Page 75 of Bitten By Mr. Darcy
“I shall give you seventeen or seventy-five or any number between,” he said.
And he took her to bed and sank one very sharp fang into the tip of her breast, which always made her crest nearly immediately, and the sensation of him latching there, suckling at her, taking her blood, it was dizzyingly and transgressively good.
Yes, she wanted seven more years of that, of her blood sustaining her husband, of their bond, of the way he looked at her when he scented her blood, of his mouth between her thighs, of histeethbetween her thighs.
She had them.
She had nine years, in fact, before she was finally ready.
For at the end of the seven years, she felt a panic that began to steal into her as she thought of the impending end, of her human life ending, of being turned and losing the sun, ceasing to age… She wanted it, but the finality of it, it frightened her.
So, she delayed again.
And then, one day, when she was almost thirty, she woke one morning at Pemberley, where they were staying because she did love it here, and because her husband was always happy to indulge her, and she did not think of it in that way for the first time.
She did not think of all the things she would be losing, but all the things she would be gaining. Every day she delayed was a day that led her further and further from doing it. If she waited too long, maybe she would decide not to turn at all and she knew she did not wish to grow old and see her ageless husband stay the same while she wrinkled and faded and declined.
She had never had children. She honestly could not say that she would have done that any other way, though. She loved her nieces and nephews dearly, but she did not have the desire to have her own children in the same way that others did, and she didn’t know why exactly. It could be that having this knowledge of her impending immortality had wiped it away somehow. She did not need to leave something behind of herself, not if she wasn’t going to die.
But she thought it might have been something else, something inside her, something that was a bit independent and adventurous. Motherhood would require sacrifices of her, and she was not sure if she could give them. Perhaps it wouldn’t be fair to bring children into the world if she could not devote herself to them the way that they would deserve.
Whatever the case, she felt more concern over the fact that she didn’t miss children than she did over actually thinkingabout children. She worried there was something missing in her, some vital feminine part, for weren’t all women supposed to desperately desire babes?
The fact that she didn’t, however, only made things easier for her when she asked her husband to turn her.
He’d been right. Time had worked its magic on them. She was no longer insecure about her husband’s devotion to her. She knew how much he adored her. And he was no longer worried that she would miss her human life or feel deprived for being with him. They’d had years to come to understand each other.
They did it at Pemberley, but first they expanded the chambers, covering up the windows of an adjoining set of rooms for her, and adding a sitting room as well, so that they would have more space to be together.
Miss Darcy had little use for Pemberley herself, since her husband was a baron with his own vast estates. Since Elizabeth loved Pemberley so, Mr. Darcy had used some of his own money to purchase it from Miss Darcy with her blessing. It would be their home for years and years to come.
She wasn’t frightened, even as her husband drained her and drained her and even as her body grew weak, as her life waned and waned until it was only a thread holding her to her mortal life, as that final thread snapped.
Darkness enveloped her then, and pain as well, but she had her husband’s blood in her, and she was already changing. She had only to drink human blood after this, and the change was complete.
Mr. Darcy groused that the country was a terrible place to find people to drink, and she had to admit that there was something appealing about the anonymity of people leaving taverns, as her husband had pointed out.
She was the most nervous about that. Mr. Darcy had told her that her personality might change after she was turned, and shehad fears of becoming ever so bloodthirsty and awful. What if she liked the blood too much? What if she killed someone?
For her husband had told her that accidents happened, especially to new vampires, and she was very worried that she would end a life. She did not know if she could forgive herself such a thing.
However, the first time went easily.
She bit her maid. Mr. Darcy said she could do it once, and he would teach her to charm afterwards. But one could not charm a servant over and over, of course. Once was permissible, however, and it was better to do it in the confines of Pemberley since she was just turned.
She realized at once that it would not be so easy to kill someone. She was sated, as her husband had promised, after a small drink, and that to keep going would be to glut herself, to be greedy in a way that was simply not in her nature.
And then she had been worried about the severing of her bond with her husband, but this turned out not to be much of a worry either, for there were temporary bonds between vampires, borne of blood sharing.
Now, they could bite each other, after all, and she found herself endlessly intrigued with all of the spots on her husband’s body where she could fit her teeth. She liked to lie in his arms, his body cradling hers like a large spoon, and to pull his hand and wrist to her lips to kiss and take little draws of blood from. She liked to straddle him, bending down to bite his clavicle, his neck, his stubbled chin. She liked it when they kissed, for both of them to use their fangs on each other’s tongues and lips.
They drank each other’s blood daily.
The bond did not sever.
So, all was well.
And the years went on after this.
