9. CHAPTER 9
He turns back to me. The silence stretches. I fidget and wrap my arms around myself, covering my bare torso.
His expression softens, and his voice is barely a murmur as he asks. “Are you okay?”
“I’ve been worse.”
He nods and an awkward quietness settles between us.
A scream pierces and disrupts the silence, echoing throughout the building. I flinch, and both our heads snap to where they took the second subject.
My arms drop, and I turn back to Wyatt. His jaw clenches. “Did you hear me too?” My question is a quiet whisper between us.
He exhales in a deep sigh, removing his glasses and running a hand down his face. When he returns his glasses, his eyes roam over every exposed inch of my skin. A slow perusal, taking in every remaining cut. Every darkened mark. Every blemish. And he nods, his eyes boring into my soul.
He clears his throat. “I wasn’t sure they’d bring you back.” He lowers himself to crossed legs next to me. “What did they do to you?”
“I can’t remember much. I was in and out of consciousness a lot.” I look down and pick at the cot. “I think they were doing tests on my healing abilities and trying to slow or reverse its rate.”
“Why would they want to do that?”
“They think my species is an abomination that shouldn’t exist. I’m pretty sure they even did a blood transfusion with human blood.”
“Blood transfusion. Interesting.” His eyebrows knit together. It’s as if I can see his brain turning that over. He’s so nerdy and cute. “I don’t think that would work. You consume blood as a food source, and while your body still operates off blood, it’s different from what you consume. I don’t think it would be as simple as switching it out. Your body isn’t designed to run off human blood.”
“Well, it didn’t work, so perhaps you’re right. I wish they were smart enough to come to that conclusion without all the tests.”
His head cocks to the side. “But that makes me wonder. How come Patrick bites you? Do Vanamisch typically feed from one another?”
“Ha.” A humorless laugh escapes me as my gaze drops to the floor. “Patrick likes to feed off of me because I remind him of my mother.” I clear my cough to clear my throat. “But to answer your question, Vanamisch can feed off of one another, but it’s a very vulnerable act either causing pain or pleasure so most don’t allow it to happen.”
“Makes sense.” He leans forward. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m sore and itchy, but the wounds they inflicted have mostly healed. I think the transfusion escalated my healing, though. My ribs seem fully healed, and I’d say my ankle is closer to a sprain now.”
His eyebrows rise. “That’s amazing.” He nods toward my ankle. “Do you mind if I look?”
“Not at all.” I straighten my leg, moving my bad ankle towards him. He scoots closer, resting my leg on his thigh. The warmth of his leg against my bare one sends tingles up my leg into my core. His fingers trail down my calf, pressing into my ankle.
“I’m going to move and turn it in different ways. Tell me if there’s any pain or discomfort.”
“Okay.”
He tilts my foot forward, pointing my toe and then pressing back towards my shin. His heart rate’s increasing, and a wide smile spreads across his face. “Anything?”
“No. That feels fine. It’s mostly sore on the inside.” My answer’s breathy, and goosebumps coat my skin.
“That’s unbelievable.” He turns my ankle to the left and right but stops when I tense. “Right there?” His thumb grazes lightly over the tender spot.
“Yeah.”
“Well, it’s for sure not broken anymore. Ha.” He shakes his head while still stroking my foot and ankle. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I didn’t feel it myself. That’s amazing.” He looks up into my eyes, the intensity of his stare stealing my breath and flushing my skin.
I moisten my lips to respond but flinch as another scream pulls our attention to the hall. The shout cuts off short, and I tense. Wyatt sets my foot back down on the cot. “How long was I back there?”
He rubs the back of his neck, his pecs shifting and stretching with the movement. “It’s hard to say without a clock, but my best guess is two or three hours.”
It’s hard not to just sit here ogling him. I’ve caught him checking me out too, so maybe he won’t mind much. “So, we have a bit of time to discuss things. How the hell are we getting out of here?”
He leans back, resting his arms behind him. “I say we stick to the original plan. Let your ankle heal fully then glamour and attack them to escape. I think it’s our only option right now.”
