21. Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-One
Dacre
“Em, come on. Open the door.”
I’m replaying the whole ordeal as I stand next to her door. Luxxia’s hallways have bright, hand-spun glass globes on all the light fixtures, and every student decorates their door, so it’s a cacophony of color every step you take.
Immediately after we came to our senses in the kitchen, her eyes widened, and in the few seconds it took her to blink, she ran out the door. I’d have run after her immediately if I didn’t have to change out of my slacks.
I knock on her door again, noting the decorations.
She’s painted her door a mixture of light blue and pink, with little white stars covering it from top to bottom. Atop that are iridescent, glued-on stars, reminiscent of the sprinkles she uses on all her desserts.
I knock again.
“Go away,” she says, her voice muffled.
“Let’s talk about this like adults, okay?”
There’s no immediate answer and no movement inside. This is what I was trying to prevent, a colossal mess. I shouldn’t be here at her door.
I wait a few more minutes, and just as I think about leaving and coming back, the door opens.
“This doesn’t change anything. Don’t think it does,” she says.
I stare at her. I never thought it did, and I didn’t want it to. Holding out a box of Quik-Recover, I wait for her to take it. It increases red blood cell production temporarily. Usually used for emergencies, but Emma has never donated before. She might be sensitive to blood loss.
“Just because I let you . . . It doesn’t mean anything. Okay?”
“Okay . . . Feel better?”
Her cheeks flush, and I think she’ll shut the door in my face until I grasp a strand of her hair and twirl it in my fingers.
“So when you said you . . . didn’t think you could.”
“Dacre.”
Suddenly, I like my name in her mouth, like I like the faint taste of her on my lips and the smell of her on my clothes.
I’ve tasted her, and that scent that is usually unbearable is now a welcoming hug to my senses.
Drinking her blood felt as if my world, once scattered, jagged, and broken, suddenly mended.
As if tasting her for mere seconds was a healing balm to all my senses.
“You’re a virgin,” I pry because the only way I know to get her to keep talking to me is to be annoying.
“No. Actually, I’m not. Not that it’s your business,” she whispers, peeking around me in the hallway to make sure no one is around.
“But . . . this person . . . didn’t make you come.”
“It wasn’t his fault. I’ve never . . . I had never. How was he supposed to know?”
Oh, Emma.
“Uh-huh.”
“This is embarrassing enough for me without you rubbing it in. You win this one, okay? Just give me at least an hour to do damage control before you broadcast this to the whole university—”
I place my hand on the door to prevent her from closing it in my face.
“I’m not going to tell anyone. This is supposed to be our secret, remember?”
“Then why do I feel as if I’m going to wake up with an article about this on the forums?”
Emma’s remarkably good at controlling her expressions. At her initiation, her line delivery and smiles were all smooth, but she’s slipping before my eyes. Her fingernails are scraping the paint off the doorframe.
“Can I come in?”
The bite mark is still fresh on her neck, peeking from beneath her collar.
She flustered physically. Her nipples are erect through her shirt, and I sense the remaining wetness between her legs.
Emma’s guard is down. Normally, this would be a great time for me to leave her feeling confused and prevent this from progressing any further. Yet I walk into her room when she opens the door.
Her room is equal parts rainbow and tornado. It’s a collage of colors thrown everywhere—the bed, the clothes in the closet. I can’t help but smile when I spot a cat poster next to her bed.
She wedges herself between me and the poster. “It’s . . . I like this one. I didn’t want to get rid of it when I moved.”
I’m not surprised by any of it. I take a full breath and smile. I’ve never been closer to being smothered by her scent, and it’s . . . comforting. Like sitting next to a warm fire in the dead of winter.
“I have to tell you something.” I motion to her bed. “You should sit.”
“Is it mean? If it is, can we hold off until tomorrow? I’m really tired.”
“It’s not mean. I promise.” I guide her to sit, and she complies.
“Is this mine?” I point to an embroidered napkin on her nightstand that looks oddly familiar.
“No . . .”
“It has my initials.”
“I accidentally picked it up at dinner that one time . . .” She cleans the dirt from under her nails as she meets my gaze. “I was going to give it back.”
I pick it up to sniff, and it’s just what I thought.
“You kept it because of the smell, didn’t you?”
“No . . . Yes. I was going to give it back . . . eventually . . . when the smell wore off.”
