FIFTY-SIX
Sleep did not come easily for Hermione later that night, well, that morning by then. Though she and Antonin had puzzled over and suggested back and forth what could be the source of this latest bit of strangeness—was it connected to her vision? If so did that, in turn, mean she somehow had a connection to the Book?
That seemed both likely and preposterous all at once. But perhaps no more preposterous than the bizarre and unsettling feeling that it, somehow, had been waiting for her. It was a book! As much as she loved books and would delight to believe they could have personalities of their own—that terrible incident in second year with Tom Riddle's diary notwithstanding—the idea that it could have sentience of that level would likely be enough to rattle anyone's nerves.
But it wasn't merely that which kept slumber just beyond her reach.
Eventually their talk had devolved, as their talks always seemed to. When she arrived back at Oksana's house, her limbs still a little trembly, pleasant arcs of sensation coursing through her even as a new bite mark throbbed sweetly on her right breast.
Her eyes closed and her cheek mashed against her pillow, she thought she could still feel the delicate pressure of Antonin's fingers trailing over her skin. Fresh in her mind was the way his hands had slipped beneath her robes as she tugged his entirely out of the way.
There was that wonderful clenching low in her body at recalling how he'd lifted her just enough that when he settled her back in his lap, he entered her.
She bit her lip, holding in a whimper at the remembered feel of him moving her against his thrusts.
Oh, Lord … the way he'd twisted her toward him as she came, ducking his head to suckle at her breast before sinking in his fangs ….
Hermione slapped herself across the face, trying to get her senses under control.
"Ow," she said in a regretful breath of sound. But it had helped.
For a moment, before she thought on how tight he'd clutched at her—almost painful—as he'd spent himself, that beautiful purring growl erupting from his throat.
Holding in a whine, she buried her face in her pillow.
"Damn you, Antonin Dolohov," she said, voice muffled against the fabric, "this is all your fault."
And she knew that if the upir in that little house across the road had any sense of what she was saying, he was laughing. Maybe even puffing out his chest a bit as he laid down to sleep.
