He rubbed the bridge of his nose between the eyes with a sigh and breathed in the scent of rain-soaked lilies—even the air had turned against him.

  Sullivan—valiantly—staved off the syrupy sweetness of Aleiya’s mana. Or so he told himself. But it was so very hard when she was draped across his chest, drenching his senses with…

  He quietly cleared his throat. No need to finish that thought.

  Sullivan continued reading, ignoring the delicate weight of her hand on his other shoulder.

  Dina, in all her nosy investigations, had uncovered the real problem underneath the leaking port. If it ruptured completely, it could compromise the entire leyline.

  A “catastrophe waiting to happen”.

  What she didn’t mention, likely because she had yet to get an interview with him directly, was that it would take the dam’s stabilizers with it.

  Not to mention his reputation and standing within the Grand Assembly. Magnus and his sycophants were already circling like vultures. Even the Vampiric Court, full of silk-tongued parasites, would welcome his downfall with open arms and sharpened teeth.

  Sullivan was trapped.

  He couldn’t force the refugees away. Not when they clung to that leaking port like a hearth—like the last ember of fire in the middle of a howling blizzard.

  How could he?

  It offered warmth. Sometimes even healing, in small miraculous doses—mana-dry bones eased, wounds stitched overnight by radiant drift. But the sickness always followed. Premature births. Chronic illnesses. Hallucinations so vivid they left claw marks on their bodies.

  And the optics…

  He could already see the headlines now.

  LORD OF LEECHES EXPELS ENCAMPMENTS

  Drakovich Turns on the Desperate

  Dina would have the whole city crucify him.

  She wouldn’t even need to write the article—just print the photo. He could already see her at the editorial table, growling with all the fury of a righteous beast. That bleeding heart of hers would have him mounted on a spike before sunset and call it justice.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  He folded the paper and tossed it back onto his desk. He tapped the armrest of his chair as if the answer might be buried in the plastic. He needed solutions, but those too were in short supply.

  His wife shifted ever so slightly in his arm, her head now on his shoulder. The ghost of her breath caressed his neck. The flowers in Aleiya’s hair brushed his cheek, the scent of rain-soaked lilies enveloped him.

  It was pleasant. A needed reprieve from the weight he was made to bear alone.

  Whether he wanted it or not, her presence quietly soothed the fire in his hands.

  The sound of her breath was a sweet reprieve from the monotonous, hollow ticking of his wristwatch.

  He was getting lost in the rhythm of her heart beat against his chest.

  Slow.

  Steady.

  Calming.

  Intoxicating.

  The way her tiny silhouette perfectly molded to him. The soft curve of her thighs on his lap, her warmth pressed, seeping, sinking into his bones. She was so small that if it weren’t for her quiet breaths ghosting over his skin, he’d have forgotten she was even there.

  Without his notice, his head forgot itself, and rested his cheek on her hair.

  He took in a deep, heady breath and let it go.

  The wisps of exhaustion hanging, creeping, slowly, ever so slowly, snipped the threads of his self-control.

  One.

  String.

  At a time.

  His vision blurred, then cleared, then blurred as he fluttered his eyes closed, the sensation of her becoming that much stronger.

  He could hear the blood rushing through her veins. Each pulse point felt like a needle against his skin.

  What would it taste like?

  Smell like?

  Feel like between his teeth?

  Her mana that saturated the air grew thicker, tangible. The thought of its flavor cloying at him, luring him, testing him as he tried but failed to chase the thoughts of her away.

  And with every failure, the hunger whispered—again, and again, and again.

  It only made the memory of the reception so much more vivid. The same delicate scent, her precious little moan that seeped into his mouth.

  The only mouth that ever had the pleasure of swallowing the sound.

  His fangs ached, agony not far behind, as his gums stung—receding, begging to drench his teeth in her. He wanted to take her into his arms and steal every breath with his lips. He would do so much more to her than just a kiss if she allowed it.

  And she would.

  He was certain of it.

  All he needed to do was ask.

  He could convince her, surely.

  His bare hand had already pushed the fabric of her dress far up her thigh. He didn’t remember placing it there. Yet, somehow, the very concept of clothing was too much of a barrier between them. He wanted to run his ruined hands over every inch of her perfect, pale skin. Capture each little shudder. Imprison it within the cradle of his palms.

  He wanted more.

  He always would.

  She could give him more.

  And she would happily comply.

  Right?

  His eyes shot open.

  He took in a sharp breath.

  He yanked the skirt of her dress back into place before his bare hand shot to the arm of his chair. He could hear the creak of metal and plastic beneath his palm. His gloved knuckles ground into his forehead, desperately trying to chase the devil from his skull.

  His hunger nearly won.

  The leash slipped just a fraction and he nearly lost a precious thing that never should have belonged to him in the first place.

  He would need to feed soon as this was becoming a little too dangerous.

  For the both of them.