Vacivitas

Chapter Thirty-One

His feeding is ravenous, like he hasn't eaten in weeks. When she whimpers at the feeling of his tongue against the bite holes, he lifts her with one arm and sets her on the table. She gasps when he reaches behind her to sweep her plate, cup, and silverware onto the floor, where the porcelain and glass shatter. Her mind is spinning.

What is he doing ?

She cries out when he rips his mouth out of her wrist and slams her flat on the tabletop with his hand on her chest. Her blood drips down her forearm, into the crease of her elbow when she grabs onto the fabric of his shirt. As he reaches between them to yank her jumper up to her chest, standing between her legs, Hermione tries to ask him what's going on, but she can't. Nothing comes out except another gasp.

It's now when she glances down and sees several violent, wide gashes through the rips in his shirt. Blood still drips from them, soaking his shirt and the fabric on her leggings on her inner thighs. He's hurt. Which explains why he's here, drinking her blood so voraciously like this.

When he licks a stripe from the top of her belly button up to the skin between her breasts, she realizes things are getting confusing. His long fingers grab her waist and drag her closer, causing her jumper to lift even higher. His mouth covers the peak of her breast through her bra, sending lightning straight to her core. She cries out again, her back arching up into his mouth. His hands come up to her bra, tearing it down the center and then, before she realizes what's happening, he sinks his fangs into the swell of her breast.

She moans so loud, it echoes off the ceiling.

Hermione locks her ankles behind his hips, pulling him closer to her core so she can rub herself up against him. Her mind has gone blank, all the stars having gone out with the sting of his bite and the ensuing torrent of desire that's consuming her. Every roll of her hips has her panting, especially when his hands go to her hips and hold her in place so he can grind against her, too.

"Fuck," Malfoy hisses, his tongue stroking from the wound to her nipple and around in circles. "So good. Tastes so fucking good."

What the Hell is happening in the damn tearoom?!

She tries once again to speak but whatever's wrapped around her throat tightens, and words are arrested. Blocked from coming out. Her attempts at words come out as stammered moans interspersed with whines. Her heart sinks, tendrils of dread inching through her stomach, slicing through the delirium of the arousal.

Something's wrong with her. Something isn't right, but he doesn't seem to notice. He's barely speaking. He's just feeding. Drinking. Devouring.

The necklace won't let her disobey him.

Then, right as his fingers are tugging at the waistband of her leggings, he jerks away from her, clutching his forearm. She can't see beneath his long sleeves, but she knows what it is. She knows, and she can't help but feel relieved.

He's being summoned.

"Fuckin' Hell," he growls. "I've got to go."

Hermione lays there, her bare, bloody chest heaving as he gives her one last longing look and then, without another word, he Disapparates. She sits up slowly, pulling her jumper down gingerly over her wounded chest, her skin still singing with the ghost of his tongue. She holds the emerald pendant in her hand, her worry eclipsing any lingering arousal.

It can't possibly be from him. He would never do this to her. He would never make her unable to speak, unable to consent.

Would he?

-

Oh, Gods.

Hermione wakes with a painful vise clamping in her lower body, twisting and curling and pulling tight. She clutches her abdomen and rushes to the loo, where she sees blood on her thighs.