Page 53 of The Pureblood Princess
They approach a stairwell at the end of the hallway—the stairwell Marek led her up on her way to the dining room—and Konrád steps aside before gesturing for her to lead the way. She begins to slowly ascend, using the banister for support. Konrád is close behind her—tooclose—but she swallows down her unease, distracting herself with the door at the top of the stairwell. Reaching it, she grips the cold iron handle and pushes the heavy door open.
Moonlight spills across her face, and her eyelids flutter closed. She takes a breath of relief, and it’s as if the moonlight is somehow replenishing, nourishing even. How many days has it been since she’s felt the sunlight on her skin?
Konrád places a hand on the small of her back, and she jerks forward, away from his touch. Marek’s presence is neutral, if not a bit comforting, but Konrád’s presence is the very opposite, and she wants his hands nowhere near her.
Her slippers kiss smooth tile as she steps into the vestibule. There’s a door directly before her, and the staircase continues up another floor to her right before becoming obscured by shadow.High above, a window lets the moonlight in, and she wishes she could break free into the night and allow its silver glow to wash over her.
“Through the door,” Konrád says behind her, and she obeys, albeit somewhat hesitantly, opening the door and stepping through into yet another corridor. There are four doors in this hallway, and he motions her to the one at the far end.
The manor is cold and quiet, as if no one lives here, and she very suddenly wishes not to take a single step closer to that room. But Konrád lingers over her shoulder, his too-close proximity urging her on. And so she walks, each step feeling heavier than the last, wondering what fate might await her behind that door.
Unable to bring herself to open it, she stands there mute and frozen, staring at the whorls of color in the rich wood. With an aggravated sigh, Konrád reaches around her and grips the door handle. His scent washes over her, light and clean, and her thirst rears its head, sudden and overwhelming.
Before she can think to stop herself, she’s lunging for Konrád’s wrist, hungering for the small flash of skin where his jacket sleeve is pulled back just slightly. Her fangs are already reaching for him, ready to strike. But the tips of her pointed canines scarcely skim his pale flesh before he yanks her head back with his free hand and smashes her body against the still-closed door.
“I think not, Miss Magdalena,” he whispers into her ear, his mouth much too close to her face, his warm breath washing over her. “You are going to behave yourself, or you’re going right back down to the basement, and I’ll not speak a word of the viscount to you. Do you understand?”
She doesn’t respond. He’s still crushing her against the wood, his body warm and firm behind her, and his scent swirls in the air between them, driving her mad. If not for his fingersclutching her hair, she’d certainly lunge for him again. She needs his blood, needs to drink, needs to soothe the aching rawness in her throat.
After a moment of silence in which she imagines the rapture of drinking from him, he gives her hair a harsh tug, and she yelps at the pain that sings through her skull. Her neck is exposed to him, and she realizes with clarity how easy it would be for him to sink his fangs in deep and drain her of every drop of blood she has.
So, is this it? Is this how Dorota Kazamir plans to do away with her?
Was the boy a warning?
She hears his head hitting the stone, remembers the glassines in his eyes, and a shiver goes across her skin. The thirst momentarily leaves her mind, replaced by the need for self-preservation.
She cannot die here. She must get back to Theodore.
If he still wants me.
“Do you understand?” Konrád asks again. “Or should we turn around and take you back?”
“I understand,” she whispers, though it’s hard to speak with her face crushed against the door.
“If you attempt that again,” he says, his lips still near her ear, “I won’t be so nice.”
He eases up, loosening his hold on her hair, and Nadia swallows hard, trying to keep the thirst at bay. Watching her closely, Konrád finally grabs the handle and shoves the door open to reveal an intimate parlor.
The walls are papered, and the brightness of the candles flickering in the chandelier makes Nadia lift a hand and flinch away from the light.
“Take a seat, Miss Magdalena,” Konrád says, moving past her and entering the parlor.
Briefly, she considers turning and making a run for it, but there are so many doors and hallways, so many nooks in which to get cornered. Would her legs even carry her far enough to get away, or would she first collapse of exhaustion?
“Sit, Miss Magdalena,” Konrád says, and this time his voice is harder, painted with warning. He watches her with sharp blue eyes, and she knows she could never outrun him—not with how weak she is.
So, with a slight nod, she resigns herself and walks deeper into the room.
The parlor is furnished with plush upholstered armchairs and sofas, all draped in sumptuous fabrics of forest green and deep blue. The upholstery is adorned with tufted buttons, and the woodwork features delicate hand-carved details. A circular mahogany coffee table stands in the center of the room, upon which a few carefully arranged porcelain teacups and saucers sit, ready for afternoon or evening tea.
Nadia takes a seat in an armchair, thinking it best that Konrád not be able to sit beside her. He’s across the room at a liquor cart pouring two glasses of what smells like sherry, given the aroma of roasted nuts, caramel, and fruit. The armchair is soft and forgiving beneath her, and the room is much warmer than what she now knows to be the basement. It begins to chase some of the cold from her bones, though she resists the urge to fully relax into its embrace. Konrád isnotto be trusted; she knows this deep in her gut, in that place that always speaks the truth.
Konrád walks back toward her, now holding two crystal glasses filled with dark amber liquid. He offers one to Nadia, his expression softer now, his earlier aggression momentarily replaced by a façade of politeness.
Nadia takes the glass with a trembling hand, her fingers barely touching Konrád’s as she accepts the drink. She brings itto her lips and takes a sip, and the sweet warmth of the sherry soothes some of her thirst and heats her from the inside out.
Sighing, she leans back into the armchair, lost momentarily in the delight of the alcohol.
