Page 30 of Bite Me

Luther’s pleasant smile drops, and those little lines around his eyes disappear into a smirk. “You pulling rank?”

“Yeah. Move. Clean. Do something other than stare at me like a jackass.”

There’s a pause for what I assume is male posturing, then Luther whispers in my ear.

“I’ll see you at the party, Em?”

I nod. Still bloody. Still embarrassed.

With a hand on my lower back, Dacre guides me out of the kitchen, through the lounge, and into a little bathroom with a single toilet. When we’re there, he sits me on a toilet and takes the bloody towel from my hand.

“Fuck. Does this happen a lot?” His pupils are blown out as he surveys me.

“No.” Only at the most inopportune times, actually.

“Okay, just hold your head forward, squeeze here.” Dacre’s touch sends a trickle of something foreign down my spine.

He’s touching me again, and that disgust I’m always going on about is nowhere to be found. His thumb brushes my cheek as he supports the weight of my head. Why is it kind of . . . nice? I don’t do the sensible thing, which would be to support my own damn head. I make him do it for me.

“The smell doesn’t bother you?” I ask.

“Fuck yes, it bothers me.”

“Oh.” I think about apologizing, but I won’t give him the satisfaction. “You could have let Luther help me.”

He scoffs. “You shouldn’t trust Luther. He had you choking on your own blood.”

Are we having a normal conversation? We’ve never had a conversation that doesn’t involve insults.

“Funny, he just told me something similar, but about everyone else.”

I’ve never seen Dacre in action, but watching him clean and tend to me makes me think Dacre must be something to watch in the kitchen. He’s doing it all thoroughly. Monitoring me. Wiping up droplets of blood. Checking every few seconds to see if the bleeding has stopped.

“Was that your grandfather? I wanted to introduce myself.”

“I promise my grandfather isn’t a man you want to meet.”

If I didn’t have my face buried in a bloody towel, I would ask more. Or maybe make a snide comment. Just a tiny one. “So, is that where you got all your charm?”

Where are his parents? It’s so hard not to ask questions, so I do it quickly.

“Maybe . . . your father or your mother is more . . . friendly?”

He smiles and speaks softly. “I wouldn’t know.”

That’s my cue to drop it, but I will be storing that in my memory bank for later.

I sit in the silence while Dacre cleans up my blood, and I try not to stare at his shaking hands. He’s trapped in this enclosed space with me, and I don’t know how hard this is for him.

I’ve had nosebleeds and cuts in front of other vampires before. Growing up in Groveshire, our school nurse was a vampire, and I’d swing my legs onto the wooden table while I held paper towels to my nose. There were so many large trees there that I barely saw the sky through the window, so I’d count the birds and ask her questions, like, “How uncomfortable is it to be around me with my blood exposed?” “Uncomfortable. But tolerable.”

But nothing about Dacre’s shaking hands is screaming tolerable. More like torture. Unbearable.

“You feel okay? Faint or anything?” His voice is calm despite his rigid shoulders and bulging neck muscles. The veins in his forearms pulse as he grips the counter.

“I’m okay. I’ll clean up. You don’t have to stay.” I check the towel. Still bleeding.

“No, I want to make sure that the bleeding stops, or I’m going to make you go to the nurse.”