Chapter 8
LEAH
The vampire’s nostrils flare as we enter my bedroom. He stalks toward my shelves, and I fidget uncertainly by the door, like this is some sort of date or I’ve brought a boy home after prom. I scowl, hating the way he makes me feel—uncertain and awkward and small.
You might like that one, Leah. Feeling small is a novelty for me, with my frame and the amount of muscle I have.
He lifts a scented candle and examines it like he’s never seen one before.
The vampires I’ve killed have lived luxurious existences.
But something tells me that everything from my haphazard stacks of books to the crystals Karina gifted me are a novelty to him.
He certainly seemed uncomfortable in the cozy kitchen of my great-aunt’s Victorian.
“Light it,” he growls.
My face burns. He’s made it abundantly clear that I repulse him, while I am helplessly fascinated by the play of muscle under his shirt.
Predator, Leah.
“Light it yourself.” I stalk to the dresser and pull out an extra blanket. “Here.”
He takes it warily.
“No chains?”
My heart squeezes. I imagine him as a newly turned and terrified young vampire, chained and forced to fight. No one deserves that.
I hold up the shoelace I dug out of my closet, torn from an old pair of hiking boots. “I’ll tie our ankles together. Neither of us goes anywhere without the other knowing.”
He angles his head, face unreadable, shoulders taut. “You want me to share your bed.”
I flush hotter. “Not like that.” Not when he thinks I’m repulsive. The thought makes me scowl, and then scowl again that I even care.
“You sleep during the day?” he asks.
“For hunting.”
“I suppose that’s what the chains are for too?” The muscles of his stomach tense like he’ll pounce at any moment.
I nod. “They could be useful against your brother. They’re spelled to be unbreakable by vampires. Spilled blood makes them tighten.”
His face shutters. In that moment, I feel like I’m the monster in the room.
We lie on top of the bed moments later, silent, under our respective blankets and in our torn clothing. Our ankles are bound by eighteen inches of shoelace, and the air has never felt thinner.
I tell myself that I don’t regret what I said. That I don’t hate reminding him of all the killing I’ve done. That I don’t care what he thinks of me as long as he lets me kill his brother.
If only I believed it.
An hour before dusk, I wake hot and tangled.
I am briefly disoriented by the way the mattress dips to my right and the muscled form next to me.
Then my thoughts restart, I remember that I’m sleeping next to a vampire, and I freeze.
He is uncomfortably boyish while he sleeps.
He displays no hint of fang. The effect is alarmingly humanizing.
I let myself look, memorizing the way his cheekbones create hollows in his granite-hewn face, the thick slash of his brows, the lush pout of his bottom lip.
His arm is thrown over his head. His torso stretches, long, lean, to where the sheets pool at his waist. There are two tempting inches of bare skin at the hem of his shirt and a trail of hair that leads downward between the V of muscle.
Something pulls tight inside me. It nearly looks like he’s naked beneath the covers.
I untie the knot that binds us and scramble up, refusing to look and pulling on more clothes than I need.
A day ago, I thought he killed my parents. He’s my enemy. I press my palms to my eyes so hard I see stars. I cannot actually be fantasizing about him.
I spend the next three hours sweeping the front hall and sitting area and moving debris.
At full dark, I hear Marcus thump downstairs and into the garden.
As I clean, I probe at the spot in the back of my head where his presence sits.
I don’t poke too hard, but I brush it with mental fingers.
It’s cool. Not unpleasant. I have a vague sense of how far away he is.
The coolness emanates confidence, in the way of a block of marble.
It makes me want to lean against it and let it carry my burdens.
I shake myself. I don’t need him prowling into the house and snarling at me. Our truce is hanging by a thread.
When I break to pull leftovers out of the fridge, I catch a glimpse of Marcus’s pale form in the moonlight. My mouth opens on an unchewed bite. I swallow, hard, as I watch.
He’s at the tree line, a boulder in his arms. It has to be several tons. He heaves it down next to the fence before his head jerks up and his gaze finds me in the window. My pulse accelerates as he stalks toward the house. He’s shirtless and clad only in torn pants and boots.
I know what prey feels like now. His strides are long and sure, and his stomach flexes with every step. The muscles are stark ridges under heavy pectorals.
The better to chase you down and kill you with, my dear.
I jerk my gaze away and keep chewing my sandwich.
“Slayer,” he growls from the doorway.
“Leah,” I snap. “My name is Leah.”
“Leah,” he repeats in that strange accent, the L coming out crisp, but the vowels caressed by his tongue. “We need supplies.”
I cannot think when he is this close and this—my brain stutters—bare. “What kind of supplies?”
Goddess, he smells good. Vampires might not sweat, but he smells of fall and exertion. There’s a spicy note that makes me want to rub my face—
“We need a pit of stakes.”
I blink. “A pit of what?”
He crosses his arms. His biceps bulge. “Stakes. We need to fortify this house. You are shockingly lax. And boiling tar is very hard to come by in the modern era.”
My mouth parts. “You’re serious.”
“Of course I’m serious, sla—Leah.” He scowls, like I’m a child he is taking to task instead of a full-grown woman who could cut his head off. I fantasize briefly about taking the knife I used for the mustard and putting it through his jugular.
His gaze narrows. “You have twenty minutes to indulge whatever blood-soaked fantasies are going through your head. And then we leave.”
He turns on his heel and stalks back outside. I watch him go, shock mixing with appreciation for the way his back is just as defined as his front.
I need to get a grip.
And he needs clothing.