Page 69 of Thirst
His warmth seeped through my clothes, his arms felt strong, safe. With a sigh, I subsided into him.
He sank his fangs into his wrist and pressed the holes to my mouth. “Drink.”
But I didn’t; the effort was too much. I closed my eyes and floated away again, until the blood touched my tongue. My whole body contracted with thirst, and I latched my lips around the vein he’d opened, sucking hungrily.
“Is it really you?” I asked against his skin.
His mouth touched my temple. “Shut up and drink.”
I exhaled, a ghost of a smile on my lips. “Yeah, you’re real.”
Between his blood and the heat of his body, my shivers stopped. I drank until I was sated, then dropped into a deep sleep, mouth still on his skin.
When I woke again, the inner clock all supernaturals are born with told me it was an hour before sunrise. I opened my eyes to find myself tucked into the covers, and Cain pacing in front of the open door, head lowered, hands clasped behind his back.
He halted mid-stride and rotated his head. “You’re awake.”
At my mumbled assent, he entered the cell, crouching next to the cot. “How d’you feel?”
“Better.”
His eyes closed, a flicker of genuine relief softening his face.
My heart clenched, but I warned myself not to read into it. He might want me alive, but only because he needed me.
He lifted the covers. “Let me see your wrists.”
I lifted them without a word. The burns had healed, leaving only two pale pink bands.
He touched a fingertip to one of the scars. “It doesn’t hurt?”
“No.”
He nodded. “Your fever broke, too, about an hour ago. You thirsty?”
“Yeah.” My throat was parched, my head ached, and my mouth tasted like I’d swallowed rust. I felt fragile, not quite well, like my body was trying to find its balance again.
Cain filled the metal cup and helped me sit up. When I gulped the first cup down, he brought me another, and I drained that one, too.
As he took the cup from me, I caught his arm. “Tell me something once and for all, no bullshit, because I'm screwed no matter what. Why are you doing this? Is it only about my father?”
His dark brows pulled together. “Why am I doing what?”
“This.” I gestured at the cot, the cashmere sweater. “Would you still be taking care of me if you didn’t need me to get to Nazaire?”
Something flickered across his face—something that looked almost like hurt. Then his expression shuttered, his walls slamming back into place. “We can get to him without you.”
“Then why am I here?”
Instead of answering, he rose to his feet. “Try and get some sleep. I’ll have them bring you something to eat in a few hours.”
And then I was alone in the cell.
I stared at the closed door, bereft and confused. I forced my shoulders back.
I would not break. I would not care.
When I woke next, it was mid-morning. I washed up and sat on the cot, bored and hungry.
