6. Oscar
Chapter 6
Oscar
T he plan was to sneak Trent into the covenhouse, patch him up, and leave with no one the wiser. Oscar had texted Justin on the ride there, letting him know what had happened. He wanted to avoid a tedious explanation to either Freddie or Anthony about the fight. In and out, fast as lightning.
He was quickly disabused of that notion.
Trent’s pain must have gotten worse, because he allowed Oscar to assist him in getting out of the car. They made their way slowly and silently into the building and through the abandoned lobby. It had been an office space once, open and filled with desks and computers. It was all a front for his old coven, a ruse to make the humans think the place was a bustling Fortune 500 company. Freddie had ordered everything cleared but had yet to decide what to replace it with, which left behind something of a concrete cavern, a dark, echoey atrium that turned a little creepy at night.
They reached the elevator and took it up to the third floor, which served as the coven’s large common area. When the doors slid open, Anthony was waiting for them. The diminutive voice teacher immediately rushed to Trent’s side.
“Are you okay? Justin said you were wounded.”
Trent winced at Anthony’s touch. Oscar guided him out of the coven master’s mate’s reach.
“It’s just a flesh wound,” Oscar said, ushering Trent down the hall, deftly navigating around the various Victorian end tables and armoires. Freddie couldn’t bear to leave an inch of a room empty. Instead he took a maximalist approach, which meant that the walls were covered with colorful woven tapestries and period knick-knacks perched on the credenzas and sideboards.
“I’ll tend to him in the kitchen and we’ll get out of your hair.”
“Are you kidding me?!” Anthony trailed behind them, gesticulating as he always did when he got worked up. “If you think I’m letting the two of you leave without getting to the bottom of this, you’re insane.”
As they turned into the kitchen, Oscar guided Trent to the wall opposite the seldom-used stove and eased him down into the small wooden chair that stood there. Trent hadn’t said a word since they’d walked through the door. Oscar wasn’t sure if it was because of the pain, or if he was uncomfortable being there.
He bent down and opened a drawer in the rectangular kitchen island. Inside was a collection of simple medical supplies: gauze, tape, bandages, suturing needles, a bottle of alcohol. For the most part, the items were unnecessary for vampires, but the coven members had human friends and family that visited often.
Turning back, Oscar winced at the sight of Trent’s blood-soaked t-shirt. Trent’s eyes were closed. Oscar leaned down and whispered gently into his ear.
“I need to take off your shirt.”
Trent nodded mutely, and gingerly lifted his arms without opening his eyes, like a sleepy child.
Oscar grasped the black tee by the bottom edge and pulled it over Trent’s head. Trent grunted as the fabric came unstuck from his wound. As Oscar wriggled the neck past his ears, his blonde hair flopped adorably. Oscar tossed the garment to the side and glanced back at Trent.
He shouldn’t have done that. Trent’s torso was exposed, and he was solid . He had the big biceps and muscular chest of a football player, and his rock hard abs were covered with a thin layer of fat. He was mostly smooth, except for the fine hair on his forearms, and the cutest sparse blonde treasure trail.
Oscar’s appreciative thoughts were quickly squashed by the sight of Trent’s injury. Four clear parallel cuts, red and raw and exposed, dripping blood once more now that there was nothing to staunch the bleeding.
“Fucking god,” a voice from behind him said. Oscar glanced over his shoulder to see Anthony staring from the doorway.
“It’s better than it looks,” Trent mumbled, bringing his hand to his face and rubbing his eyes.
“It would have to be,” Anthony replied. “You’re alive.”
Oscar retrieved a plastic bottle of alcohol and gauze pads from the island. He crouched down next to Trent. His cheek was right by the man’s broad chest.
“I don’t think you need stitches, but this is going to hurt a little.”
Trent nodded, although Oscar thought he might be drifting off. He poured a few drops of alcohol on a pad and touched it to the topmost cut.
Trent breathed in sharply, his hands gripping at the sides of the chair and his eyes snapping open.
“Fuck.”
Well, he was awake now. Oscar worked as fast as he could, but he wouldn’t risk infection. His fingers made their way across the damaged skin tenderly. Tenderness was not something Oscar had known much of, or something he trafficked in, but seeing Trent there brought it out in him.
He just wanted his classmate to be okay, for his smooth, tan skin to be unmarred by scars and injury. He had to reverse the wound, to make it as if it had never been. He didn’t know why it was so important. Trent had said he’d been in vampire fights before. Still, something about touching him like this made Oscar’s chest open up. It felt raw, unprotected, to be caring for Trent in this way.
