Page 84 of Bite Me

“I’ve been hearing a lot about you.”

From whom? Dacre? Something tells me this won’t be a welcome surprise. Anything related to Dacre’s family reminds me of that night in the kitchen. Thankfully, that man is nowhere to be seen, but I’m not going to assume friendliness.

I don’t have time to dwell on it. As he sits in the corner of the room to watch me, I focus on my work.

I almost drop the soup in my hand when I knock, this time harder. Upon pressing my head against the door, I hear movement inside. Dacre knows I’m here; he’s just refusing to open our door.

I stayed after lunch just to cook in the silence of the kitchen so I could gather my thoughts. I wondered how in the world I was able to get the runner-up spot. Verity was seething. Luther won, which is apparently a first because Dacre wasn’t there.

“Hey, are you going to explain what that was?” I try again.

“You shouldn’t be here.” His voice is muffled on the other side of the door.

“This is our room, remember? Come on. I brought you soup, and you’re letting it get cold.”

Dacre opens the door, shirtless. He’s sweaty, and his hair is unruly. I swallow, taking in every muscle.

“You’re . . . sick?”

Dacre’s whole demeanor is different. I feel it in my body, even feet away from him. His usual calm, nonchalant aura is smothered in something more alluring as he white-knuckles the doorframe. I take another breath as he leans in closer.

“What makes you say that?”

“Because . . . You just look . . . Luther said.”

His eyes shift from emerald to charcoal. He grabs me by the waist and locks the door behind me, not releasing me while a hand pins me to the door. I gasp when his lips graze my neck, and he inhales deeply.

“You made this for me?” His lips stay on my neck, but he takes the soup from my hand.

“I thought you were sick.”

“Maybe I am. Maybe . . . you should make me feel better.”

“Dacre . . . Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I’m fine.”

The warmth of his hands cups my cheek. It’s so intimate, whatever this is between us. I try to control my breathing, but the wave of Dacre’s scent hits me again, and I’m caught by the heady air. I can’t stop looking at those eyes. Wild, untapped desire. Demanding.

I take another breath, adjusting to the warmth of his skin on mine. I don’t hate it like I should. He’s calling my bluff. But I don’t say things unless I’m prepared for the consequences.

“What is it . . . that you want from me?”

“Maybe I don’t want anything. Maybe I . . . want to give.” His thumb rubs my cheek, and his fingers run down the pulse in my neck.

He leans in as heat fills my lungs, my veins, my limbs. I’m flushed from the hum of his lips across my neck. I think he’s going to bite me when he pulls back.

It’s as if I’m in a trance. As if someone has hijacked my body and my brain. It’s a natural reaction to his pursuit, and there’s comfort in it and a pulsing craving.

“You can touch me . . . if you tell me what’s going on. No lying.”

“Oh, you’re making demands now?”

“Yes.” I hold the power here. “I want you to tell me the truth for once.”

He’s not giving me any room, with his chest pressed against mine, but there’s that scent again. All consuming and delicious.

“I can’t do casual. Because . . . if we’re scent-matches, then it will already be hard enough without complicating this for . . . pleasure,” I say.