I can't focus. The words blur together, the same paragraph I've read three times now—something about a shadow king and a stolen kiss, but my brain refuses to cooperate. My eyes keep drifting from the page to the floor beside my chair, where he sits with his knees drawn up, arms resting on them, looking like a fallen angel who got bored halfway through the descent.
His jaw is tight. His fingers tap against his forearm. He hasn't looked at me in the last twenty minutes.
God, he's pretty when he's sulking. The collar of his black shirt is slightly undone, just enough to show the sharp line of his collarbone. His hair falls forward, hiding half his face, but I can still see the cut of his cheekbone, the way his lips press together like he's holding in a million sarcastic comments.
I sigh, loud enough to break the silence.
His head snaps toward me. Those crimson eyes narrow, wary, like he's bracing for my next command.
"I'm sleepyyyyy..." I let the word drag, stretching like a cat, and his expression flickers—something between irritation and disgust. He looks at me like he's picturing exactly how he'd bury me in the backyard if it wouldn't start a war.
I stand, stretch properly this time, and pad over to the massive bed. The sheets are cool against my legs as I slide under them, shifting until I'm comfortable, my head sinking into the pillow. I pat the empty space beside me.
He looks away. His jaw tightens again. He knows what I'm asking, and he's pretending he doesn't.
Is he actually mad at me?
I pout, even though he can't see it. "C'mere..."
"Vampires don't sleep at night." His voice is flat, clipped. He doesn't turn to look at me.
"It's an order." I let the words slide out sweetly, a smirk curling my lips.
He turns now. The glare he levels at me could strip paint. For a long beat, I think he's going to refuse—that he'll find some loophole, some technicality, something that lets him stay on that floor with his dignity intact.
But he rises. Slowly. Unfolding himself with that predator's grace, all lean muscle and barely leashed violence. He walks to the bed like he's approaching enemy territory.
His shirt is still rumpled, the dark fabric creased from kneeling all day. He hasn't changed. I wonder if he even owns anything besides black. The thought makes me smile, and he catches it, his eyes narrowing further.
"Won't you sleep beside me?" I ask, batting my lashes. Innocent. Pure.
He stares daggers at my face. I could carve my initials into that glare.
This is gonna be fun.
He stands rigid at the edge of the bed, hands in his pockets, every line of his body broadcasting refusal. I wait. I'm patient. I have all night. I got a full nap earlier.
"Get comfortable," I say, waving at the bed. "You're not gonna stand there like a gargoyle all night."
"I can stand wherever I like."
"Not anymore. You're my devoted servant, remember? That means you do what I say." I pat the pillow beside me again. "Come on. Lie down."
He doesn't move. His jaw works, muscles flexing under that pale skin. For a moment, I wonder if I've pushed too far. He could kill me. He could drain me dry and claim it was an accident. The thought sends a shiver down my spine—not entirely from fear.
But then he moves. He sits on the edge of the bed, stiff as a board, facing away from me. He doesn't lie down. He doesn't even take off his shoes.
"That's not lying down."
"It's the best you're getting."
I sigh theatrically and shuffle closer, propping myself up on an elbow. From this angle, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands are fisted in his pockets. He looks like he's holding himself together by sheer force of will.
"You know," I say, keeping my voice light, "you could just enjoy this. I'm warm. The bed's soft. I promise I don't bite." A pause. "Well, I do. But not tonight."
He doesn't respond. Doesn't even twitch.
"Eryth."
A muscle jumps in his jaw.
"Eryth." I say it softer this time, reaching out to touch his shoulder. He flinches away from my hand like I'm made of fire. I pull back, hurt flickering through me before I squash it. Right. He's not a pet. He's a 300-year-old vampire who's been forced into servitude by the taste of my blood. Of course he's going to resist.
The resentment in that flinch is sharper than any glare.
But I'm not giving up that easily.
I sit up fully, cross my legs, and pat the bed in front of me. "Come here."
He doesn't move. His shoulders are so tight they look carved from marble.
"Eryth. That wasn't a suggestion."
Slowly, he turns. His eyes are flat, unreadable. He looks at me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve—and failing. But he shifts, dragging himself up the bed until he's sitting cross-legged in front of me, arms crossed, face blank.
I smile. "Good boy."
The flash of fury in his eyes is almost worth the risk. His hands clench at his sides, knuckles white.
"That's not an order. That's a compliment." I tilt my head, studying him. "You really hate this, don't you? Being told what to do."
"I hate humans." His voice is low, venomous. "I hate being leashed. I hate—" He stops, cutting himself off. His eyes drop to my finger, the one where the papercut has already healed to a thin pink line. The hunger flickers across his face before he smothers it.
Ah.
"You hate wanting me," I finish for him.
He doesn't deny it. He just looks away, jaw locked.
The room goes quiet. Outside, the wind rattles the window. Somewhere in the estate, a door closes. I watch him breathe—shallow, controlled. He doesn't need to breathe. He's doing it because it's human, because it calms him.
"I'm not going to torture you," I say, softer than I meant to. "I know this is strange. I know you didn't ask for it. But you're not a prisoner, Eryth. You're my husband."
He scoffs. A bitter, ugly sound. "A technicality."
"A contract." I shrug. "But also a fact. And I'm not going to spend the rest of my life fighting with you. I'd rather..." I pause, searching for the right word. "Negotiate."
He looks at me again, sharp and searching. "Negotiate?"
"Yeah. You want my blood. I want..." I gesture vaguely. "Companionship. Someone to talk to. Someone who doesn't look at me like I'm a meal ticket."
He holds my gaze for a long moment. Something shifts in his expression—still guarded, but less hostile. Less reflexive.
"I'm not going to curl up next to you like a dog," he says flatly. "I have my limits."
"Fine. Then sit on the bed. Read. Stare at the ceiling. I don't care. Just... don't make me feel like I'm alone in this room."
He doesn't answer. But he doesn't leave either. He shifts, leaning back against the headboard, keeping distance between us. His arms stay crossed. His eyes fix on the window.
I lie back down, pulling the covers up to my chin. The mattress dips slightly under his weight, a warm presence at the edge of the bed.
It's not much. But it's something.
I close my eyes, listening to the sound of his breathing. It's slow. Measured. The breathing of someone who's learned to be patient across centuries.
"Goodnight, Eryth."
Silence. Then, so quiet I almost miss it:
"Goodnight, Ophelia."
I smile into the dark. Progress.