EIGHTEEN

There was an inexplicable, unexpected shock of relief through him at hearing her voice speak his name. His eyes snapped shut and he sagged against her a bit, his breath shivering out of his lungs.

Antonin knew she was confused, that made two of them, but for very different reasons he suspected. Him, because he could not understand this pull she had on him. Her, well, likely because by her estimation he must be acting very strangely for a big, scary Death Eater.

As if to confirm his line of thinking, he heard her breathe out the question in a shaky whisper, "What happened to you?"

But he couldn't answer her just now, couldn't gather his wits enough to form the words. Instead, he clasped his free hand around hers—around the hand stained with her blood—and brought it to his lips.

Hermione was fiercely annoyed with herself for how her heart hammered against her ribcage and a sweet, giddy thrill raced through her. He lapped at her skin, the stroking of his tongue slow, the pressure insistent—reminding her far too easily of last night.

He nipped at her fingertips, just the gentlest scrape of the edge of his teeth. Every time she inhaled, it only pressed them more tightly together given how his body was slumped against hers still.

Antonin lowered his head, his mouth touching the side of her throat, and breathed deep. A rumbling sound escaped him, like that strange purring noise he'd emitted last night. She wasn't even sure whether or not to feel ashamed at how that sound set off a delicious ache between her thighs.

Lifting his head now, the creature opened his eyes, once more capturing her gaze with his own.

He thought her surprise must pale in comparison to his own as he—needing more before he could think clearly—murmured, his tone pleading in a way even he had never heard it, "Please?"