Timothee took the paper, after reading its content, his jaw tensed as if he had just heard the drums of war. "Who threw this in?"
I gave my head a firm shake. "I didn't check it."
"Tend to your arm cut by the broken glass. I'll be out now."
"No," I whispered, gripping the edge of my nighties until my knuckles turned white. "I won't be tended to while danger prowls in the shadows. If you step outside that door, I'm with you. We face what comes... together."
The urgency in my voice felt like a distant echo in the vast expanse of our shared determination.
Timothee's eyes softened, a stark contrast to the rigidity that had taken over his posture.
"Listen," he began, his voice laced with an intensity that made the air around us crackle, "You possess a gift, one that's as beautiful as it is dangerous. There are those who lurk in the shadows, not just to seek out this gift but to extinguish its light. My purpose, my sworn duty, is to ensure that never happens."
He paused, the weight of his blue gaze anchoring me to the spot. "You're stepping outside into the unknown with me, it's not just perilous—it's giving them exactly what they want. I can't, I won't allow it. This isn't just about tonight; it's about protecting the future, your future."
I sighed.
Yet, amid the whirlwind of resolve and the hushed, fraught whispers of danger that danced between us, a sliver of hesitation pierced my resolute facade. My mind raced back to the image of Timothee, grimaced in pain, under the careful hands of Healer Cruz. The fabric of his shirt, once pristine, now soaked with a testament to his resolve and the price already paid. His injury, a stark reminder of the fragility that even strength could not always shield against.
"But you," I faltered, my voice barely a murmur against the storm of our predicament, "You're already wounded, a silent testimony to the perils we've barely escaped. How can I, in good conscience, allow you to throw yourself back into the fray? How can we claim victory if our very foundation is marred by the shadows of injury?"
Timothee's laugh, rough and unexpectedly warm in the chilling silence, broke the mounting tension.
"My dear," he said, amusement lacing his tone, yet not undermining the gravity of our situation. "You seem to forget; I'm not merely a man standing before the jaws of fate. I am a lycan, a creature of the night whose resilience is whispered about in hushed tones even among the most formidable of our foes."
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, as if sharing a secret only meant for me.
"Rogue or Hunter attacks, they may mar the flesh, but they don't easily extinguish the fire that burns within us. We are made of sterner stuff, forged in the crucible of moonlit battles and star-crossed destinies."
"But," I started, my voice trembling as I tried to stitch my fears into something tangible, something he could understand, "It's not just about us, is it? Sawyer and Asher... they need you, Timothee. They need their daddy, not a memory shadowed by valor, but you - in flesh and blood, to guide them, to watch them grow. I fear... I dread the thought of telling them stories of your bravery instead of letting them live those stories with you."
"What are you talking about, Barbara. I'm here," Timothee whispered.
"I'm here," Timothee repeated, his voice slicing through the cold air like a beacon in the night.
"But how can I... how can we ensure our safety, ensure your safety, without directly stepping into the maw of danger? How do I lend my strength to yours, without inviting the shadows closer?" I asked.
Timothee took a long breath, the weight of our shared silence filling the room before he spoke, his voice bearing the faintest tremor.
"If you don't mind, can I drink your blood?" His question, though uttered softly, landed between us with the force of a thunderclap, reverberating through the stillness of our standoff.
My heart, caught in the throes of a wild beat, threatened to leap from my chest, not in horror, but in a complex tapestry of shock, confusion, and an inexplicable surge of trust. "M-My blood, Timothee?"
"Yes, Barby."
"Why would you ask such a thing?" My voice, laced with a mixture of incredulity and fear, barely rose above a whisper. "What would drinking my blood do? Is it a... a ritual of some sort?"
Timothee's face, awash in the moonlight filtering through the broken glass, seemed to wrestle with the weight of untold secrets.
"Your blood," he began, his voice a soft caress against the backdrop of our tumultuous reality, "Isn't merely a part of you; It represents your heritage, blending raw energies from both Fae and Lycan sources. You are a unique combination of wolf and delicate Fae, with powerful blood that enhances strength, speeds up healing, and expands our shifter abilities beyond imagination."
Timothee's gaze held mine, earnest and imploring, as if trying to bridge the chasm of disbelief with his words alone.
"Are you serious, Timmy?" I gagged although I know it already.
I was aware of my mom's Fae lineage, but the enchanting magic coursing through my veins took me by surprise.
"The Hunters, shadows pursuing us, aren't just after anything. They pursue the power in your blood, inherited from your maternal ancestors, descendants of the Fae royals who withdrew into the ancient forests. By targeting you, they aim to gain power that could shift the balance in their favor and alter our realities."
He paused, the weight of his revelation hanging heavy in the moonlit room.
"This is why I need to protect you. That's why I requested your blood. Consuming a small amount of it, under the moon's gaze, wouldn't just heal my injuries but also strengthen me for the upcoming battle. It's a method for us to resist, to hold our position against those who aim to snuff out your light."
With resolve brimming in my eyes, I reached out, grasping Timothee's hand with a determination that belied the tremble in my touch.
"Then do it," I commanded, my voice ringing clear and steadfast in the charged silence. "Consume my blood, Timothee. Drink under the moon and stars, witnesses to our struggles and love. If this fortifies you against the encroaching darkness, I offer it freely. Not in fear, but in a love that transcends our essence."
My gaze intertwined with his, a silent pledge to my unwavering belief, the fierce shield that enveloped me, not only for him but for our children, and for the vision of a future we dared to imagine—a world where light defeats darkness, where love stands as our unyielding defense against the malevolence that shadows us.
"Thanks a lot Barbara."
Without a moment's hesitation, Timothee seized my hand and sliced it with a dagger. Thick blood cascaded from my palm, causing me to wince in agony. Yet, as Timothee consumed it, a peculiar warmth spread through my entire being.
A peculiar warmth that defies explanation in words.
Timothee's eyes, now shimmering with an otherworldly glow, locked onto mine, a grave seriousness replacing the warmth that had just moments ago radiated from him.
"Barbara, it's time," he said, his voice barely more than a husk of determination and urgency. "We need to wake Sawyer and Asher. They must partake in this as well. Your blood, enriched with the confluence of mighty lineages, will not only fortify me but them as well. In this dire hour, it's crucial they inherit the strength to protect themselves and understand the depths of our family's legacy."
"But, Timothee, they're so young... Is this the only way?" I murmured, a storm of worry brewing within me, threatening to spill over.
"Trust me, Barbara. This act... it's more than survival. It's an inheritance, a baptism of power and resilience." Timothee replied, his gaze unwavering, piercing through the veil of my fears.
"Mommy!"
A deafening scream echoed from Asher and Sawyer's room. What unfolded in there? Was it an unwelcome visitor? Or perhaps a haunting nightmare?