“My glamour won’t last long, I’m not good at it and I’ll need more blood to even attempt this—”
He cuts me off. “Would you be able to fake being drugged during testing?”
My brows furrow. “Where are you going with this?”
“We’re killing time while you heal so we can force our way past them. I think you should skip the drugged blood and only drink clean blood. But that might require you faking it if they come for you before you’re fully healed. So, I’m wondering how high your pain tolerance is and how well you can fake it.”
“It’s pretty high. I pretended to be unconscious for part of the last test, which is how I learned about the transfusion. But there’s no way to know if the blood they give me is drugged or not.”
He shakes his head. “No. You should dump any blood they give you in the toilet and not risk it.”
“My healing will take longer without the blood, drugged or not.”
“No, you need blood. But it should be clean blood. Like mine.” His heart rate increases, and lemon sourness wafts from him. The scent of fear has never been my favorite, but my mouth immediately waters at the thought of his warm blood sliding down my throat. Coating my tongue. I bet he tastes even better than he smells. With or without the bitterness, I just want to bury my face in his neck and breathe his scent deep into me.
“I can reasonably lose twenty percent with no major side effects, especially if I’m not doing anything strenuous. And it should regenerate within a day, making me strong enough to attempt the escape tomorrow.”
My gaze drops and locks onto his throat, lips parting, mouth salivating. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the movement, and my fangs slide free. Fuck! I’m barely holding back. I just want to lose myself in his taste… Bitter citrus floods the air, cracking into my senses. His fear. I don’t want him to be afraid of me. I look down, away from the vein running along the column of his neck, and shake my head to clear the urges. Closing my eyes, I will my fangs to retract. It takes longer than it should, but they eventually do and with a deep breath, I look back up to him.
“You want me to drink from you?” I breathe deeply through my mouth, avoiding his alluring scent, to help keep me in control. I can’t believe he’s considering this… Or how strongly my body is reacting to it.
His jaw clenches, but he nods. “It’s an option worth discussing if it helps get us both out of here faster.” He breaks eye contact, sitting up straighter and looking back the way the guys went. “We should wait until they leave, though.”
My stomach flutters, adrenaline rejuvenating my exhausted muscles. “Agreed.” I bite down on my lip, trying to suppress the smile threatening to spread. I’ve never had a physical reaction to feeding off someone like this. Normally it’s just a means to end hunger or a cherry on top of an intimate night. But this? It’s something more. It’s him. His smell. His character and demeanor. How he’s shifted from nurturing to a fierce protector. All things I’m not used to but now want more of. And he suggested this himself? Who would do that?
“Are there any side effects I should be aware of?” He’s trying to look so cool and collected, but his pulse and scent give him away. And yet, he’s still determined. Why? What’s the catch?
“Um. I usually glamour to blur the memory of feedings, but that doesn’t seem necessary this time. It will leave two tiny bruises where the fangs enter. After, I typically suck turning them into a larger bruise-like hickey. I guess that would depend on where I’m biting you.”
“If they see any marks or even a hickey, I’m assuming they’ll know what it is?”
I nod. “Probably.”
“I guess that leaves somewhere covered by my pants, then.” He swallows again and looks from his thighs to me.
“Probably the best choice. There’s an artery—”
“The femoral artery.” He nods more to himself. “I know.” Blows out a long breath of air. “Will twenty-ish percent be enough to help you heal faster?”
“Any amount would help, but don’t worry about the percentage. I know how much to take.”
“I thought you mostly drink from blood bags. How often do you feed from humans?”
“I used to feed from humans more when I was homeless and living on the street. But animals and humans are the same. There are physical signs I look for, like breathing, pulse, and pressure. Please trust that I won’t hurt you.” I want to touch him, reassure him but don’t want to freak him out further. I could glamour him, but this was his idea to begin with, and I don’t like the idea of messing with his memories. Plus, I’m truly awful at it. It wouldn’t stick anyway. Hmph.
