In the small hours of the morning had Emma left the vampyre's side, at his behest, the flinty edge to his command affrighting her far more than even the night's confessions. His hasty tone had done much to disquiet her. And before she'd left him in his sylvan kingdom, he'd bade her meet him in his library at dawn. Once abed, her eyes had not strayed from the nighttime shadows playing along the paneled ceiling; not till that first hint of dawn light had swept into her room and allayed her fears. Only then had she succumbed to troubled dreams.

It was nearly midday by the time she left her chamber, overcome with a sudden urgency to see her sister. Milli had likely not found her own bed ere the sun had peered above the treetops. Tiptoeing carefully into her sister's room, Emma's fears were at once lessened to see her sister's chest rising and falling beneath her blankets. But even the sight of Milli's sleeping form, swallowed up by the monstrous four-poster bed, was insufficient to becalm all of Emma's overwrought imaginings and furtive suspicions. Quiet as even a vampyre must be, she stole the counterpane down from her sister's neck and, with tentative fingers, peeled Mill's nightshift lower, thereby unveiling the girl's porcelain throat and pale shoulders.

"Milli? Are you awake?" But not a flutter of an eyelid nor a stirring of a limb affected the sleeping beauty.

For some time she contemplated her sister's unmolested flesh, relief, by degrees, filling her heart. No preternatural fangs had, as far as Emma could discern, pierced Milli's soft skin, and yet the bloom of health seemed wanting in her complexion. It was all very odd, but she was forced to admit that perhaps the long night had exhausted the poor girl so much so that no sound could penetrate that fog of slumber. And that too — all that wild exertion and excitement — would account for her waxy cheeks. Leastwise Emma hoped that that was the case. Be that as it may, she decided, she would be remiss if she did not apply a little more hawthorn behind Milli's ear, and perhaps a touch of garlic to her bedposts before she withdrew to the library. 

Having seen to the duties invested to her by the bonds of sisterhood and love, Emma finally betook herself from the room. As with slow and measured footsteps Emma proceeded to the master's den, her mind, by comparison, set itself to reeling vigorously, furiously riddling through all the frightful congeries she'd witnessed thus far. In fine, her mind and heart were in an opposing tumult as she reached the white and black checkered landing.

Her judgment called for her to act one way whilst her heart — that wretched antipode — urged her to madness. Without knowing which way to act she admitted to herself that she at once abhorred and adored Markus Winterly. She wanted both to flee him and seek him out. That was certainly madness.

I am the sick rose after all! The realization struck her like ice to the chest, for she knew that it was her extreme and fatal curiosity — her obsession with him — that pulled her to the library as though her body was in better accord with her heart than with her deprecating reason; her ailing logic.

And though Emma knew she was only borrowing trouble, she continued onwards. She slipped past the gilded-framed paintings of long-dead ancestors resting silently on the gallery walls and from thence through the library door, entering, at last, the creature's den. A den which, by all appearances seemed wholly uninhabited at this late hour. Not even a footman was to be seen filling the coal scuttles.

"Lord Winterly?" she whispered, loth even to disturb the dust with her breath, but no answer was forthcoming. "Are you here, sir?" Feeling foolish for talking to an empty room, she transferred the clamminess from her palms to her skirts.

It smelled like it always did — the perfume of antiquity. But the ancient mustiness, the olden ink glue, and the sweet vanilla was comforting to her, and the fire's languid chattering beckoned her warmly from the door. She obliged it after only a brief pause, stepping deeper into the vast book-laden chamber.

Here she felt not as though she was in a man's library but in the chamber he kept his most arcanum arcanorum. His secret of secrets. And she was adamant to discover them all.

And how did the master of Castle Winterly fill his long days and nights? she wondered. Presuming, of course, that he did not sleep as mortals did. Intrigued by the lonely book she spied atop his high-backed armchair by the fire, she betook herself thence to investigate; to learn more of the ... being that so fascinated her. The binding, she noticed upon picking the novel up, for novel it appeared to be, was rather less antiquated-looking than the books she descried on his lofty shelves.

She turned it over, for it had lain on its front, to peruse the front panel and the title thereon. 'Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure'. The title alone warned her what she might find inside, but with a determined purse of her lips she turned the front board. The first few pages seemed innocuous enough, but she was soon to find how utterly explicit it all truly was!

