Page 22 of Blood Vows
He didn’t speak again for a while after his unexpected compliment, and I could tell he regretted letting it slip. He leaned back in his chair, glass in hand, eyes on the flickering candles as if they held all the answers he wasn’t willing to give me. His expression had shifted back into that familiar, unreadable mask, but there was something else there, too. A flicker of discomfort.
The silence stretched between us, too intimate, too revealing, until finally he said, almost abruptly,
“Would you like a tour of the house?” I blinked, startled by the change in tone.
“A tour?” He nodded, setting his glass down with deliberate calm.
“Of the areas I will allow you to see at least.” I couldn’t help it as my lips parted into a smile, the kind that made my heart feel lighter than it should.
“You’d really show me around?” The hopefulness in my voice was easy to hear.
“Only the parts that won’t make you run screaming,” he murmured dryly, though I thought I saw the faintest twitch of humor at the corner of his mouth as he teased me.
“Well, in that case, I will pass on the basement then, so no need to hide all the dead bodies on my account.” I bantered back with a chuckle, making him smirk.
After dessert, he rose from his seat and extended his hand toward me. I looked down at it. The sight of those strong fingers and the faint gleam of candlelight along his skin made my stomach twist with something warm and uncertain.
When I hesitated, he tilted his head slightly, his voice dropping to that smooth, teasing rumble,
“I won’t bite you.” A laugh escaped me before I could stop it, the sound soft and nervous.
“That’s something coming from a vampire. I bet there aren’t many you’ve said that to.” For a heartbeat, I wondered if I’d gone too far. But to my relief, he gave a low sound that might have been a laugh or maybe it was a growl softened by amusement. Either way, it made my pulse skip.
“No…” he said, still holding out his hand,
“…There is only you.”The words hit deeper than I expected. A confession wrapped in jest, a truth disguised in shadows. Before I could overthink it, he reached for me, taking my hand and helping me to my feet. I moved too quickly, and my balance betrayed me, stumbling slightly into him. His free hand came up to steady my waist, the heat of his palm searing through the thin fabric of my dress.
For a moment, we stood there, closer than we should have been, his breath brushing against my temple. It was too easy to imagine what might happen if I looked up, if he didn’t step away.
But he did.
“Shall we?” he said, the words a low rumble that lingered longer than they should have.
I nodded, and together we left the dining room, his tall frame leading the way down long corridors that felt steeped in history and silence.
I wondered if the manor came alive differently at night, or if it was always like this. Shadows that pooled in corners and climbed the high ceilings. A darkness that seemed to drape over portraits of long-dead ancestors. All those eyes that seemed to follow our every step like silent witnesses to secrets better left buried. I questioned if the daylight would soften its edges and breathe some life into its stone walls. Something I wouldn’t know yet, having not left my room all day.
The air carried the faint scent of wax and old wood, and every creak beneath our feet felt like the house itself was whispering its history. He showed me the drawing room first, its grand piano covered in a thin layer of dust, the sheet music still open as though someone had played it and never returned. A sitting room followed, with faded drapes and untouched furniture that looked as if no one had sat there in decades. Each room was beautiful, but frozen, caught in a moment that time itself had forgotten.
“It’s like walking through history,” I said softly.
He gave a quiet hum in response.
“Perhaps,” he murmured, his eyes tracing the shadows along the walls.
“…Or through ghosts.”He added quietly, and there was something in the way he said it. A depth that reached beyond the stone walls and ancient portraits. And for the briefest moment, I wondered if he wasn’t speaking of the house at all, but of himself. Like the ghosts he carried within.
We passed more rooms, each more breathtaking and melancholier than the last. But then, as he opened the next set of tall double doors, I gasped.
The library.
It was magnificent.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls, filled with books of every size and age. A rolling ladder leaned against one end, and at the centre stood a vast mahogany desk littered with ancient tomes, their spines cracked and well-loved. Above us, a chandelier hung low, casting warm golden light across the spines, turning the entire room into a cathedral of knowledge.
“Oh…It’s incredible,”I breathed, stepping inside.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” I admitted as I turned in a circle, trying to take it all in. He watched me from the doorway, his expression unreadable, but his eyes tracking everymovement I made as if I were the most fascinating thing in the room.