When he hit one particularly tender area, Trent yelped in pain, and Oscar’s heart leapt into his throat. Why was he having this reaction? He wasn’t squeamish. He’d killed vampire and human alike. Was it just that he was responsible because Trent had saved his life? Every sigh and moan caused another crack to run down Oscar’s cool facade.
When the cuts were clean, he covered the area with a large piece of cotton gauze, holding it in place with medical tape. Oscar stepped back to admire his handiwork. Trent looked almost rugged with the bandage. It was a contrast to his innocent, midwestern face and sun-kissed skin. And it was sexy as hell.
Oscar forced away the thought. This man despised him and clearly had a thing against vampires in general. He was straight! Yet Oscar couldn’t help drinking in the sight of Trent as he relaxed against the wooden chair with his eyes closed.
“How are you feeling, Trent?” Anthony asked, startling Oscar. He hoped he hadn’t been staring for too long.
Trent’s eyes fluttered open. “Okay. The sting is duller.”
Anthony stepped toward him, reaching out to help him up.
“Good. Let’s go sit you down in the common area. I can get some ibuprofen for the pain.”
Trent grabbed Anthony’s hand and heaved himself up. As they moved to the door, Trent looked over at Oscar with a strange look on his face. A question. Did he not want to leave Oscar?
“I’ll be right there,” Oscar said. A smile sprang up unbidden at Trent’s expression. “I just need to wash your blood off my hands.”
“That is a weird thing to hear,” Trent said, chuckling low. A spark of electricity ran up Oscar’s spine at the deep, rich sound.
What was wrong with him?
As Trent and Anthony left, Oscar went over to the porcelain farmhouse sink, tossing the scraps of gauze and medical tape in the trash as he passed it. He turned on the water and held out his hands.
There wasn’t too much to wash off. The wound had dried, other than a few drips when the t-shirt was removed. A quick rinse and he was clean.
Except for a single droplet of Trent’s blood that sat on the side of the knuckle of Oscar’s right pointer finger.
He didn’t know why he did it. It was an impulse, a sudden desire with no logic or reason. After staring at the burgundy bead for a long moment, he brought his hand to his face and licked it off.
His vision blew out in a bright rainbow of color. The taste of it exploded his senses, and a thrilling tingle ran from his tongue, down his throat, and spread to every inch of his body. He was overwhelmed with the sensation.
Never mind the sweet, perfect flavor of it. Honey and clove. It was all Oscar wanted to taste for the rest of his life. The intense, thrilling assault on his senses could only mean one thing.
No. He couldn’t be Trent’s mate. Would the universe do this to him? Would fate give him a mate who despised the very idea of it? A man who wanted nothing to do with vampires? Who wanted nothing to do with him ? Who probably hated him?
Oscar knew better. He’d already been convinced once that he had a fated mate by Elliott, who used him and manipulated him with the power of that belief. A bond like that, an unbreakable connection, was a dangerous weapon. It could be held over your head, deployed to force you to do things you never wanted to do. To have a fated mate was to be constantly open to emotional blackmail. After all, who could deny anything to their predestined match? And who wouldn’t commit any evil act to save their fated one from harm?
Images of the past flashed in front of his eyes, shame and powerlessness flooding him as he relived the moments with his ex in his old coven. Elliott declaring his love and claiming Oscar as his mate. Elliott drinking from him over and over, yet denying Oscar a single drop. Oscar growing weaker and weaker as he was not even allowed to feed on the rats.
Seeing Elliott lying there, his life’s blood pooling on the gray carpet, and feeling a horrible mix of grief and loss…and overwhelming relief.
He knew better now. Having a mate would open himself to deep hurt. The kind of hurt he’d left behind in his more innocent past. The kind of hurt he’d vowed never to allow himself to feel again.
But…
Oscar’s reaction had been unlike anything he’d ever experienced. He’d tasted human blood thousands of times in his undead life. Never had it made him feel like that. As much as he wanted to run from it, to insist that the idea of fated mates was a refuge for the weak and lonely, now he knew better. Because that one drop of Trent’s blood? The flavor of that was life-changing.
He had to accept the truth. Trent was his mate.
He turned on the hot water, pumping hand soap on his palms and thoroughly scrubbing them clean. He stared down into the white basin of the sink, the liquid swirling a light shade of pink as the remains of Trent’s wound on his hands swirled down the drain. A divot appeared in the liquid. Then another and another.
He was crying.
He wiped away his tears and swallowed down the lump in his throat.
None of this mattered. Oscar had made a promise to himself. He couldn’t trust someone again like he had trusted Elliott. Certainly not yet another man that didn’t value him, that thought he was nothing.
He had dealt with pain before. Denying himself his mate would be more of the same. He would never tell Trent the truth. He could weather the hunger, the need for connection that already roiled in his gut. He would build a life alone. Safe.
That would have to be enough.