The Blood Ruby (The Arcane Artifacts #2)

Chapter 13 - Laurent's Mistake

Laurent dropped to his knees, Lily's body cradled in his arms. She was still unconscious. He gently set her on the foyer floor. It took effort to keep from curling protectively around her, guarding the blood that seeped from her wounds. It was a siren's klaxon in a household full of vampires, especially in her weakened state. He'd destroy anyone who took a step in her direction. Kian, Lixin, Marco, Vittorio, and Zola hovered in his peripherals.

"Out," he roared. They might have been his family, but he was seconds from losing it. All he saw were threats.

Kian and Lixin were the first to disappear. Vittorio and Zola hesitated, then they, too, were gone. Marco took a step towards him.

He lifted his head, bearing his teeth, a growl rising in his throat.

"I know what you are thinking, Sire. The risk is too high."

"You dare?" He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt rage like this. "You dare?!" he snarled again. Marco flinched. "I gave you one job, Marco. One fucking job." Marco had already explained exactly what had gone wrong. He didn't care. "You failed. We wouldn't be in this situation, otherwise."

But that wasn't entirely true, either. He couldn't admit that. Not right now.

"You feed her your blood, Sire, enough to keep her alive, and the addiction that follows, the secrets she'll carry..."

"I know exactly what I'm doing," he roared.

Marco swallowed, then nodded. "Then let it be my blood, Sire, or Zola's, or anyone who carries less than you—"

"No," he snapped. "She'll have mine. Mine alone."

Marco gave a jerk of his head. "I can stay—"

"Leave," he hissed.

Marco fled.

Only then did he strip away the hospital gown. She'd been naked when he had found her. He'd seen the ruin of her body. Smelled the rancid scent of her urine and feces. They'd left her on a surgery table, tethered and broken like an animal.

She'd been that way for nearly seventy-two hours. The time it had taken to locate their compound and construct a plan to retrieve her. He'd called in every fucking favor he was owed, and then some.

It had been many, many years since his last fit of rage—seventeenth century, sometime, when Berric had been murdered. Seeing her there, so close to death, clinging to life when most humans wouldn't have. He'd let his rage overpower him then, and ripped every fucking witch to shreds, not a single one left alive. He'd burned the vials of blood they'd taken.

Now he took stock of her, lying on the marble floor, her chest barely rising and falling. Even the sound of her labored breaths—he looked at her ribs, careful not to touch—made his gut clench. Dark bruises fanned out over her chest. Broken ribs, most likely.

A knife twisted his insides. Guilt? No. He shoved it down. He was above this. Guilt was for weaker creatures. He'd killed twenty-nine amplifiers. There'd been no guilt then. There should be none now.

But...he'd never made them suffer.

This was...she'd suffered...she'd hurt. Because of him. Because he'd underestimated Dominic's power.

He lifted his wrist, snarling before biting ruthlessly into it. Blood oozed, rushing from his veins. He let it drip over the worst of her wounds, let it come into contact with her open flesh, speeding her healing.

They'd branded her. They'd fucking branded her with their disgusting witch mark. His vision tunneled, seeing only that, until red spots filled his eyes. He dripped his blood over it, watching as it did nothing to fix it.