Blood Between the Stars Ch. 02

The door groaned open.

The room beyond was... still.

The air changed as I stepped over the threshold -- thicker, quieter. The temperature dropped several degrees, but it wasn't cold like stone.

It was cold like presence.

Like something had just breathed out.

Except nothing was breathing.

The door clicked shut behind me.

It was a beautiful room.

Too beautiful.

The floor was polished blackwood, reflective enough to catch my shadow. Tall shelves loomed along the walls, heavy with leather-bound books. A fire smoldered in the hearth -- more suggestion than warmth. Near the far window, a desk sat pristine, a quill resting in its ink like it had just been used.

And then... the bed.

He lay there.

Lucien Valak.

Naked.

A sheet of dark velvet clung low on his hips, draped with careless intent. Not to conceal. To invite. His torso was bare: smooth, pale, sculpted. Muscles defined but lean, every line a work of balance, not brute force.

His skin looked unreal. Cold. Untouched.

Like porcelain just set from the kiln.

No rise and fall of breath.

No movement.

But this wasn't death.

This was... suspension.

Like a spell waiting to end.

I moved closer.

A reckless, quiet step.

The room felt warmer near him - not in temperature, but heat. A thick, dangerous awareness. Like standing too close to lightning.

My hand hovered. Then gently, stupidly, I reached out.

Fingertips skimmed the dip between his ribs and the plane of his abdomen. Cold, smooth, perfect.

I flinched.

His body didn't.

Beneath my cloak, my soaked shirt clung to my skin. Rain still dripped from my braid, trailing over my neck. The chill should've sharpened my senses. Instead, it made everything worse.

My nipples ached from cold and something more. Tension. Proximity. A pulse that shouldn't have started pounding.

I shouldn't have touched him.

But I did.

And now I couldn't stop imagining what else that skin would feel like.

I stepped back - sharp, breath caught and forced myself toward the dresser in the corner. Black lacquer. Quietly enchanted. My fingers brushed the handle.

Don't look at him.

Don't think about the slope of his throat. The way his hair curled slightly against the pillow. The sharpness of his jaw, so still and unyielding.

I opened the drawer.

Gloves. Journals. A comb. And then: the locket.

Small. Gold. Humming faintly.

I didn't think. I just opened it.

Inside was a miniature portrait.

Of me.

Not exactly. But close. Red hair. Same eyes. Her mouth was fuller, her dress old-fashioned. But it was me.

My pulse slowed.

My breath stalled.

My throat dried.

She was beautiful.

When I looked up again, everything had changed.

The dusk was gone.

The windows had gone black a velvet absence pressing against the glass. The hearth still flickered, but the flames had gone blood-warm and low. The chandelier hung still, but the light it cast had dimmed.

I blinked.

The locket slipped from my fingers and hit the floor with a soft clink.

He was no longer on the bed.

"That's not very polite," a voice murmured behind me.

It wasn't spoken aloud.

It entered through my skin, smooth, low, and velvet-dark, curling behind my ears like heat on a whisper.

"Rummaging through a man's drawers while he sleeps?"

A breath brushed the back of my neck.

Real. Warm.

Too close.

I went still.

Every hair on my arms rose. My heartbeat spiked so sharply it made my throat ache. A tremor worked down my spine, and I hated how my legs didn't move.

His voice had weight. Depth. Like old wine poured slow and quiet.

It made my stomach flip.

My chest tighten.

My thoughts scatter like leaves in wind.

I didn't hear him cross the room.

But he was there.

Behind me.

Close enough to touch.

The room felt suddenly smaller. The shadows stretched wider. The chandelier above me hadn't moved, but the light it cast had faded to a blood-warm glow.

"You're not very good at this," he said, voice low and close, though I couldn't tell from where. "The whole 'sneak in, stab the ancient vampire, and slip away before the stars notice' bit."

"You were supposed to be asleep," I said.

"I was," he replied. "Until a little witch started pawing through my things like a curious cat."

There was a whisper of movement - not footsteps, but the absence of silence. Like breath brushing a curtain.

I turned a full circle, heart pounding, blade in hand.

"Show yourself."

"What would that accomplish?" he murmured. "You'd try to kill me. You'd fail. I'd have to decide whether to let you scream."

His voice wasn't threatening, not exactly. It was worse. Amused. Pleased.

"And yet," I said, "I'm still standing."

"You are," he agreed. "Which means you're either brave... or very stupid."

"You're talking to me," I countered. "Which means you're curious."

He laughed, softly, wickedly. I felt it in my chest.

"Touché."

The silence stretched.

I took one slow breath and crouched to pick up the locket. My fingers brushed the chain, still warm - when I felt it again.

That pull.

Low. Deep. Centered in my body like a second heartbeat.

It wasn't him touching me. But it was something.

My thighs tightened instinctively. I exhaled, sharp and short, and stood fast.

"What are you doing to me?"

"Nothing," he said. "Yet."

"Don't..." I began, but my voice cracked.

"You're flushed," he added. "But not from fear. You're shifting on your feet. You don't even realise you're reaching for me."

"I'm not."

"You are."

I bit the inside of my cheek and forced my hand to my side. My fingers twitched against the hilt of my blade. I whispered the first syllables of a ward, but they stuck in my throat.

Get it together, Lyra.

"What's your name?" he asked suddenly.

Don't answer. Don't -

"Lyra," I said.

My lips moved without permission. My throat opened like it belonged to him.

And gods help me. I felt it.

A flicker of something in my mind, like fingers brushing a locked door. Not quite in, but close enough to rattle the handle.

"There now," Lucien murmured. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

I clenched my fists.

"Get out of my head."

"It's not your head I'm interested in," he said, soft as silk. "But it's such a lovely place to start."

