A few minutes later, Madeleine looked down at the still-damp patch on the sofa and wondered who she was kidding. Telling Jonathan she couldn’t be responsible for Hæra? Then clinging to Hæra every night like she was Madeleine’s only lifeline, craving her more each day? She’d had no idea she was capable of this recklessness, much less this ravenous need. So ravenous she’d made this mess.

Madeleine groaned to herself and cleaned the couch. Then, once she’d finished, she pulled out her embroidery kit.

The repetitive push and pull of the needle soothed her. The colorful thread slid in and out of the fabric, leaving it brighter and more textured than before.

We belong to each other. It’s simple.

Simple? No. True? It seemed so. Jonathan had told her, effectively, that she couldn’t escape her fate. She wasn’t sure about that. She believed in free will; otherwise, how could you ever be held accountable for your own choices? How could you deserve the happiness you’d worked so hard for?

God sent his children opportunities. It was up to Madeleine to recognize one such, and then choose to take it or not. She’d chosen to take it. So had Hæra, even if she’d phrase it differently. The Great Mare or something.

Why did it feel like a decision lay before Madeleine, when so much of this was completely out of her hands? She should be so lucky as to get to decide⁠—

“What’s wrong?”

The voice was right behind her, and Madeleine stabbed her fingertip with the needle. She yelped.

Hæra swiftly rounded the sofa. Her hair was rumpled. She frowned. “All right?”

“Yes. Oh, shoot.” A droplet of blood had welled up on Madeleine’s fingertip. “Can you get me a Band-Aid? They’re in the bathroom cabinet.”

Hæra looked down at Madeleine’s fingertip as the blood drop swelled. She inhaled, and a familiar expression crossed her face. The same expression she wore in bed, only sharper. Wilder.

Madeleine’s breath caught.

Hæra sat down without a word and took Madeleine’s hand. She looked at the welling scarlet drop and then looked into Madeleine’s eyes. Asking, silently.

A memory stirred, swift and violent, of the night Hæra had saved her from drowning. Madeleine had been half conscious, but she’d felt Hæra’s tongue licking the cut in her forehead. It had stung. She’d forgotten it until now.

She laughed unsteadily. “Oh boy. Sure you’re not actually a vampire?”

“Please,” Hæra whispered. Her eyes never left Madeleine’s. “I won’t hurt you.”

Heat swept through Madeleine, and she ached as if she and Hæra hadn’t had sex on this same sofa just hours ago, which was weird, because this was blood, and all she could manage to do was nod.