“This is why I need to talk to you. You don’t need to feel embarrassed by any of this, because this isn’t your fault . . .”
There are a million reasons I shouldn’t tell her, but every time I think of leaving her in here to suffer in embarrassment and worry, I know I have to.
What’s more, for the first time . . . I want to tell her. She deserves to know, and the alternative is that I keep pushing her away, and that’s clearly not working.
She waits with her hands in her lap.
“We’re scent-matches. That’s the reason for all our issues, really.”
She shifts nervously. “Like . . . scent-matches in romance books?”
I’ve seen her reading occasionally in the dining room and on her breaks, but I can never get a look at the title.
“They make romance books about scent-matches?”
“Well, yeah, kind of. There are these books about a girl who enters the Donor Program, but then discovers her scent-match is her donee’s brother.”
“Okay . . . Well, in the real world, that’s you and me. It means your scent . . . your pheromones and blood appeal to me, and mine to you. Well, less probably, because you can’t smell my blood. I’m the one really suffering here.”
“I thought that scents were mostly a Were thing.”
“Not Were-exclusive, no. I may not be able to detect emotions with your scent . . . But it still tells me things. We smell hormone changes.”
A beautiful rose blush ignites beneath her cheeks.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” I thrust the cloth napkin into her hand. “Why do you think you kept this?”
“I couldn’t stop smelling it . . . I slept with it a few times.” She presses her fingers to her lips at her admission. “This is the reason you hate me, isn’t it? You knew the day you met me . . . You’ve known this whole time.”
“Yeah, and I haven’t told a soul. I wasn’t going to tell you, but . . .” I shrug. “You deserved to know after today.”
She leans forward to sniff me. “I thought it was weird when I couldn’t stop thinking about the way you smelled.”
“Yeah, our bodies . . . naturally attract each other. That’s why I can’t seem to stay away from you, despite my best efforts.”
“My sisters are going to freak out.”
“I’d prefer you not tell anyone.” I know better than to believe she won’t. What does she owe me?
“I won’t say anything. At least for now, while I wrap my brain around it.”
There’s a tinge of red on her neck.
“You should let me help patch you up.”
She touches the wound. “I don’t need your help.”
“Your other option is that I put you over my shoulder and drop you at the nurse’s office, where there will definitely be questions.”
“No.” She immediately straightens.
“I just want to make sure that it’s clean and that it will heal well.” I can’t leave her walking around with a poorly tended wound.
“Okay.”
She swallows as I take a seat next to her on the bed.
I take out the healing balm and bandages from my pocket, which I had stored in my room, and move the hair from her neck. The sight of my bite mark sends my blood south. It’s a perfect indentation. I rub the healing balm on my thumb and then softly over the wound.
“Does it hurt?” I ask.
“No . . .” Her pulse rises beneath my thumb.
“You’ll need to wear a sweater or something for a day or two and shower tomorrow morning.”
For the first time, Emma is silent, and in the midst of her room, it’s eerily quiet. Something tells me this place is rarely without music or some type of TV show going on in the background.
“Are you lightheaded?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I was just thinking about how this makes sense. I thought . . . there was something wrong with me. I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t make you like me.”
“The only thing wrong with you is that the way you smell makes me crazy.”
“That’s why you helped me, then . . . ?”
“Yeah.” That’s the simplest way of putting it.
“I guess this means you still won’t tell me about what happened in the kitchen.”
Shit. I almost forgot about that. I’d tried so hard to forget.
“I don’t want to get you involved in my shit. But yes, the guy you saw exists. He’s a . . . friend of the family. And I do have a little sister. She’s sixteen, and I think she’s mostly safe from that man you saw. So, no need to worry.”
The edges of her smile tug upward. Knowing Emma, she wants to ask me more, but the blood loss must be affecting her. Her eyes are heavy as she fingers my napkin in her hand.
“Keep that. You need to sleep.” I stand up despite the urge to stay. “Maybe next time, I won’t be so careless and bite you in the middle of a public area.”
It’s her sacred space, and not only does it smell amazing, but it’s also filled to the brim with interesting things about her I want to learn.
“Next time? There’s no next time. You explained it to me. I get it now. Let’s leave it like that.”
“You’re sure?”
She bites her lip and throws the napkin. “I’m sure. Now get out of my room.”
“If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”