'But then, this is a fear too often cured at the expense of innocence, when Miss, by degrees, begins no longer to look on a man as a creature of prey that will eat her.'

Emma looked up from the page suddenly with a rueful blush staining her cheeks and, remarking that she was, despite that odd sensation of probing at the back of her head, still alone, continued her study of this lurid little novel. All the while her blood thrummed wildly in her breast.

'Her fingers play'd and strove to twine in the young tendrils of that moss, which nature has contrived at once for use and ornament.

'But not content with these outer posts, she now attempts the main spot, and began to twitch, to insinuate, and at length to force an introduction of a finger into the quick itself, in such a manner, that had she not proceeded by insensible gradations that inflamed me beyond the power of modesty to oppose its resistance to her process, I should have jump'd out of bed and cried for help against such strange assaults.

'Instead of which, her lascivious touches had lighted up a new fire that wanton'd through all my veins, but fix'd with violence in that center appointed them by nature, where the first strange hands were now busied in feeling, squeezing, compressing the lips, then opening them again, with a finger between—'

" 'Oh! what a charming creature thou art!' " said Winterly suddenly from behind her.

She gave a startled shriek, dropped the book whence she'd found it, and thrust her hands up to guard her palpitating heart.

Laughing delightedly, he continued to quote the very sentence she'd been reading when he'd spoken over her shoulder. " 'What a happy man will he be that first makes a woman of you!' " Stepping closer, his smile broadened wickedly. " 'Oh! that I were a man for your sake...' "

"You startled me!"

"Yes," he merely replied. Then he momentarily dropped his eyes to the abandoned book and when he lifted his gaze from the chair again it was filled with mischief. "How did you like Mr. Cleland's ... humble little novel?"

"I found it ... obscene." 

"Yes, but did you ... feel anything?"

"Horror," she said, turning her gaze from his black eyes.

His chuckle was deep and knowing as he lifted the book from the chair and returned it to a space on the shelving. "He wrote the novel whilst serving time in debtor's prison. Well, never mind," he said, returning to her side once more, "prose pornography is an acquired taste."

"One I can quite do without," she opined, willing her feet to stay rooted even as he advanced.

"Yes, can't have such literature corrupting the King's subjects, now can we?" He reached his hand out to touch the unmanageable curl resting at her temple. "You have red in your hair, did you know that?"

"You asked me to your library for a reason other than to ... corrupt me, I hope?"

With supernatural speed he was suddenly at her neck, his teeth pressed thirstily to her throat as he held her fast. She froze instantly, her heart stuttering to a halt, as she waited for his fangs to puncture their way into the vein; but he did no more than breath her in. She felt his lips close unexpectedly over his fangs to press languidly at her pulse a moment before he spoke. "You know what I am, Emmaline; it is in my nature to corrupt." Of a sudden he pulled away.

The instant he released her she stumbled backwards, her fingers flying to her neck to feel for puncture wounds.

He snorted. "If I'd sampled you, you'd know it."

When her hand came away bloodless, she set her teeth and scowled at him. "I did not come here to ... feed you, vampyre. Nor to bear the brunt of your maltreatment."

He shrugged and seated himself in his armchair, gesturing her towards the chair opposite him. "Brave, Miss Lucas, won't you take a seat."

"Thank you, no. I much prefer standing." The better to run away if need be. But could she outrun a vampyre? She thought not.

"Suit yourself."

And she preferred looking down on him, she decided. "I see the hawthorn is useless," she said glumly.

"And what do you expect hawthorn does exactly?" His elbows were resting on the plush arms of his chair and his fingers were steepled below his sharp gaze.

"It is a safeguard against evil."

"And do you think me evil?"

"I know not what to think, Lord Winterly." She hadn't made her mind up yet, though his recent near-mauling of her had set him low in her opinion. Albeit, sadly not her heart's, the mad thing.

"Ahh, now I am Lord Winterly again. A moment ago I was merely 'vampyre'. Do make up your mind which appellation I am to be called."

"When you behave in a civil manner as opposed to flying at my neck with fangs bared, I shall endeavor to treat you civilly as well." There now, she'd quite told him off.

There was that infuriating quirking of the lips again. "Very good, Emma. I see you are not to be cowed nor trifled with." He seemed strangely pleased with her, confusing man.

"And I do wish you'd call me Miss Lucas always, and Emma never."

