“I wasn’t skulking,” I mutter weakly, leaning the uninjured side of my face against the crook of his neck.
He inhales deeply.
It triggers Tyree’s earlier words. “Can you smell our blood from across the room?”
“That is an exaggeration.”
“But it’s true?”
“Yes.”
“What does it smell like?” All I think about is the office in the back of the warehouse, with sprays of blood across the walls and a metallic tinge in the air.
“It’s a honeyed scent, with a hint of spice. Like neroli oil from the orange blossom.”
“So, it’s pleasant?”
He inhales again, as if prompted to do so. “Enough talking. You’re in pain.”
I am in pain. “How did he do so much damage with one hit?”
“You are weaker than my kind, but you are far from weak.”
I don’t feel strong right now. I focus on my breathing, anxious for any relief Wendeline might provide.
Zander slows and maneuvers me in his arms. A loud click and bang sounds, followed by the grating sound of stone.
I sense us stepping through another doorway, punctuated by the same stone sliding back into place. It reminds me of the church pew in the sanctum, grinding across the floor.
“Do not speak of what Tyree told you. To anyone. I must think first.”
I hum my agreement as we ascend stairs that I sense are steep and winding. I keep waiting for Zander’s pace to slow, his breathing to falter, but there is no sign of fatigue as we go up … up … up.
Zander fidgets with another lever. A clunk and thud of mechanics click into place, and then we’re stepping into a bedchamber.
Mybedchamber.