Arkady sighed without breath, a strange rumble in his chest of discontent and sadness, and he touched her arms more gently, his thumb trailing over that cut to leave a black smudge like spilled ink. Would her blood be sour like licorice, an afterburn on his tongue? He would lie if she asked if he'd ever thought of it. Lettie was one whose blood he never cared to sample; he would not hurt her for the world, no, but beyond that he had such a deep respect for what ran in her veins, the ancient powers in such blood. She came from a place of pure darkness, a place so deep no light could reach; she was like those fish from so many leagues under the sea they were bleached ivory and completely blind.
He had never sampled such darkness, and thought he might find it addictive if he tried.
"Lettie," he said softly, and his hand caressed her hair, lifted it from the nape of her neck. "You are so unique and beautiful and the only one who cannot appreciate this." He tightened his arms around her in a brief embrace, then drew away to study her painting again, his features drawn taut, his expression careful.
"There were times I resented Ratka for what she'd done to me, yes. There are still days when I miss the kiss of sunlight, the color of the sky. When I miss the taste of human food, of wine, the feel of my own heartbeat. It's very disconcerting to be cold all the time, to have the inside of your body be silent except for the symphony of it screaming for blood."
He looked over at her then, his eyes very dark under his brows. "But I know what I am, and all I can do is bear that with dignity and respect. Why subject myself to an eternity of self-loathing when my dark gift comes with many a silver lining if only one knows how to look for them?"