"You wish that then." He gave a careless flick of his fingers, indicating the area his fangs had, moments earlier, been trained for the strike. "It behooves you nonetheless to continue applying the hawthorn, Miss Lucas."

Her name was said with too heavy a dose of irony to escape her vexation. She forbore mentioning it, though, and instead said, "Oh? Does the hawthorn avert vampyres after all."

He considered her thoughtfully a moment before answering. "Not exactly." At her bemused frown he continued, "It masks the perfume of the flesh some small degree, so that we may better manage our ... impulsions, you understand."

She seemed a little disappointed. "I had thought..."

"Yes, I rather think I know what you had surmised. But—" smirking cruelly "—as you see, it is not altogether a reliable hindrance; more's the pity for you, my dear."

"Why are you telling me all this if you mean only to kill me?" There! She'd uttered it at last — that heavy question weighting her heart like a pale of coal. She would know now rather than later if he meant to dispatch her.

"My dear, Emmaline, why on earth should I kill you?" One of his dark eyebrows rose with effortless flair.

She blinked, confused. "But you're a vampyre." That was answer enough.

"And, as such, I am death personified," he finished for her. "What a lethal presumption, however can you stand my presence?"

"With mistrustful forbearance."

He chuckled appreciatively, running his tongue along one long canine. "Do you know, I perceived the exact moment you knew what I was." No longer satisfied with looking up at her, he rose to his full intimidating height. "The day I came to you at the abbey, that was when you realized. Finally."

"Yes," she confirmed. She remembered even the tiniest detail of that encounter — how he'd smelled, how she'd felt, the coolness of the rain against her fevered flesh.

"I might have drained you dry and thrown you from the cliffs that day; fed your corpse to the gulls and the sharks, But instead it was a mortal kiss I sought from you. It was a far different sort of hunger I sought to slake..."

"When you could have given me a vampyre's kiss, do you mean?"

A redoubtable flash of humor lit his obsidian eyes. "Exactly so. But why did I not, do you think?"

"Is it because you might have been caught out? Your servants did, after all, know you were in search of me. And as to my having remained unmolested in your castle, well it very well wouldn't do if I was to be murdered in my bed, now would it? Too many questions might arise."

"Firstly, do you imagine me to have even a single mortal in my employ? That they should care one way or the other whether you live or die?"

"No, I ... I s-suppose not."

"To be perfectly candid, Emma, I haven't killed you because... well—" he shrugged "—I quite fancy a little warm-blooded sport just now. Furthermore, I'm too curious by half; and I've no intention to let you alone just yet. I've grown rather fond of our ... interludes. You excite me."

And how those words excited her own passions! "The curiosity of a wolf for a lamb perhaps?"

"No indeed, madam, that I consider far too tame an analogy," he replied with sinister promptitude. After a shocking silence his mouth took up a more solemn line. "No, with you I must be honest. Not for the world would I expunge your light. Truly, you have ceased to be as prey to me..."

"And yet I am no one to you, Lord Winterly." 

"If you were that you'd not be here in this room; you'd be moldering away in your uncle's attic—"

Or in a grave.

"—Instead of here ... with me." There was something of hunger in his countenance suddenly, whether a carnal appetite or ... another, she wasn't quite sure but it excited her abominably.

With her mouth suddenly parched of moisture, she parted her lips to ask another question, for she had many. "Last night," she began, "at the ball, Lord Winterly...?"

"Go on."

"Were all your guests...?"

"Yes," replied he, understanding her. "But only two among them were like me."

"What do you mean? You might as well have answered in Greek!" She knew very little Greek. "A vampyre is a vampyre, is it not?" Bless me! The more he answers the less I seem to know.

He was close enough that he might have grabbed her to him, as was done earlier, but this time he merely held out his hand to her, waiting patiently for her to place hers within it. Hesitantly, she offered it up, and he instantly pulled her to him, slowly but firmly. "A vampyre, my sweet girl, is never merely just a vampyre. Just as mortals differ by race or talent, so too do vampyres."

There was no time to pose another question, for he took her lips and molded her frame to his in an exquisite kiss that swiftly aroused her ardor. Soon his brandishing lips betook themselves back whence they'd threatened before, but this time he did nothing more than drag sultry kisses over the spot she knew he most wanted to bite her. No fangs, however, did she feel pressing against her flesh this time.

