Chapter 8 Quin #2
Quin snorted. “Sage used to call me Quinbacca.”
Kit pressed a finger to the glass. “Is that him?”
“Yep,” Quin said. At that age, perhaps eleven or twelve, Sage was all gangly limbs and an oversized hoodie, topped off with a wide, lopsided grin that showed off his braces. “My parents,” Quin added, pointing to them where they stood on either side of him, their arms slung across his shoulders.
“Your mum is pretty,” Kit said, circling her face before moving onto Quin’s dad. “Well, hello there, Daddy.”
Quin choked on his own spit. “Please don’t call him that.”
Kit craned his neck around, eyes studying Quin. “Too close to home?”
“Something like that,” Quin said, eager to move the conversation along. It was not the time to explain to Kit what the word Daddy meant to him, and why it should never be used to refer to Quin’s own father, or why hearing Kit say it in his soft Scottish accent made Quin’s dick twitch.
No.
Definitely not the time.
Not yet.
“Come on,” Quin said, shooing Kit away from the mantel. “You’ve done enough snooping. Sit down and I’ll put the fire on.”
“I don’t experience temperature the same way as you.”
“Well, I’m putting the fire on, regardless,” Quin said, resolute.
Kit sat down on the armchair, but instead of sitting on the actual seat, he sat on the arm and put his feet on the seat. “What?” he asked at Quin’s inquisitive look.
“Nothing,” Quin said as he worked on setting the fire.
It didn’t take long for the firestarter to catch, the kindling popping and crackling as the flames spread.
Quin wondered if it might be too forward to put a candle on.
One glance at Kit had him doing it anyway.
So, he rooted around the junk drawer—which looked like it’d been established years ago, not weeks—for a lighter.
He lit the candle, testing the scent with a quick sniff.
It had been a gift from Sage, but he’d not used it before now.
“What’s that supposed to smell like?” Kit asked, wrinkling his nose.
“Not good?”
Kit cocked his head, reading the label. “What the fuck is ‘Flannel in Plaid’?”
Quin shrugged, taking another whiff of the scent. “Lumberjack?”
“Quin, you can’t just say something smells like lumberjack and leave it at that. What’s lumberjack odour?”
“Chopped wood,” Quin said, sure of his answer.
“That does not smell like wood.”
Quin put the candle back down. “I quite like it, whatever it is.” He settled himself on the sofa.
He was about to ask if Kit wanted some music on when his eyes caught on something that stopped him dead.
The sleeves of Kit’s grey cashmere jumper had pulled up, revealing stark red marks all around Kit’s wrists.
The marks looked like the imprint of someone’s hands. Quin opened his mouth to—ask? Demand that Kit tell him who did it? Plead for Kit to open up to him? He wasn’t even sure. All he felt was his face flushing with anger and a deep-seated need for action.
Kit got there first, however, yanking his sleeves back down to cover the marks. “Don’t. Or I’ll leave.”
“Just tell me one thing,” Quin said, mentally crossing his fingers that Kit would consider at least answering this question.
Kit’s jaw clenched, staying silent.
It was as close to an agreement as Quin would get. “Do you need to feed more? To heal?”
Kit seemed thrown, no doubt thinking that Quin was going to ask about the marks despite his preemptive refusal to speak of them. “I…could do with more blood,” Kit said slowly. It was like even admitting to that tiny weakness tore something from his soul.
Quin nodded. “Can I help with that?”
Kit’s brows drew together. “How?”
“I have plenty of blood to spare.”
“You would let me feed on you?” Kit asked, his eyes dilating.
“Of course.” That Quin managed to sound casual about the offer was a small miracle.
Kit didn’t look convinced, but his sharp fangs poked out from under his top lip. Even the glimpse of them had Quin’s temperature rising.
“You must bite strangers all the time,” Quin reasoned. “Wouldn’t it be nicer with someone you know?”
“And here I thought kids were taught not to bite other kids,” Kit said.
“Not in my neck of the woods. So, throat or wrist?”
Kit gritted his teeth. “I haven’t said yes yet.”
“Including the word ‘yet’ there implies to me you will, in fact, agree,” Quin pointed out.
Kit glared at him before speeding across the room, stopping in front of him. “It can hurt.”
Quin flashed his own teeth at Kit. “I don’t think you’ll let me get hurt.” He held out his wrist, exposing the thin skin on the underside, blue veins standing out, stark and vulnerable.
“I’ve never fed from a werewolf before,” Kit lisped, fangs now dominating his mouth. Quin probably shouldn’t find the sight cute, but he couldn’t see Kit as anything but unthreatening.
