Lord Val’s features hardened, all trace of softness gone. His silver eyes narrowed, pupils thinning into predatory slits. The air around him shifted, heavy, like the moment before a storm tears open the sky.
"I shall deal with them." His voice brooked no argument. "Remain here. Do not stray from this room."
And then he was gone.
Not a step. Not a footfall. One heartbeat he stood before me, the next the space he had occupied was empty, the air disturbed only by a whisper of movement.
Silence descended, yet it was not gentle. It pressed upon my ears, restless and alive, broken only by the soft lapping of water against the porcelain as I shifted.
I curled forward, arms wrapping around my lower abdomen, trying to cradle the ache there. The cramps rolled through me in waves—deeper, harsher than usual, as if my body had decided to revolt at the worst possible time.
My period had always come as faithfully as the moon’s cycle, but never like this—never so sharp, never so draining. I felt hollowed out and yet unbearably full of pain.
There was no heat radiating off my skin, no heavy, feral scent that should have clung to a female wolf in blood and discomfort.
No scent, save the iron-touched tang of my own blood.
An oddity, for one of my kind.
Then again, I was an oddity.
I did not have a wolf—at least, not one that could answer me, not one that howled when the moon rose. She existed, sealed somewhere deep within, bound and shackled where I could not reach her.
I had always wondered if that was why my body failed to behave like the others’. Why there was no heat, no calling, no clear scent of wolf clinging to my skin.
Was that why the vampires reacted so violently to my blood?
Was it wrong? Too potent? Too different?
Distantly, through the thick stone walls, I heard it: a muffled thud, a hiss choked off mid-breath, something fragile shattering. Then—nothing. A void where chaos should have lingered.
The quiet that followed felt unnatural.
A gust of air brushed across my damp skin, and I flinched.
Val materialized in the doorway as though the shadows themselves had formed his shape. His clothes were slightly disturbed, the collar of his shirt askew, the edge of his glove smudged faintly as if from dust or ash.
His eyes were sharp, cutting through the dimness, taking in every inch of the room in a single sweep before settling on me.
In his hand, he held a small vial filled with a deep crimson liquid, dark as garnet under candlelight.
He approached the tub, every movement controlled. Then he bent down on one knee beside me—an immortal creature of blood and shadow kneeling by the edge of my bath.
"Drink this," he said quietly, holding the vial toward me. "It will conceal your scent entirely."
I hesitated, my fingers brushing against his as I took it. His skin, even through the glove, felt unnaturally cool, a stark contrast to the warm water that cradled me.
A shiver traced my spine, though I could not say whether it was from his touch or from the chill in his eyes.
Our gazes met.
For a fleeting moment, the careful composure he wore like armor faltered. Behind that stillness, I caught a glimpse of the storm—bone-deep hunger, iron-fisted discipline, and a tension wound so tight it seemed it might crack at any second. His eyes were a battlefield in which instinct and reason clashed silently.
My heart stuttered, then raced faster, thudding against my ribs.
Fear should have rooted me in place, but another feeling tangled itself into the panic—warmer, softer, shamefully reckless. I could not name it, but it folded itself around his name in my chest.
I raised the vial to my lips and swallowed it down in one breath.
It slid over my tongue like nothing at all. No warmth, no chill, no taste of metal or herbs—just a hollow absence. As if I had swallowed a shadow.
Oddly, that soothed me.
I looked back at him, searching his face for some sign that it had worked.
His pupils narrowed to sharp points, like a beast scenting the air. A glint of steel flashed; before I could react, a dagger had appeared in his gloved hand. A swift, practiced movement, and a hot sting lanced across my palm.
"Ah—!"
Blood welled along the fine cut, beading, then dripping toward the water.
Val caught my hand at once. His grip was firm, steady, but I felt the tremor lying beneath the surface, the faintest quiver in the tension of his fingers. He lifted my hand closer, just enough to draw in one careful breath.
He inhaled, slow and measured, as though each fraction of air was a battle fought and won.
His jaw clenched. His shoulders grew rigid. His fingers twitched, as if some deep instinct in him demanded he pull me closer, sink his fangs into my skin, drink until that maddening urge was quieted.
Instead, he tore himself away.
