Page 56 of Reapers Don’t Ride

“Do you want to drink from my arm or my neck?”

“Neither. Get me a blood bag if you don’t want me to get up.”

“You need warmth as well as blood. You’re getting it from me. That’s what I want from you for my birthday, for you to drink my blood and recover quickly. Please, Ruby.”

“You don’t want my cake?” My heart trembled with misery before he grabbed my hand and pressed a hard kiss to the back of it.

“I want your cake. I’ll eat the cake while you drink my blood. It’ll be perfectly perfect.”

“Is it your birthday?” My whole body was aching weirdly. Numb and tingling, like it wasn’t sure if it was dead or alive.

“It passed while you were unconscious. Please. Let me hold you while you drink from me.” His eyes were so sincere and beautiful.

I wrapped my arms around him and then carefully bit his neck, making sure not to tear any of his precious skin. His blood wasn’t as sweet. No, it was sweet, but his feelings were part of what I was feeding on, and feeding on blind love was much sweeter than miserable desperation. It reminded me of the way I’d felt when David got sick, when the doctor said he wasn’t going to make it, running out into the cold night to find a way around death.

Was Gavriel really playing his part so well? No. You couldn’t fake emotions that you transferred to your blood, your life essence. Was he actually becoming attached to me, like I was fixated on him?

He wrapped his arms around me and held me so tenderly, pressing kisses to my hair, feeding me his warmth, his life, through his sheer will. But I wasn’t alive. Why wasn’t I alive?

I drowned in his blood, in his misery, feeling it echo inside of me, feelings that I thought I’d dealt with a century ago. Apparently, ignoring emotions and going numb were not the same as actually processing them.

I lay in his strong arms, feeding slowly until the weirdness of my body was healed by his blood. It seemed like his will was involved, but I couldn’t tell.

I woke up from another hibernation, but this time, he wasn’t ironing my shirt. He was still wrapped around me, dried blood sticking him to me.

I was so happy.

I was also incredibly miserable. He actually had feelings for me. I’d drunk his misery, and he was still holding onto me, past the point anyone would need to do for a cover.

“You lied,” I said.

He tightened his grip on me, the scent of nerves and relief heavy on his skin. “In the bed. Is that a problem? You wanted to feed standing upright? I’m afraid your blood leaked out of you more in that position.”

“About eating the cake while I fed. Was it crushed?”

He pulled away, but we weren’t stuck as much as I’d expected. Probably because he moved even when he was sleeping. Because he was alive, and I was not.

“The cake is fine. It’s in the refrigerator in the box, which is spelled to maintain freshness.”

“I need to return her cake box,” I murmured, but I was looking into his glorious eyes, feeling things too strong to bear. I needed to protect him, but I also wanted him to protect me. I wanted him to love me and adore me with every beat of his heart and every bone in his body. I wanted to make him the axis of my world upon which I spun, always turning towards him.

And he had feelings for me. Why did he have feelings for me? I was a murderous vampire, and he liked angelic musicians.

He touched my face, my lips, brushing his thumb against a fang.

Oh. I’d fed on him twice. That’s where his attachment was coming from. Feeding on angels was addictive, and being fed on by vampires was addictive. We were in the middle of a truly unhealthy relationship.

“We’ll return the cake box together.” His growl sent a shiver down my spine. Other than that one shiver, I was mostly warm, comfortable soaking in his love and soul. I was feeding on his love like I’d fed on his blood. I couldn’t do that, or I’d be a real monster.

He needed to give me distance, and that meant that I had to destroy his love before it destroyed him. I swallowed hard. “His name was David.”

His forehead wrinkled. “The men who attacked you? You knew them?”

I shook my head and felt so sick. “When I was alive, I worked at a bookstore, my mother’s, but she died and it went to the bank, was bought by another…I still worked there, and it was a good position for a woman of that time. David came into the shop looking for a book of poetry. I don’t remember if it was Keats or Longfellow. But we talked for an hour. He came to the bookstore more and more often until he asked me to go to dinner with him.”

“Why are you telling me this? It hurts you. You don’t have to⁠—”

I covered his soft mouth with my hand and shook my head. “We were so in love, at least, I thought it was both of us. He was my first love, my only love. That love burned brighter and brighter with each passing day until I was on fire with it. He was the only thing I wanted, and he seemed to want me too, but then he got sick.”