My magic flared.

A pulse of light erupted from my palms, flooding the room in white fire. It pushed the shadows back, and for a breathless second, I saw him.

Lucien.

Standing at the far edge of the room, near the hearth.

This time, he was dressed - barely.

A black satin robe hung loosely from his shoulders, open at the chest. The fabric slid over his skin like water, catching the firelight and clinging to the curve of his waist. It fell just past his knees, slitted high on one side. His bare feet made no sound on the floorboards.

He looked like something conjured. Designed.

And he was watching me.

Before I could move, before I could even think the words to lift my shield again, I couldn't move.

My limbs locked. Not hard - not like stone - but gently, like I'd been lulled into stillness by the weight of a dream. My muscles were my own, but distant, like I was watching myself from behind a veil.

Lucien stepped forward slowly, his gaze dragging over every inch of me.

"You're quite the paradox," he murmured. "So afraid... and yet you keep walking closer to the fire."

I tried to speak, to curse him, to break free, but my lips wouldn't part.

Let me go.

"Not yet," he said softly.

You're in my mind again.

"Only a little."

He stopped a few feet in front of me.

We stood there. Silent, locked in that strange tableau - until he reached up, slow as dusk, and unfastened the clasp of my cloak.

The heavy fabric slipped from my shoulders and fell soundlessly to the floor, leaving me in just my black hunting leathers, the fitted bodice cutting hard against the rise of my breath.

He didn't touch me.

Not at first.

His eyes dropped to the curve of my collarbone. Then his fingers followed -- tracing the exposed skin there in a line so soft I barely felt it, until he brushed the chain.

The silver cross that hung just above my heart.

His fingers caught on the metal.

There was a spark, a hiss of flesh against consecration and he flinched, just slightly, just enough.

His lips parted in a slow, crooked smile.

"Ah."

The burn had left a faint red line across two fingers, but he didn't pull away.

Instead, he let the tips of those same fingers slide across the other side of my throat, carefully avoiding the chain, as if he'd learned exactly where he could and couldn't touch me.

"You're warded. Protected. But still... "

He leaned in.

I could feel the warmth of his breath on my neck, and for a moment, I swore I felt his lips part as if he meant to speak directly to my skin.

"Tell me, Lyra," he whispered, "why haven't you tried to kill me yet?"

Because I can't move.

Because you're in my head.

Because you feel like drowning and warmth all at once and I don't know why.

My magic answered before I could.

I felt it coil in my gut, slowly building again, silent and furious. My fingers twitched, the smallest rebellion. Then a spark gathered in my palm, hidden from view.

Keep him talking. Stall.

His hand rested just beneath my collarbone now, lingering over my pulse.

"Does it always race like this," he murmured, "or is that just for me?"

My magic surged.

A pulse in my fingertips. A snap in my bones.

And just like that. I moved.

My magic surged like a scream I couldn't hold in.

I moved fast, hard, with everything I had left. A white-hot pulse burst from my chest and slammed into Lucien before he could pull away.

He staggered, but barely. His body rocked back a few steps, robe swinging open just enough for my eyes to betray me.

Smooth skin. Hipbone. Bare thigh.

Focus, gods damn you.

I lunged.

Steel in hand, I swung the blade for his ribs, but he twisted, elegant and infuriating and the dagger struck only air.

He caught my wrist, fingers tight, smile sharp.

"There she is," he breathed. "I was wondering when you'd stop pretending."

I snarled and twisted my other hand, launching a burst of searing white fire toward his chest.

He raised his palm, no incantation, no gesture, just sheer will and absorbed it like a breath.

I stumbled, breath catching.

He's too strong.

I kicked for his leg.

He dodged again, and his robe slipped - loose silk catching on his hips, exposing more of that glorious, infuriating body. I caught a glimpse of muscle, the line of his pelvis...

Stop looking, Lyra.

He laughed low in his throat and danced around my next strike, and before I could recover, his hand shot out, fistful of my braid, yanking my head back coming undone.

Not harsh. Not cruel. Just... controlling.

My lips parted in a shocked breath, and he was right there, eyes on my mouth.

His other hand slid to my waist, palm hot through the leather, pulling me closer than I should ever be.

"Do you want to kill me," he asked, lips brushing my cheek, "or do you want me to show you what I can do?"

I gasped - half fury, half heat - and drove my knee up. He blocked it with his thigh, anchoring me there, pressed against him.

The tug again.

This time it wasn't a whisper.

It was a burn.

Low in my belly, trailing down, sparking between my thighs where wetness bloomed without permission.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

No no no no

I shoved him again, harder this time, and he stepped back, grinning, as if I'd just offered him something sweet.

I threw another blast of magic at his chest, this one cut with wind.

He sidestepped, robe fluttering open all the way now, catching against his thigh and exposing one long leg, bare to the hip, the shadow of his cock just barely hidden by the swing of fabric.

Oh gods.

I faltered for a split second and he was on me again.

This time, we crashed into the side of the bed, tangled in heat and motion. His chest pressed to mine, the dagger still caught between us, blade trembling against his skin, a hair's breadth from his chest.

His mouth hovered beside mine.

Not touching. Just breathing.

"You're shaking," he said, low and hungry. "Is it fear... or want?"

I turned my head, lips grazing his jaw.

"I'd rather die," I whispered, "than let you touch me."

He smiled, not cruel, not soft.

"But you already did."

And in that moment, we were frozen.

Cheek to cheek. Breath to breath. Blade at his chest and fire in my hands.

My hair had come loose. His fingers still gripped the back of my head. My thighs pressed to his hips, and I could feel everything.

The magic, the wetness, the tension, the pull all of it.