Kieran gazed at the now sleeping Irene. She seemed to be at peace, in bliss and would not be waking up any time soon. He had taken enough blood from her so that she would be out for a few hours at least.
His gaze darkened when he recalled the taste of her delicious blood. It was sweeter than honey, the ambroise he had been waiting to drink for years. He now felt truly revived and it was all due to Irene, his Irene.
Kieran licked his lips, tasting the delectable liquid on his tongue as he removed his silver mask, the mask he wore in public whenever he went before them as the King of Rothnia. The mask made people subconsciously bow down to him, a symbol of their fear and respect.
Although Kieran did not need it, he preferred to use it. Dropping it beside his pillow, he pulled Irene closer to him such that her entire upper body was lying on top of him while her lower body was entangled with him, leaving no space between them.