This story was set during the period after Steven Millan's exile from the Court of Contra Costa. Read the background for the events after Blood Choice.
Rebecca looked over at Steven; they had been working in the laboratory for several hours, experimenting with some ancient alchemical recipes he had dug out of the chantry library. He had gotten a couple to work, though one had failed in a spectacular fashion -- the remains of a beaker, tongs, a bunsen burner, and several other items which had been nearby were still cooling in a corner. The flames (blood red and black) had missed them both, but a shard of glass had laid open his cheekbone when one of the containers on the table had exploded from the heat. He had healed it up, absently, and only a slight smear of blood showed where the wound had been.
He still looked fairly neat, however, as they dismantled the apparatus and stowed it away. He made a few last comments in his notes and shut the book, then surveyed the lab one more time. Finally he looked over, his eyes flicking briefly over her to assess her condition. Satisfied, he nodded and turned toward the door; she followed him, closing the door behind her and ascending the steps.
As they came into the back halls of the chantry, she decided he had emerged enough from his almost trancelike concentration, and said quietly, "I had been wondering..."
He paused for only a second before responding, "Yes?"
The hall was dark; she spent a little effort to enhance her sight somewhat, still marveling at her newfound ability. "On that second potion, do you think it might not have been the right celestial alignment? There was that cryptic comment about Mars..."
Steven was silent for a moment, considering, then muttered something and quickened his step. He turned right, then climbed one of the many small staircases buried in the depths of the chantry. He emerged in a back hall on the second floor, passed two doors, then stopped in front of a third; after murmuring a phrase and passing his hand over the panels, he turned the knob, flipping on a light switch as he stepped through.
Rebecca paused in the doorway, realizing, as her eyes adjusted, that it was a room barely the size of a closet, but stuffed floor-to-ceiling with books. Steven was kneeling, looking over the shelves in the left corner; after a minute or so his hand darted out and caught up a small leatherbound book, about the size of a normal paperback. He stood and stepped out of the little closet, turning off the light and closing the door carefully behind him. He bowed a little to Rebecca as she got out of his way, and continued down the hall.
They climbed another staircase and walked a bit more; she began to realize where they were just as Steven stopped in front of another door and made a gesture over the lock. She was not surprised to see it open to reveal Steven's own chambers, illuminated by the desk lamp that he kept on while he was home.
It was to that lamp that he took the little book, flipping it open and turning carefully but quickly through its pages. He stopped searching after a moment and stood there, bent over the book, reading. Rebecca came over to him quietly and took a peek over his shoulder, trying to make out the crabbed handwriting in what might be Latin. After an attempt or two, she gave up, and her attention wandered. It struck her, suddenly, how still he was as he stood there: not breathing, not fidgeting, not even the hint of movement from a heartbeat -- he might have been a statue, or frozen in time within the lamplight.
She started a little when he stirred, shaking his head and turning a few more pages. "I can't tell exactly how much the celestial alignment would have been a factor -- this book isn't terribly specific on that count -- but I can research what alignment might be correct and try again." He closed the book and straightened, and she shook herself out of her eerie reflections. He turned and stood looking down at her, his face turned away from the light and his eyes in deep shadow; as she looked up, she felt the predator stirring in him, and a small thrill went through her at his proximity.
He moved to walk past her, and she put a hand on his arm, making him pause. In a low voice, she half-asked, "You're hungry."
"Yes." He didn't move, looking at her with mild curiosity.
She swallowed. "I have... recovered from last time."
Steven looked away, and moved over toward the door. "Unfortunately, as a ghoul, feeding off of you now is rather... unproductive. I would end up having to give you as much or more blood than I take." He set the book down on the table next to the door.
Rebecca frowned slightly, taken aback. "So... you won't be feeding from me anymore?"
"Not really, no." His voice was matter-of-fact.
She stood there for a moment, a little stunned, some mix of emotion swelling in her that she couldn't identify. Dimly, she could sense Steven turn and look at her, hear the edge of real concern when he asked, "Is something wrong?"
