Silken Rapture (Princes of the Underground 2)
“This can’t go on. Her appetite has decreased daily since she’s come to Sanctuary, and this lethargy has gone on for well over a week. She’s ill,” Margaret said, sounding angry.
Isabel couldn’t quite grasp on her thoughts, couldn’t quite focus on them. It felt as though she were trying to grab a will-o-wisp in a dense fog. Even through her haze, it struck her distantly that it was strange that Margaret sounded as if she was angrily accusing someone of Isabel’s tiredness, even though there was no one else in the room but her and Royal, and no one was responsible for her laziness but herself.
“It’s okay, Margaret. I’m not sick. I’m just sleepy,” she murmured. Her eyelids closed. She was so comfortable. It was too difficult to stay in the waking world. She only wanted to escape to her dreams…to her beautiful dreams.
“You must do something,” Margaret said fiercely.
“I don’t feel li’ doin’ anything but sleeping and seeing ’im again,” she mumbled.
She drifted. Someone pushed up on her shoulders. Her eyelids felt like two bricks rested on them, they were so heavy when she tried to lift them. She saw a blurred image of the elaborate, carved mantel and a cheery fire flickering in the hearth.
Once again, her dreams beckoned. Her muscles went lax.
“Don’t you dare go back to sleep,” Margaret said loudly near her right ear. Isabel blinked and turned her head. Even that felt as if it took more energy than swimming in warm, thick honey.
“Here.”
She looked downward, her eyes crossing when she felt a cup press to her lower lip. She sputtered, nearly choking, when Margaret poured a great quantity of black tea into her lax mouth.
“It’s hot!” she shouted, back arching like a scalded cat’s. She glared at the plump, gray-haired woman sitting next to her, her mouth gaping open. She wouldn’t have guessed Margaret had such a nasty streak in her.
“That’s better,” Margaret said grimly. “Here. Drink some more.”
“I will not. You practically burned off my tongue,” Isabel complained. She pinched the tip of her scorched tongue beneath her gloved thumb and forefinger to exhibit her point. Her eyes went wide in shock.
“Bwaise,” she slurred. Bl
aise stood there next to the couch, seeming tall as an oak from the perspective of her sitting position. For some reason, it didn’t strike her as strange at all that he wore only a pair of jeans. She saw a thin, supple strap of leather just above the low-riding waistline. She glanced up guiltily into his face when she realized she’d been gawking in fascination, gripping her tongue like an idiot the whole time.
When she met his agate-like eyes, it was as though he’d just shouted a message to her across a wide chasm.
Her legs collapsed beneath her when she stood abruptly, her arms outstretched toward him.
The room was suddenly sweeping past her vision, and she felt stable and in motion at once.
“Here…put her in the bed,” she heard Margaret say from a great distance.
“I will have a human doctor brought to her,” he said.
“Blaise,” she mouthed soundlessly when she heard the deep voice and familiar, rough accent. Her mind couldn’t quite grip on anything solid. The soft mattress and luxurious bedclothes gave beneath her, beckoning her into sleep…but she did not want to sleep. Not now.
He was here…in the waking world.
She clutched at a hard, rounded shoulder muscle, but her fingers fell away, uselessly.
“You have been taking her blood,” Margaret said accusingly.
“Yes,” came his bleak reply. “But I don’t think that’s what’s weakening her.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s a miracle. I have drunk from her—I could not stop myself. I never took too much, and she is so strong, her vitessence is almost immediately replenished. I’m seeing her life force right now as we speak. Her vitessence is as strong as ever…stronger.”
“Then what’s wrong with her?” Margaret demanded.
Isabel waited for the deep voice she craved, and when it did not come immediately, she drifted.
“Delraven?” Margaret prompted. Isabel shifted her head on the pillow, willing herself to rise into consciousness.