She sighed against him, her arms tightening behind his neck, drawing him closer even as he chuckled at her ear. "My beauty," he murmured against her, "who is to make of you a woman, pray? Who is he, I wonder, that shall be vouchsafed that most coveted role — of preceptor and lover." More kisses ensued as his hands slid piecemeal down her hips and, with prurient intent, began to draw the hems of her skirts up slowly from where they'd rested at her ankles. A brush of air fanned each inch of flesh he bared to the room. "Who shall delve with you all the mysteries of Venus, my lush rose?"

Feeling ripe for the plucking, she made no protest as he ran his hands into her coiffure, scattering pins to the floor and releasing the mass to tumble down her back. She dropped her head back obediently as he firmly tugged her hair like a bell rope so that she was more exposed. More vulnerable.

Her skirts were now bunched around her waist as he lowered her to the rug before the fire. "Ahh," he said with a gratified purr, "No pantalettes! How ... convenient!"

"I..." Her breath became ragged as his hand skimmed slowly, purposefully, up her inner thigh. "I am old fashioned," she replied finally. But Milli she knew, like Princess Charlotte, wore pantalettes trimmed with handsome Brussels lace.

"Hmm." And he roved higher still.

But she caught his hand ere it ever reached ... Venus. Obligingly, he halted, but she knew very well that he could overpower her if he was of a mind to do so. "No," she commanded, breathless, shaking her head.

"I know you are not afraid, Emma; I would smell it if you were. You know it would be but the work of a moment to make you change your mind. You know that I could."

She nodded, pinching her lip between her teeth. "I know. I have little doubt of your abilities, Lord Winterly, but I am a Christian woman, and my lot is a pious one, whatever you may imagine to the contrary."

"A pity ... and a travesty. I think there is far more to you; I see how you bridle yourself, though you wish to give in. You might enjoy my world if only you would not stand in your own way."

"And follow your example? Go your way?"

"Yes, my way."

"And what way is that exactly?" His way would only take her further from rectitude, she knew.

"Love. The ways of love, in every physical sense the word may be expressed."

She was shocked, for "love" had been the very last thing she had thought to hear falling from his lips. "I believe you speak of lust, sir."

"Believe me, I know the difference. And I would treat you to both."

"Then you speak lightly of love."

"Never," he growled. "And I would not speak of it at all, but you are a woman who must be loved. And I find myself, for the first time in a very long time, eager to show you the truest form of it. What is between us is something more than carnal hunger. The only kiss a vampyre gives is the kiss of death; yet I find I want so much more from you than that. I want only the 'little death' for you."

"Yet you want to devour me. You are death incarnate." She spoke only to hear her own words of wisdom aloud so that they might keep her morals rooted; to fling reality between them, lest his words seduce her utterly.

"Make no mistake, I want both," he confessed readily. "Which is why I find myself at a crossroads..."

She nearly laughed — a crossroads?! What a perfect analogy, for that was exactly where suicides were buried. And was she not suicidal to to be lying here ... beneath a vampyre, on the brink of her own destruction. Overseeing her own corruption. "But which way will you go?" She watched him carefully above her. "Will I die or will I live?"

"Live. Let me show you just what joie de vivre really is."

And why not, she thought at last, her hand still fixed to his iron wrist. She was resigned to spinsterhood already. There was no hope of her ever marrying; her lot was to be a governess ... if indeed she survived Castle Winterly's inmates. The thought that she was giving in too easily, contemplating what he offered too eagerly, did cross her mind, and she decided he must be wielding a devil's power over her that she was helpless to resist. What other explanation could there be? She was not a weak-minded fool, after all.

Doubtless sensing her imminent capitulation, he ran a finger gently across her trembling lower lip. "Shall I come to your room tonight, Emma?" he asked for the third time. "Say yes." There was a hint of pain and frustration in his voice that thrilled her. "You will not regret it, I promise you that."

Finally, she felt her will give way beneath his steady obsidian gaze. Felt her limbs tremble with yearning. And though she knew she was giving herself over to the devil himself, and that there was no possible outcome in which she might survive him unscathed, she gave him the answer he sought and inveigled. The answer she herself most wanted to give. 

"Yes."

🌟Obviously I don't need to ask what answer you'd have given him, eh? Anyway, this was a long chappie for you, because I made you wait. But fear not, for Monday is update day again! But I am going through a personal crisis, so bear with me, folks🌟