After a moment she managed to grasp words, though her voice was very soft. "You never told me that..." She realized that her hands were clenched into fists, and finally identified what she was feeling. Desire -- and anger. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes, trying to control the volatile emotions.
Steven's voice spoke very close to her, though she hadn't heard him move. "Does it matter so much?"
She let out the breath in a shuddering sigh. "Matter? You show me a sensation I never knew existed, gave me more pleasure than I have ever felt, and now you tell me I can't feel that anymore." She snorted. "I wish I could flatter myself and say that something like that doesn't matter to me... Yes, it does, at least somewhat."
He stroked her hair, tentatively. "It's not impossible."
She opened her eyes, staring at nothing and trembling a little, awareness of him making her breath come short. "I've never let myself be addicted to anything -- but I don't know whether I can face not feeling that again..." She closed her eyes again, feeling color rise in her face in shame.
Steven caressed her gently, then murmured, "I can still feed from you -- it simply won't be nourishing, or efficient... If it means that much to you, though, you don't need to give it up."
A surge of desire shook her, then her reason asserted itself. "I don't want to ask it of you if you aren't willing." She took a breath, taking control of herself, trying very hard to ignore the desperation welling up at the thought of never having that experience again. "I'll live."
He was silent for a moment, then spoke slowly, as though choosing his words very carefully. "It's not that I would be unwilling, just that I would have to get my sustenance elsewhere... and one of us would end up short of blood." He paused as she trembled, and he ventured, "If you want, I can still feed from you once in a while."
She clenched her fists again, fighting herself, torn between a need bordering on despair, and shame at the strength of it. After a few moments, she felt Steven's fingers under her chin, as he tipped her face up into the light. She met his eyes, and noticed them widen slightly as he saw the desperate unhappiness in hers. "Please..." she whispered, feeling her face burning again. She broke away from his fingers and turned her face away, deeply ashamed.
His voice was gentle, almost tender. "Here... sit down." She felt his arm around her, steering her to the edge of the bed. She sat, and he settled lightly beside her. His fingers brushed her cheek and neck as he gathered her hair away from her face -- she could feel something akin to electrical shocks every time he touched her, and she fought to breathe.
He bent to brush cool lips across her cheekbone, and she moaned and tipped her head back, chills running across her skin. She could feel his fingers in her hair, along her shoulder, cradling her as she went limp in his hold. His touch burned, and desire mingled with anticipation as she realized he was going to bite -- the thought brought a little thrill of fear, as it always did, sharpening the passion. A smaller fear, that she would want him never to stop, sparked deep in her thoughts, and was swept out of her grasp by his kisses on her neck and throat, soft as feathers.
Feeling slightly giddy, it wasn't until Steven paused and drew back a little that she realized she had said his name; she gathered her thoughts with an effort, finding the question that had flitted through her mind. The lingering fears gave her a hold on it, and allowed her to put the rest together.
Speaking was even harder. "Could you -- do you..." She remembered to breathe in, suddenly, and it cleared her head a little. "Would it be possible for you to... go slowly? I... I'm afraid I might... try to keep you from stopping, if... if you go fast, and--" she took a shaky breath "--I know how hard it can be for you to stop... Maybe -- I might want you to keep going less if it takes longer..."
It occurred to her that he hadn't said anything, and she was suddenly terrified that she had offended him somehow. She looked up at him, but his expression was impassive, unreadable as always, listening. She met his eyes for a split second, then ducked her head, muttering, "I'm sorry... I don't... never mind." Miserably, she wondered whether he'd change his mind, now, maybe send her out.
Gentle fingers smoothed her long hair back, and Steven murmured, "Rebecca." After a moment, he caught her chin and brought her around to face him, but she kept her eyes on his shirt.
"Rebecca." He lifted her chin, and she looked up hesitantly. His eyes were blue-grey and very soft, a little worried as they met hers. The worry eased as he read her expression, and he smiled slightly; "I can go slowly, yes, if that is what you want." His fingers stroked along her jawline, and she caught her breath, moving with his caress; she nodded, slightly, and saw his smile widen a tiny bit.