“It’s no different to feeding from a human,” Quin assured him, before thinking about it harder. “At least, I don’t think it is. The curse is magic, so I don’t know how it affects my blood.”
“So, I just have to suck it and see?” Even though Kit was still making noises about refusing, he eyed up Quin’s wrist with interest.
Quin raised one eyebrow in challenge. After a few beats in which he could practically see the cogs turning in Kit’s mind, Kit seemed to reach a conclusion. He snatched Quin’s wrist and sank his fangs into his flesh.
The pain of being bitten quickly morphed into pleasure when Kit looked up through his pale lashes and their eyes met.
Quin hadn’t met anyone with eyes like Kit’s before—that deep purple-blue of the sky right before dusk on a clear summer night.
He wondered if they’d been so otherworldly before he became a vampire, or if they’d always been that way.
Kit’s claws pressed lightly into Quin’s skin, reminding him that no matter the pretty exterior, Kit could rip Quin to shreds.
Despite his strength, Kit was gentle as he sucked Quin’s blood.
He took his time over it, savouring it in a way that Quin never could with his favourite meals.
It gratified Quin to know that his very blood was going to sustain Kit.
And Quin couldn’t help but find the notion of something of his own living inside of Kit utterly erotic.
Quin wished he could reach out and cradle Kit’s head as he fed. He just knew that those blond curls would be feather soft. He placed his spare hand on the arm of the sofa and pressed his fingers into the material, lest he overstep and act upon his desires.
And then it was over—far sooner than Quin expected. Kit pulled away from his wrist, lips stained red. Quin wouldn’t have thought he’d want to taste his own blood, but he supposed that nobody was ever too old to learn something new about themselves.
The sight of Kit licking his lips just about did Quin in. And that’s when he noticed a certain body part of his own had taken interest.
Quin groaned before he could stop himself.
“Did I take too much?” Kit asked, eyes going wide as his gaze dipped down to where Quin’s jeans were slightly tented. “Oh!”
Quin covered his crotch with both hands. “Shit. I’m sorry.”
“It happens.”
“Wait, you give everyone you bite a boner?”
Kit blinked. “No. I just said that to make you feel better.”
Quin was touched and embarrassed in equal measure. Thankfully, the feeling was enough to kill his arousal. “My bad.”
Kit waved a dismissive hand. “It’s fine. You were doing me a solid.”
“I think if one of us was doing the other a solid here…” Quin said, a tentative grin spreading across his face.
The corners of Kit’s lips twitched. “That was terrible, and you know it.”
“It was. But you’re smiling.”
“I’ve never done such a thing in my life,” Kit said, though he finished his statement by covering his mouth with one hand.
“What you got going on under there?” Quin asked.
“Nothing,” came Kit’s muffled response.
“Take your hand off your mouth.”
“No.”
Contentment washed over Quin. He knew his blood would help Kit heal from whatever had happened to his wrists.
The only issue Quin had now was getting Kit to tell him the truth.
He knew Kit well enough to know that he wouldn’t give that information up without a fight.
Despite his usual patience, Quin couldn’t ignore Kit’s suffering.
Kit took his hand from his mouth and inspected Quin’s wrist. “It won’t leave a mark,” he said.
“Wouldn’t mind if it did.” Quin held Kit’s gaze for a moment too long for it to only be friendly. Kit looked away, his cheeks flushing.
“Full moon is coming up again soon,” Kit said, settling himself back into the armchair.
“It is indeed.”
“What happens when you change?” Kit asked. “Could I be a willing companion on this occasion?”
“You’d want to meet with me?”
“Sure. Pretty sure your wolf already likes me.”
Like would be an understatement, but Quin tamped down his elation at the offer. He had to play it cool. “He does! We do. I mean, we’re the same, kinda.” He managed a smile that he hoped was more certain than his words.
“You’re separate from your wolf?”
“It’s complicated. Some werewolves see us and our wolves as one being. But it isn’t like that for me. I’m a bit disconnected from my beast.” Quin hoped that opening up to Kit like this would encourage him to do the same.
“Interesting,” Kit said. “I suppose it’s sometimes how I feel about being a vampire. Like it’s not quite me. Just one side of me.” Kit looked into the fire, the light throwing shadows across his face.
“Look at us, getting all philosophical,” Quin said, laughing.
Kit didn’t hide his smile that time. “It’s nice to have someone who gets it.”
“You can tell me anything.”
Kit continued looking into the fire, staying quiet. Quin would have to bide his time. He’d wait as long as Kit needed, but he just hoped that Kit would tell him before he got hurt again.
Quin could take a lot, but when it came to Kit’s well-being, he was coming to realise that he had a short fuse.