Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Neither of them had eaten much. Atticus knew Carmine needed to eat more than him, so she had to be starving. That pissed him off, especially when it was because she just wanted to be stubborn.
But that wasn’t the only reason for his temper. She wasn’t the sole source of his problems. He hadn’t eaten, either, and that was very, very bad.
Atticus was strung tight as a bow. Even the fine muscles in his fingers were tense as he lowered the shades on the windows. He was hyper-aware of Carmine. She hadn’t spoken a word since she stormed off halfway through the night, but that only made him more focused on her.
It didn’t matter that the engine rumbled or the heating unit buzzed on the roof. He could still hear every single one of her breaths, every slight shift on the bed. His mouth watered at the taste of cherry in the air. As he drove, every one of his instincts screamed at him to pull over and do what biology demanded: feed and breed.
The need was so strong, he hadn’t been able to choke synth down. It tasted like ash compared to the sweet earthiness he knew was only a few feet away, tucked beneath thin sheets.
It was deeply, profoundly wrong for him to want her as bad as he did. Biology was fucking with him and so were the gods, probably. It was a great cosmic joke to lock him in a vehicle with someone so unattainable.
He couldn’t lay a hand on her, let alone a fang. He was the lowest sort of scum to be thinking of how good Carmine would taste, or how fucking beautiful those eyes would look when he thrust his cock inside her.
Atticus wanted to think he had good willpower. He’d been raised by Harlan Bounds. The man was all steel, and he’d taught Atticus to be the same way. Of course, with family things were different, but to protect their family, they needed to be harder than their enemies.
He didn’t give in to impulse. He wasn’t someone who was tempted. He didn’t fuck around, and he didn’t take risks.
But he couldn’t swallow another mouthful of synth, and he was beginning to worry that it wasn’t the flavor that was the issue. He’d bought his favorite brand. There was no reason for it to taste so bad, even allowing for slight differences in batches.
Atticus had heard stories of how vampires could instinctively reject any blood that didn’t come from the potential anchor they’d fixed on, but if he thought too hard about that, he thought he might hand Carmine his gun and tell her to aim for his head.
She seemed soft and sweet, but he was pretty sure she’d do it.
It was deeply worrying how even that thought made him hard.
Stop thinking with your cock and figure out what’s wrong.
Left to stew in silence for hours, he couldn’t shake the vague memory of something Harlan said after he and Zia got together. “Once I saw her, synth never tasted the same.”
They were no Harlan and Zia, who’d been obsessed with each other since the moment they crossed paths. Those two were soulmates. He and Carmine were just… stuck together. That was all it was.
Atticus wanted to fix whatever had upset her, but the idea of getting near her scared the shit out of him. He adjusted the shade again, making sure it completely covered the window, and tried not to dwell on the fact that he was now both a creep and a coward.
Turning toward the bed, he was tempted to ask her if she wanted to go for a walk. They could both use the fresh air, and sunrise wasn’t for a while yet. But then he remembered how she’d bolted last time, and the way she’d nearly smashed her face in when she tried to escape from the window. They’d been getting along, building trust, but after their fight, he didn’t want to take any risks. Until he could trust she wouldn’t do something reckless, they were both stuck in the RV.
Running a trembling hand through his hair, Atticus forced himself to walk at a normal pace. His legs wanted to run to her, but his brain balked at crossing the short distance.
He needed to get a grip. How could he help her if his head was a disaster? Atticus knew better than this. He’d been raised to be better than this.
Atticus gritted his teeth and slowly sank onto the edge of the mattress. Carmine was huddled against the wall, hidden beneath the sheets, but he could tell by how tense she was that she wasn’t asleep.
“Doll,” he rasped, daring to give her ankle a featherlight squeeze. “C’mon. You’ve been ignoring me all night. If you won’t tell me what’s wrong, then can I at least see your pretty eyes?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m worried about?—”
“Why do you think they’re pretty?”
Oh. Atticus blinked. Most women would have taken his compliment at face value or dismissed it altogether, but of course Carmine didn’t. He got the sense that she took nothing at face value. Everything was mulled over, picked apart, and reassembled in that keen brain of hers.
Normally he wouldn’t have minded explaining himself to her. Unfortunately, that particular question made heat crawl up the back of his neck. “You, uh… They’re blue. And big. You’ve got nice eyelashes, too.”
They’re fucking gorgeous, and when they look at me, I can’t feel the ground under my feet anymore. Because I’m a rabid, horny idiot who should be put down with a tranq gun or a brick at your earliest convenience.
“Do you think I’m pretty?”
Atticus began to sweat. Too late he realized he’d never taken his hand off her ankle. It’d turned into a shackle. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t pry his fingers loose.
“Yes,” he answered, so hoarse it barely sounded like a word.
Carmine was silent for a second, leaving him in wordless agony, before she asked, “Would someone else think I was pretty? Michael?”
He’d had broken bones before. Plenty of them. He’d also broken more than his fair share in other people.
Carmine’s innocent question shouldn’t have meant anything to him, but when the words hit him, he felt a familiar wet snap somewhere in his chest. Like she’d reached into him with one of those perfect, delicate hands and broken a rib as easily as snapping a twig.
Blood roared in his ears. For a split second, he could have sworn his vision went black. Then it went red.
It was a very, very good thing that Michael was still a thousand miles away. If he’d been there, Atticus wouldn’t have hesitated. There would have been no thoughts, no regrets. The instinct to fight for an anchor, to annihilate all competition, was so loud it drowned out every civilized notion he might have once possessed.
But Michael wasn’t there. He was back on the estate, innocently going about his business, maybe chasing after Serafina to give her parents a break or shooting the shit with the other guards. The knowledge that he had no idea what Carmine even looked like, let alone spoken to her, helped dull the sharpest edge of Atticus’s rage. Enough to speak, at least.
“What the fuck is with you and Michael?” The urge to rip the sheets away from her so he could see her face was a loud, mean one, but he still had some sense in his head. He was jealous, not completely heartless. If he started losing his cool like that, she’d freak out and never trust him. Rightfully so.
Luckily he didn’t have to wrestle with the urge for too long before Carmine’s huge blue eyes peeked at him from beneath the sheets. Little red claws, filed down and glossy, gripped the edge by her cheek.
“I was just wondering.”
“Yeah? Well, stop wondering. Of course he’ll think you’re pretty. Everyone will. You’re gorgeous, Carmine. Anyone who looks at you is fuckin’ blessed. Got it? But if I hear a word about Michael anywhere near you, I’ll?—”
Atticus somehow managed to stop himself before he said something he had no right to say. Carmine could seek out whatever companionship she desired. Michael could, too. What if it turned out that she was the demon’s mate?
Demons would tear down the whole world for their mates, and that was exactly what Carmine needed. Someone who’d go to war if she was threatened. Someone who’d risk everything to keep her safe. Someone who’d let her explore who she wanted to be and who’d give her all the glittery shit her heart desired and welcome her perfect little bite and?—
But when Atticus tried to picture it, when he imagined Carmine gracefully crossing the threshold of Michael’s cottage with a lovesick smile on her face, her arm wrapped in the demon’s symbiotic shadows and her skin covered in his scent…
Atticus’s world went red again.