He bent to kiss her neck again, then drew back and began unbuttoning her shirt. Rebecca used the time to breathe as he unfastened the top two buttons; she was getting used to this, since he had done it before to gain better access. After a moment, though, she realized that he was working on the third, and then the fourth...
The last small button released under deft fingers, and he eased the shirt back over her shoulders, kissing the base of her neck, her shoulder. She tilted her head back and closed her eyes, her chest tight with anticipation as she waited for his mouth on her throat.
She felt him kiss just below the point of her shoulder, and gasped at the unexpected stab of pain as he sank his teeth in, moaning softly when the pleasure followed in its wake. She went limp, his hands gripping her firmly, supporting her; the sensation lasted for only a moment, and she could feel, through the lingering warmth, his tongue running over the wound, the slight tingle as it closed.
A second passed, and she felt him bite deep into the join of her neck and shoulder. Her back arched, the tightening of his grip lost in the surge of ecstasy that filled her. This one seemed to last longer, and had hardly started to fade when he bit her under the chin. She moaned, barely aware of him pulling away until she felt him bite again, then again, the sensation building and intensifying until she started to lose herself in it.
She opened her eyes, blinked a little at the ceiling -- she hadn't remembered lying down -- and looked at him where he was poised over her, licking a wound below her shoulder. He looked up as he finished; his expression was feral, predatory. Elongated canines, their tips just hidden, gleamed red between lips parted in a fierce snarl. A thrill of mingled fear and desire lanced through her while he regarded her, her blood on his fangs, and she shivered as he moved up, eyes still locked with hers. She broke his gaze and arched her back again, exposing her neck to him, and a moment later she felt him strike, burying his teeth in her throat. She moaned again, and relaxed as the ecstasy rose up, carrying her on its tide as Steven's lips nuzzled at her blood. She abandoned herself to the sensation, letting it carry her away.
Steven caught himself, pulling away a little and running his tongue over the wound in her throat, savoring her sweetness spiced with the potency of Kindred blood. The lust ran high in him, and he reined it in with a practiced hand, telling himself that that was enough; he would have to feed her again as it was, and she would still be short most of what he had taken.
He drew back, controlling the urge to take more from the smooth, fair body under him. She didn't stir, and he frowned a little, then looked at her face, still tilted far back. Her expression was blissful, her eyes closed -- but she still didn't move, and a sense of alarm began to grow in him. Ten years told him that he hadn't taken too much, but seeing her unconscious, with her blood still sweet on his tongue, pierced him with a sense of nightmare. He put a hand under her ear: her skin was warm, and he found a pulse under his fingers, slowing now but still strong. As he watched, her chest rose and fell slightly.
Steven let out a breath he didn't remember taking, no longer wondering how fast he could get to her chambers to get the tiny bottle of healing elixir. Concern took the place of near-panic, and he took her head in his hand, easing it into a more natural position. As his hand moved from the back of her neck to brush across her temples, she stirred a tiny bit, leaning into his touch. He froze, then relaxed a little more as she sighed softly and resettled her head in the comforter.
Noting the small smile that curled at the edges of her lips, Steven reflected that she could almost be in a pleasant dream, asleep. He had barely finished the thought before she inhaled deeply and opened her eyes, blinking dazedly. Her contented smile grew, and she closed her eyes again.
Worried that she might drift off, he ran gentle fingers over her temples again and said quietly, "Rebecca?"
"Mmm?" Her eyebrows rose a little in inquiry, but she didn't open her eyes.
His voice carried an edge of his worry. "Are you all right?"
"Mmm." She drew a deep breath and opened her eyes, smiling sleepily up at him. She blinked a few times, then stretched languidly, looking a little more alert after she finished. He repeated the question, and her smile broadened. "Oh, yes..." Her breath caught, and she let it out hard, trembling a little. "I'm quite all right." She really looked at him then, and her gaze sharpened, some of the warm contentment going out of her voice. "Why?"
