Page 90 of Thirst
“I did it for the syndicate. For you—all of you.”
“So she is bait.”
“Fuck you.” I swung into the next curve, tires screaming.
Talon gave a little half-smile and braced himself so he didn’t get flung out of the convertible.
“Okay,” I conceded after the car righted itself. “I saw an opportunity and took it. But she’s not bait—he’s not getting anywhere near her. I’ll take him apart with my bare hands if I have to.”
“Then you better make sure she knows that,” he said. “Because if she thinks she’s just a pawn, it won’t matter what that bastard does. You’ll lose her anyway.”
“Not going to happen.” I eased off the gas, every muscle locked tight at the thought of Nyx walking away for good.
Mine.
My Nyx. My forever.
It wasn’t love. That word felt too pale, too soft for what burned in me. Love was for humans. What I felt was older, hungrier—something forged out of blood and bone and magic.
She was the only woman for me. The one who could break me just by turning her back.
And I’d smashed her trust.
“I’ll make this right,” I told Talon. “Whatever it takes.”
24
Nyx
I worked in a feverish white heat, absorbed in my story and the pictures that grew from it. Minutes melted into hours as I sketched, erased, shaded, redrew—the images coming faster than my hands could keep up.
Wild roses twined around a silver-haired prince, their thorns biting into his skin. A princess shaped from heartbeat and shadows, her face tight with the kind of love that could bring down a kingdom. A striking blond vampire sprawled on the cobblestones, a dagger jutting from her ribs, and a long black-scaled snake gliding past her head, its body thin and elegant as a tailored coat.
My nape prickled. With an effort, I dragged my gaze from my sketch. Cain stood on the other side of the coffee table, watching me.
I snapped the pad shut, sliding my mask into place—practiced smile, head tilted in fake interest. “Hi.”
Something passed over his face, like he was physically hurting. Like fake-me upset him. “Just checking on you.”
I placed the pad on the coffee table, the stick of charcoal and eraser beside it, and came to my feet. “Well, I’m fine.”
He remained where he was on the other side of the table, studying me through hooded eyes.
“What?” Uneasiness tightened my shoulders. “Is it about my father? Something happened?”
“No,” said Cain. “He’s gone dark.”
My mouth twisted. “Sounds like him. He likes pressure, likes making people crack.” He was probably waiting and watching, hoping the Maritime vampires would make a mistake.
Cain made a noncommittal grunt and crouched, rearranging my art supplies until the bottom edges formed a perfect line. Something about that made my chest clench. It was so him.
That night in London, he’d had flowers delivered to the hotel suite: calla lilies the deep red of garnets, wrapped in a black velvet ribbon. When I’d emerged from the shower early that morning, I found him in the suite’s kitchen, slicing the end of one stem so it would match the others. He’d glanced at me, lips tugging into a crooked half-smile, laughing at himself a little. Then he’d said, “I want them to be perfect for you,” and my heart had gone all stupid and syrupy.
I dug my nails into my palms. “You don’t have to do that,” I told him. “I’ll only mess them up again.”
He straightened and gave me almost the same crooked smile. “Habit.”
When I didn’t say anything, his smile dissolved. “What were you drawing, anyway?”