“Surprisingly enough, I do. You’ve been nothing but honest with me since you awoke in this cage. I trust you. I’m just nervous.” He stands and comes closer, sliding down the glass wall next to me. He nods to my legs and arms. “So, what did they do to you?”
“I think they sliced up my legs, burnt parts of my arms, electrocuted me, and then the transfusion. Not sure what else. Those are the only times I woke.”
“Geez. May I?” He reaches his hand toward my arm. I want nothing more than for him to touch me. Okay, well, maybe I want his blood a tiny bit more. Or a lot more…
Air catches in my throat, stealing my voice. I nod and lift my arm.
His warm, soft thumb brushes over the pink flesh. “The explosion burned you worse. This is already fresh skin.” He lowers my arm and leans in a bit to examine the remaining gashes on my legs. “This one must’ve been deep. The ones from the glass shards closed fast, but they weren’t in too far. Can you get infections in wounds?”
His fingers are still brushing up my thigh, and the minty, woodsy scent distracts me. It takes a full minute to register he’s asked me a question. I clear my throat and look up. His eyes catch and hold my gaze, his thumb making slow circles on my leg as his smirk turns sultry. “I, uh, I guess technically we could. It would have to be a severe wound for our bodies not to start healing it, though.”
“Interesting.” He lets his hand slide off my leg as he sits back. “And you have the same bodily functions and monthly cycles as humans?”
I look down, placing my hands in my lap.
“Our female cycles are less frequent. I have one every three months. Our adaptation came from anemic patients, so I get extra hungry and depleted around that time. As far as bodily functions, yeah, they’re the same.”
“Amazing. And you said you were homeless?”
“Yeah. They put me into the foster care system when I was thirteen but, in some ways, it was worse than living with Patrick, so after a handful of terrible encounters, I ran away.”
“Was living on the streets really better than foster care?”
Oh gawd, I don’t want to go into specifics with him. It’s too painful to relive, and he probably already feels sorry for me. He repositions and his bicep brushes my shoulder, melting my resolve.
I don’t know what I’m doing with him or why my body’s responding this way. But I also don’t want it to stop. He just brushes my thigh or shoulder, and I can’t remember the last time something felt this pleasing. And I’m choosing to follow the good feelings, as rare as they are.
“Patrick would glamour or even pay them to ensure I was miserable. He made them do and say things. So yeah, it was worse than being stuck with him alone and being homeless was much better. Because then I only had to worry about myself.”
“Geez.” His shoulders tense, and he breathes through his nose. “I know you said losing a mate leads to suicide or insanity, so why hasn’t he just ended his life?” He slides his glasses up the bridge of his nose and cringes. “Ohh, sorry if that was too crude.”
“Ha, you’re fine. I think he’s just focused all that pain into hating and blaming me. It gives him a purpose, then. Or at least that’s what I assume.”
“You don’t have a mate, then?”
“Theory goes that everyone has a mate. It’s a soul-deep connection between two people, and once bonded, it makes them both stronger while they’re together. But weaker if apart. But no, I haven’t found one yet and honestly, I hope I don’t.”
He nods in understanding. “Soul mates seem a bit heavy. Guess there’s no divorce from a thing like that.”
“Nope, it’s meant for life. Too big of a commitment, in my mind, especially seeing the other side when it goes wrong.”
“How old were you when your mother passed?”
I don’t want to be talking about any of this, but I never talk about any of this. I’ve been on the run and living under aliases for so long, it’s kind of nice to share some of the truth with someone. “She had a hemorrhage while giving birth to me. It was too severe and happened too quickly for her body to heal itself.”
He sucks in a quick breath, his eyes bulging. “Oh, damn.” His nostrils flare, and he shakes his head in denial. “He blames you…for being born? Seriously?” Venom drips from his tone. His lips flatten into a straight line, and he balls his fingers into fists.
I nod slightly. “Pretty much. It would be easier to hate him for it all if I didn’t have her journals. She wrote about him and the epic love they shared. It makes me hate him a little less. And lets me feel like I know her a bit.”
He flexes his fingers, forcing them to unclench. “I get that. I still have my little sister’s sketch book. Doesn’t bring them back, but it’s like looking into a foggy glass of their personality.”
