The cut on Mara’s hand was superficial, yet it bled with an obstinate persistence that both frustrated and fascinated her.

She had been perusing the aged tomes lining the library shelves, her fingers gliding over the worn spines when a jagged splinter of wood from one of the pristine oak bookshelves had embedded itself in her palm. As she pressed a pristine white handkerchief against the crimson stain that had begun to dry, she lost track of time until Damon entered the room.

At first, he ...