Bloodmark

09: Spinning

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Breathless, I stare into his brown eyes. They're closer to gold, unlike mine—mine are a simple brown. The gold complements the chocolate of his skin. My blood sings. It warms my toes. It shoots electricity to my fingertips. And my hands itch to reach out and touch his face.

As the heat wavers, my brain clears. My heart beats erratically and my mouth goes dry. My bloodmark. I rush to stand, making his hands fall from my arms. Hair secured over my eye, the bedding invades my mind. My hands shake as I bow.

"I – I – I'm so sorry." Without daring to glance at him, I kneel to gather the sheets. Gaze steadfast on the floor, my waist bends in another bow—two—three—I keep bowing until I pass him. "My apologies, sir. Your – your Majesty. King sir. Sorry."

"Wait," I hear him call after me. "Are you alright?" echoes down the hallway. But before my brain can process that the King is addressing me and I should respond, I stand at the door to the laundry room.

Panic rises. It hammers my heart, tingles my hands. I just ignored the King—and ran from him. Will I be punished for my rudeness? At the very least, Belef will remove me from laundry duty—back to the pantry.

My chest constricts. Air cannot pass through my lungs. Body trembling, I dump the bedding in a basin and run from the room. I do not stop running until I reach the servant quarters. My hand pauses at the handle. Is anyone inside? It doesn't matter. The world spins.

The room is empty. My body collapses on my bed. I focus on my breathing, eyes shut: oxygen in, oxygen out; inhale, exhale; inflate, deflate. The panic and bile ease from my throat. My hands steady. The world no longer spins.

As I sit up, a spot on the bicep of my left arm prickles. Like a ghost passes its hand along my skin. Memory of the heat, of the electricity, the singing blood brings me to the full-length mirror.

Black lines interweave and web around my bicep—where the King had gripped my arm. My breath ceases as I brush my fingertips over the spontaneous tattoo. A few of the lines bend like fangs around a dot; others zigzag like lightning.

My hand trembles, and my breath resumes with a tumultuous gasp.

This must be a Mark. The Mark of a Vampyr flares along my skin. As unique as fingerprints, as handwriting, a Mark bonds a vampyr and a Bloodmark. A bond that can only be broken by death from what I've learned.

The King has Marked me—and entirely by accident.

No one can see this. Maybe if I cover it, ignore it, it will vanish in time. Perhaps the legends surrounding a vampyr's Mark have become exaggerated over time. It may not mean that I belong to the King, or that he belongs to me. Marks could mean nothing now.