“Exactly.” He understands. When many others wouldn’t. I lean into his shoulder a little, holding my breath. Is this too much? Will he move away? But he leans into me too, and I relax. “How old were you when she passed?”
“I was fifteen. She was only ten.” His arms cross over his chest. “I’d just gotten my permit, and she was begging me for a ride. My parents worked late, and I thought we could run to the gas station and be back before they got home. It was supposed to be a quick stop for candy.” He stares off into a corner of the cell, lost in the memory, a faint smile lifting a corner of his mouth. “She loved Twizzlers.” His bicep bulges and presses into my shoulder as his grip tightens. “But a drunk driver ran a stop sign and hit the passenger side of the car. Someone called for an ambulance, but she passed in my arms before they arrived.”
Even knowing it had a bad ending, I wasn’t prepared for that. I never knew my mother, but at least that makes missing her more bearable. To have those kinds of memories is a double-edged sword. My heart clenches, and I rest my hand on his crossed arms. “No part of that is your fault.”
“Logically, I know that. But I’m still stuck on all the what-ifs. What if I followed my gut and just told her no? What if I made her popcorn instead of going out? What if we left earlier in the evening? What if we waited for our parents to get home? What if I knew more about wounds and emergency situations back then? There are hundreds…no, thousands of what-ifs. I’ve thought of them all, and none of them will bring her back. And that,” he swallows, “that feels like my fault.”
I’m not used to caring about how others feel. I’ve only ever been worried and focused on myself. But my heart’s breaking for him, and I don’t know how to process or manage these emotions. “I can understand that.” I blink back the unshed tears. “I’ve been told literally my whole life that if it weren’t for me, my mother would still be alive.”
“That’s so unfair. You had no choice or control over any of that. No part of that is your fault.”
I look at him with my head cocked. “I could say the same to you. Sometimes it doesn’t matter what choices you make, other shitty circumstances lead to disasters. Like being locked in a glass cage.” I shrug.
“Ha.” A humorless laugh escapes him, and he lowers his arms, fingers brushing my leg. “True. Aren’t we a depressing pair?”
The door at the end of the hall bangs open, the two guys dragging an unconscious man down the corridor. We sit mutely, trying to listen to what’s happening around the corner.
“Can you hear anything?” he leans and whispers into my ear, sending goosebumps down my neck.
“Faintly. They just dropped him inside a cell and locked it. And the deeper-voiced guy told the other one to bring us food before they leave for the night.”
His brows raise and his jaw drops. “You heard all that?” He scans me from head to toe. “Damn. That’s good hearing.”
I shrug. Not a few minutes later, the smaller guy brings a tray with a large sandwich, chips, a glass of water, raw steak, and a glass of blood. He places it in the window. “Put your dishes back on this tray when you’re done. We’ll exchange it in the morning.”
I can’t help myself. “How long are you holding us for?”
“For however long it takes. Be happy we’re feeding you so nicely. Other facilities aren’t so lucky.” He slams the window closed and walks away.
“Other facilities?” My voice cracks on the question.
“Seems maybe your Ambassadors missed some things. I mean, her glamour didn’t work on me. And obviously, these humans don’t like your kind.”
“You might be right. How many facilities like this could there be?” I anxiously bite my fingernails.
“I’m not sure. But we are escaping tomorrow night, regardless.”
Nodding, I get up, stretching, and retrieve the tray. His hungry gaze caresses my body as I carry it back to him. “Should I even attempt the steak?”
His eyebrow lifts as he considers. “I think it would look fishy if you don’t. We can pour the blood in the sink, but they’ll think it’s odd if you leave the steak. And honestly, I doubt they drugged the blood if they’re about to leave, but I’m not sure. It’s a gamble.”
A gamble not worth taking. Or is it that I just want to drink from him? I place the tray between us. “I think you’re right. I have to get rid of the steak, and I can dump the blood.”
He picks up the chips, popping the bag and munching on one. I walk over and pour the glass of blood down the drain.
