Page 76 of Thirst
No suggestive voice, no games. Just cool politeness, eyes lowered like I was a stranger. Like she’d never begged me, moaned for me, taken me deep inside her body.
And Gods, that pissed me off.
She wasn’t supposed to look through me like that. She wasn’t supposed to feel distant. My instincts snarled every time she dropped her gaze, every time she acted like I meant nothing.
By the third night, it was clear that she’d rather rot in that cell than sell out her father. Any other prisoner, I would’ve admired the loyalty. Or crushed it out of them.
But with her, respect twisted into something darker.
Possessive.
Unreasonable.
I wanted to drag her out of that cell, pin her to the wall, force her to meet my eyes.
Make her admit she was mine.
But wanting that—wanting her—felt like a weakness I refused to show. So I punished myself instead.
I got Brien and Talon to meet in the gym and drove my body past the edge. Weights until my muscles screamed, then hand-to-hand combat until my knuckles split and iron filled my mouth.
Sweat, muscle, pain. Like I could beat the weakness back one strike at a time.
After, I took an icy shower and fed from another of my regulars before heading for the war room. I opened my laptop and stared at the screen, still wound tight, the kind of tension that made the walls feel too close.
Unable to work. Unable to stop thinking about Nyx.
It was a relief when William, the castle butler, poked his square, buzz-cut head through my office door. “Chief Valente wants to see you—about your uncle.”
“What about him?”
“He’s dead,” said William.
I sat back. So the sonuvabitch had washed up somewhere. “What does Valente want?”
William shrugged a beefy shoulder. “You’re Baker’s only family on the island.”
“Tell him I’m busy. Brien left me in charge.” He was with Twilight—the two took a nightly swim in the Atlantic (which was insanely cold in early March, even for a vampire)—and Talon was still on parental leave.
“I’m afraid Valente is being persistent, sir. Your uncle’s death was suspicious. Broken bones and such. There wasn’t much of him after the sharks got to him, of course.”
I smiled. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Me, too, sir.” The butler smiled back.
“And Valente’s here, you say?”
“Yes, sir. He insists on speaking to you in person.”
I closed my laptop and rose to my feet. It’s not like I was getting much done anyway. “Where is he?”
“In the upper lair. The drawing room.”
“Tell him I’ll be right there. And make him comfortable—give him something to drink, pastries, whatever.”
“Very good,” he said and left.
The upper floors were all old-world decadence. Brien’s father, the first Maritime primus, had carved the place out of stone and ego. French opulence welded to Nova Scotian grit—crimson wallpaper, bone-white panels, polished marble floors, furniture that could’ve been stolen from Versailles. There was even a godsdamn ballroom.
