Beyond Blood

Down the Rabbit Hole

Sexual Content Warning

There's a thrill in being shown something in yourself you never knew could exist

Chapter 9: Down the Rabbit Hole

Taran passed me a tissue, and I quickly set about doing my best to wipe my mouth clean of blood, avoiding the smugness of his gaze the entire time.

The hunger that had driven me to bite Wren had twisted into deep disgust.

“There’s no reason to be ashamed,” he crooned. “Many humans enjoy the taste of us nearly much as we do them.”

“I don’t enjoy it,” I replied with a frown.

Couldn’t he see I was queasy? Couldn’t he see the very thought brought a wave of unease? Unease that had me frantically making sure I’d scrubbed every last drop away, my tongue swirling around my mouth in an attempt to rid it of the metallic aftertaste.

Amused, Taran plucked the used tissue from my fingers and took a few slow steps back to drop it in the bin. “You do enjoy it, when you’re not thinking about exactly what it is you’re drinking.” He smirked when I lifted my head to argue, returning to press two fingers against my parted lips. “I am in no mood to argue. If you are feeling brazen enough to bite a vampire, then I’m not yet done with you. Do as I say, and I promise you’ll be a content little mouse when I allow you to have a nap.”

“I. . . I don’t need a nap,” I stammered uselessly, nervous and unsure of his intentions.

“You will.” The ravenous glint in his eyes held dark promise. Stepping back again, he put a foot of space between us and folded his hands behind his back, his expression calculating as he asked, “Do you remember that time in my office when I asked if you would kneel at my feet?”

I nodded.

He chuckled, and the sound sent a bolt between my legs.

“I thought you were going to clutch your pearls or slap me,” he teased.

“I remember,” I remarked dryly.

“Good. Kneel, Little Mouse.” He motioned to the small dark rug covering the hardwood floor beside his bed. “Right there. Eyes down.”

I spluttered.

I’d said I wanted to know what went on behind the red door, but if this was it – humans kneeling subservient before vampires – I wasn’t sure I wanted to. I wasn’t sure my pride would let me. The thought of doing so was demeaning. . .so why could I feel my hands flatten against the mattress to slide me off the bed?

Even if I’d wanted to stand, slap Taran, and leave, the weight of his gaze forced me to my knees just as well as his hand on my shoulder would have. It wasn’t graceful; certainly wasn’t sexy. My hip audibly clicked once my knees touched the rug, and I had to take more than one fortifying breath before I could bring myself to tear my gaze from his and look down, my hands settling instinctually on my lap. Even when the most I could see was the rug and the toes of Taran's black biker boots, I could feel his eyes heating my flesh, assessing, debating, waiting. . .

The longer the silence dragged on, the more my inner thoughts fought the way my body reacted. I couldn’t deny the quickening of my breath had less to do with any indignation, and more to do with the throbbing making itself known between my legs, and the excitement building in my veins. I’d expected to feel degraded, my mind told me I should be; that I should be ashamed, debased, humiliated, not preening when a low hum of approval left Taran’s chest.