We eat our remaining food in silence to ensure that our captors have truly left. The minutes seem longer and longer as my excitement grows. I’m glad his senses aren’t as keen as mine. It’s normally a semi-sexual experience, the other person’s arousal sparking my own desires. But that’s after the first pull of blood. I haven’t tasted him yet. Not his mouth or the saltiness of his skin. Nor the alluring richness of his warm, thick blood.
Why am I so obsessed already? I’m fairly full after the steak and my injuries are much better…and yet it’s taking a lot of willpower to keep a tight rein on my emotions. The constant pressure of my fangs demanding to burst free are causing an ache in my gums.
I can’t make the first move. I’ll pounce too quickly and scare him for good. Fuck, whatever this pull is between us, I need to calm the hell down. It will happen when it happens.
If it happens. Shit, what if he changes his mind? Ahh…then that will be fine, too. I’ll be fine. And I’ll let it go.
My gut tightens at that lie. I won’t be able to let it go. I won’t be fine. This needs to happen.
My steak long gone, my hands tighten on the empty white plate as I stare at the design etched on the side of the glass. I could try to glamour him. It’d be worth a try.
What the fuck? Stop!
That’s unnecessary. I’m not a monster.
“You okay over there?”
I startle, fumbling and almost shatter the plate. “What?” I gently set it down next to me and glance up to him. “Oh, um, yeah. I’m…yeah. I’m fine.”
A single arch of his brows. He’s analyzing me. My lie. He shakes his head but grabs my plate and his, placing them on the tray.
“So, should we do this thing? Get it done sooner rather than later?” He turns and walks the tray to the window, his heart rate increasing with each step. He returns, the bitterness of lemon floating from him.
“Yeah. Are you sure about this?” I hate that I’m asking and risking the opportunity when my entire body’s eager to pounce, but I hate that he fears me even more. I’ve never been a delicate little flower or an easy-going person. But I’m not someone to fear. And out of everyone I’ve encountered, it’s rubbing me the wrong way that he does. Even if he’s trying to mask it, I despise that it’s there at all.
“Ha. Not at all. So, let’s do it before I overthink it anymore.” He turns from me and unties his draw string. His torn scrub bottoms drop to the floor, revealing his firm, sculpted ass in tight black boxer briefs. Making my mouth water for completely different reasons. He turns back to face me with his hands, shielding his obvious bulge. Damnnn! My fangs slide down and back up as I fight the urges rolling through me. My dreams didn’t do him justice.
He leans against the glass wall and slides down to the floor, still trying, unsuccessfully, to hide his shape from me. “So, um. Which leg? Is there a preference?”
“Doesn’t matter.” I approach and kneel in front of him. The lemon sourness increases. “You don’t have to, you know. We can just wait it out and I can continue to dump the glasses of blood. I feel fine from the steak.”
“It will help you heal faster, which helps us get out of here faster. So, yes, I’m sure.” He turns, draping an arm over his bent knee while he lowers his right leg straight out in front of him. “Okay, let’s do it.” His heartbeat skyrockets and faintly, under the tangy bitter smell of his fear, I detect a spark of something else. The spicy scent of lust. It’s not strong, but it’s there.
I glide in between his legs, positioning myself at the top of his thigh, close to his groin for the best access to the artery. We stare into each other’s eyes, and I roll his right leg outward. He sucks in a breath when my eyes shift and my fangs lengthen. I slide further to the ground in a child’s pose over his thigh, my mouth over the artery. His pulse beats through his skin against my lips. I’ve never wanted to feed from a person this badly. I brush my tongue across his salty skin and his breath quickens. Tingles of anticipation race through my system, and I add pressure, pressing my teeth more firmly to his flesh. My fangs effortlessly sink deep into his muscle, piercing the artery with precision. He hisses and flinches from the sting, but my fingers tighten around his leg, holding him in place against my mouth.
Oh my god, the flavor. Bursts of ambrosia inflame my system. My stomach flutters, and a comforting warmth spreads throughout my body. I’m carried away by the sensations, and my bite deepens instinctively.