I didn’t have the capacity to suffer whiplash from my feelings. My headache would happily turn into a migraine and all these little moments where he left me wondering and questioning would only compound until I suffered a blackout.

Crossing my arms, my voice came out as cold as his, “I’ve cleaned your crypt of a palace until my fingers are raw. I’ve done every ridiculous chore you’ve thrown at me. I’ve even dusted your bookshelves multiple times—which, by the way, did not need dusting.”

His mouth curved into a mocking smile. “And in return, I’ve kept you alive and safe in my company. A fair trade, don’t you think?”

“I’d prefer a few days away from your company,” I muttered.

He stepped toward me, the wine cradled carelessly in one hand, his tall height casting me in shadow. Whisper pressed against my leg with a low rumble as if sensing the crackling chemistry flying between me and his master. “Are you saying you don’t like being around me or are you suddenly bored of living?”

I lifted my chin. “How can I like you when you refuse to open up to me? We had a moment last night, but you—”

“Ah.” He nodded, his eyes sharp and cutting. “So you are sick of living.”

I gave up.

“I’m sick of working, that’s for sure.”

Turning on his heel, he ordered, “Follow me.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s Sunday.”

My pulse spiked. The way he said it. With icy finality and careful disinterest.

I didn’t need to ask what he meant.

It was one of those days.

“You know what?” I forced a smile. “I’ll take the housework—”

“That wasn’t a request.” He strode away, long legs eating up the corridor.

Whisper nudged me, urging me forward.

I groaned as my head pounded.

“Unpaid maid, part-time nurse, and blood-bank technician,” I muttered, following him reluctantly. “I definitely need a raise.”

* * * * *

“Draw another bag.”

“What?” I froze by the fridge after putting the usual two full bags on the moving shelf. Where it went or who came to collect it, I didn’t ask. Didn’t want to know. The thought of anyone touching Lucien’s blood made my stomach clench and chest feel tight.

In those many sleepless moments in my pavilion, I envisioned the men running his family’s company—men who were meant to protect and guide him—using his stolen blood on the very machines that Laura said refused to work without constant access to fresh Ashfall DNA and it made me angry. Very angry.

“You never do more than two,” I said warily.

“Today is an exception.” Lucien exhaled heavily from where he sat in the chair. “Do it.”

“No, I won’t do it. You’ve taken enough. Look at you, you need some sugar, a blanket, and a nap.”

The computer screens had turned off beside him the moment the harvesting had been completed. The barcoded stickers had been printed, and the draining tubes had been removed from his cuffs. No way would I repeat the process. How much blood could a person lose before they keeled over and died?

“Fuck, you’re disobedient.” His curse might’ve been cruel but his husky, tired voice made it sound almost pitiful.

“Are you only just realising this?” I headed toward him. “I consistently do the bare minimum of whatever you ask. It’s a talent.”

“Fine. I’ll do it myself.” Gritting his teeth, he grabbed another pre-prepared bag from the medical trolley, stabbed a new port line into it, then locked the other end onto the cuff on his left wrist.

“Wait!” I dashed forward, squeamish and slightly sick but also burning with a rush of unexplainable possessiveness. He’d made this my job. He’d forced me to do this ten times too many. He never took more than two bags, and frankly, with how white and cold and tired he was, I never wanted to see him take more. “What the hell are you doing?”

I went to stop him, but his hand locked tight around my wrist.

He shuddered as yet more blood flowed from his body and into the empty bag.

“Stop it.” I fought him but his hand merely tightened around me. His head tipped up, looking at me from the chair. His face was white and lips slightly blue but his gaze burned with embers. “Do you always talk back like this to your other employers?”

“I’ve never had other employers.”

He frowned. “How is that possible?”

“Why are you drawing more?” I twisted my arm, trying to get him to release me, hoping he wouldn’t realise I’d changed the subject.

“Your questions vex me.” Rolling his eyes, he swayed a little as if lack of blood made him dizzy. Swallowing hard, he let me go, then unhooked the line from his cuff.

His fingers slipped a little, his head tipping forward.

The line didn’t fully unhook, leaving the port open.

A spray of dark red arced through the air—splattering across my bare arms, my collarbone, my dress.

I choked.

He froze.

I gagged as crimson droplets soaked into the grey cotton of my dress like some sick artwork. My stomach lurched; my head went heavy.

I gagged.

Lucien’s gaze snapped to my face. “Don’t you dare throw up.”

I staggered back, hands trembling. “W-Why...what are you—” I couldn’t finish, glancing at the morbid mess covering me.

My throat closed.

His jaw worked as he yanked the line out and the port in his cuff closed. Blood covered his thigh from where he’d leaked but he didn’t seem to care. Standing carefully, he stepped toward me. “You’re shaking.”

I swallowed hard. “I-I’m fine.”

His gaze searched mine, his lips far too colourless. Reaching for my hand, he murmured, “Come. I’ll clean it off you.”

His fingers brushed my wrist.

A sting of electricity bit into me with the sharpest teeth.

And I couldn’t do it.

Spinning around, I raced toward the sink in the corner of the room. Wrenching on the tap, I washed my face, my neck, my chest, and arms with panicked swipes.

“Rook—”

I froze.

My name.

He said my name.

Dripping wet, and still streaked in his blood, I slowly turned to face him. “What did you just say?”

A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face. Guilt? Amusement? Annoyance? “Nothing.” Turning away, he moved carefully toward the stainless-steel medical table by the fridge, the mostly empty blood bag dangling from his fingers.

With methodical precision, he slit the top with a sterile scalpel.

“What are you doing?” Snatching a fresh towel from the shelf, I scrubbed myself dry and drifted toward him, hating how deliberately he moved as if every action threatened to knock him out.

I knew that feeling.

I knew the strength it took to look normal all while your body forsook you.

Not looking at me, he opened a drawer and selected a small glass vial. “Hold this.”

I obeyed on instinct, allowing him to insert the vial into my hand. His jaw clenched as our skin touched again. His fingers trembled as another conduit of crackling current flowed hotly between us.

Narrowing his eyes, he tipped up the blood bag and poured out the small amount into the vial. The thick red river settled at the bottom.

I didn’t breathe as he tapped the final droplets into the small glass tube. If he got more blood on me...I honestly didn’t know what I’d do.

Tossing the empty bag into the biohazard bin, he stole the vial off me, screwed on the cap, and held it up to the harsh light of the fridge.

The gleam of scarlet, the knowledge that it was his—

“Here.” Grabbing my hand, he pressed the still-warm bottle into my palm.

I backed up so fast, I crashed into the bench. Looking at the awful gift, I stuttered, “W-Why would you give me this?”

His mouth twitched into a half-smile, drawn and tired. “Weren’t you just complaining I don’t give you a salary?”

I stared at him, trying to understand this man who must be clinically insane. “You’re paying me in blood?”