Page 81 of Thirst
I shrugged a shoulder, disappointed. Still, anything was better than that windowless cell and its four gray walls.
“Your meals will continue to be delivered. As for blood, you’ll have to make do with blood-wine for now.”
“That’s fine.” I didn’t drink fresh blood more than once or twice a week anyway.
Cain had been meandering around the living room while he talked, fingering the books in the shelves, running a finger along the kitchenette counter. I’d noticed before how he was always moving, never still, but this wasn’t his typical excess energy. No, he seemed nervous.
He poked his head into the bedroom. I put the pad and pencil box on the coffee table and trailed after him. We stopped at the same moment, caught by the sight of the towering four-poster.
Memory smacked me in the chest: London, a foggy autumn night, a viscount’s Mayfair townhouse. Vampires and dhampirs and humans entwined in the halls, laughter and the pulse of beat-driven electronica intertwined with a half-dozen languages.
I hadn’t brought my own security—it would’ve been an insult. Cain and I ditched the party before midnight and ended in a private apartment with a gauze-draped poster bed. We couldn’t get enough of each other, one kiss leading to another, one position flowing into the next. In between, we shared a bottle of Dom Pérignon, debating silly things like which accent sounds sexiest when you’re drunk and why sex makes blood taste better.
Near dawn, I’d ended up with my head on his shoulder, telling him how I hated being caught between worlds, always half something, never enough. He’d tightened his arm around me and admitted he’d almost broken the night he’d been turned. That when Prima Lenore had bared his neck and extended her fangs, he’d been so scared he almost pissed his pants. He’d bitten through his own lip just to keep from begging her to let him leave.
And then we’d fallen silent, but it wasn’t the kind you felt you had to fill. It had been full of us.
Cain’s throat worked. I knew he could hear my own gulp.
“The bathroom’s over there.” He tilted his head in its direction and frowned at the empty walk-in closet. “You need more clothes. I’ll have them here by tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” I told his chin.
His face hardened. “Stop thanking me, already. I never should’ve thrown you in that damn cell in the first place, but when I found out it was you meeting my uncle…”
He’d moved closer. Or maybe I had?
“I could’ve tried harder to let you know something was up,” I admitted. “But Nazaire… He was acting suspicious. I had to play along.”
“Fuck.” He briefly closed his eyes. “I’m sorry—you knew the situation, I didn’t. I might’ve even done the same in your place.”
My hands were on his chest now, toying with the placket of his crisp white shirt. And when his lungs lifted in a breath, mine did, too—like my body had forgotten it wasn’t his.
That’s when I noticed his cheeks were faintly flushed, his lips darker, redder.
Something twisted inside me. Something jagged, possessive.
He’d fed, which meant he’d had sex, too.
I could smell her on him, female, with a hint of apples and mint.
And me? I stank of the cell, my hair hanging limp and greasy around my shoulders. Hard to stay clean when all you had was a bar of soap and a sink.
I drew back, hurt and angry. I didn’t have a right to either, but that didn’t matter. Not when it was Cain.
He caught my hands. “What?”
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
“Don’t, damn it. It’s not nothing. You’re upset.”
“Fine.” My gaze locked on his. “You fed.”
“So?” A beat. Then his lips parted, forming a silent O. “I fed. That’s all.”
“Right,” I said flatly, tugging my hands free. He was a supernatural; drinking blood made us horny whether we wanted it to or not. “It’s not my business. But you don’t have to lie about it."
“It’s not a lie,” he growled. He seized my hand, pressing it to his erection. “Feel this, damn it. I haven’t fucked anyone since Paris. Since you.”