"You were unconscious... You're sure you're all right?" Steven looked her over carefully, not seeing anything obviously wrong with her.
Her gaze dropped as she considered. "I feel fine... I remember..." She paused, nostrils flaring as her breath caught again, then let out a shaky sigh. "It was so intense... I lost everything else -- there was only the feeling." She looked up at him again, the shadow of a blush coloring her cheeks. "I must have fainted."
He snorted, turning his head a little to hide his relief. "So you're all right, then." At her nod, his tension eased, and he allowed himself a small chuckle at the thought of her falling into a swoon like some romance-novel heroine.
Rebecca saw the ironic grin tug at his mustache, and blushed harder as she guessed what he was thinking. After a moment he turned back to her; she moved to sit up, but he laid a hand on her chest. "Not yet -- you need some of my blood."
She lay back again, his words making her suddenly nervous. She was still uncomfortable with the idea of drinking his blood, though it gave her a rush like pure energy. He averted his head momentarily, then bent over her, leaning on one elbow, and kissed her.
It was not a gentle kiss; it was firm and commanding, taking hold of her as surely as his grip on her arm. His tongue slipped between her lips, and she tasted blood, first a little, then more. Bewildered, she swallowed involuntarily, and moments later felt the familiar drug-high of vitae. The hunger took hold, and she began to kiss back, letting the cool drops slide down her throat.
Her eyes closed, she relaxed, letting her own tongue explore a little. His fangs had retracted; curious, she tested them, feeling the sharp points on his canines. His mouth was very cool, almost cold, and coppery-sweet with blood, his and her own. The sensuality of his lips on hers, of his mustache surprisingly soft on her cheek, combined with the rush of the blood, warming her; she reached up and buried her hand in the hair at the nape of his neck, loosening his tail still further.
After a long, long moment, Steven pulled away, shivering a little with the effort, nostrils flaring. Rebecca moved a few inches with him, her effort mirroring his; she shuddered after a moment and fell back, her blood-hunger subsiding.
Steven's mouth worked as he licked the bite on his tongue, closing it, and he rose, offering her a hand as he stood. She took it and sat up carefully, feeling the semi-familiar lightheadedness of blood loss. Looking up, she saw him watching her intently, concern marring his usual neutral expression; she gave him a small smile, and he seemed reassured.
She spent a minute to button her shirt, and as she finished, he offered his hand again. After a moment, she put her hand in his and was pulled gently to her feet; he supported her as she swayed, holding her against his shoulder. The dizziness passed after a moment, and her vision cleared, but she leaned against him a little longer. Her eyes strayed to the clock, and she made a rapid calculation -- the sun would be rising very soon. She raised her eyes, looking him over; his face was a little drawn, seeming older around the eyes, showing his growing fatigue. His gaze stayed on her, making his own assessment.
"I should go." She moved away, and he moved with her, keeping a light hand on her elbow.
"Here, let me walk you to your room." He shadowed her to the door and opened it for her, solicitous as always. She didn't protest, knowing that otherwise he would worry about her, fearing she would hurt herself if she got dizzy and fell. She took surreptitious glances at him out of the corner of her eye as they walked, noticing how the smudge of blood on his cheek stood out against his skin, paler than her own. Fatigue always seemed to emphasize the fact that he was not a living creature; he looked proud and alien, barely human. She shivered a little.
He escorted her the few corridors to her door, and stayed as she opened it. She turned to him where he stood wearily, and realized that the sun must be peeking over the horizon. "Go," she said gently, knowing that he would put her into bed if she didn't send him away, no matter how tired he was. "You need to rest. I'll be fine."
He hesitated, torn, but it was a short struggle. He bowed a little to her, saying softly, "Good night." She swallowed an ironic smile at that, and answered simply, "Good night." He bowed again, then turned and made his way down the hall.
She closed the door and contemplated her bed, then picked up her book from the bedside table and settled down to read by lamplight.