“Thank you.”
Something warm blooms in my chest. “You’re welcome.”
We lie there in silence for a while. Both of us awake. Both of us hyperaware of the other person in the bed.
I can hear his breathing. Steady and Even. But it’s the warmth radiating from his side of the bed across the space between us that really keeps me awake.
It’s been so long since I’ve shared a bed with anyone. Since I’ve let anyone this close. Usually, I don’t dare.
“Layden?” I finally whisper.
“Yes?”
“I’m glad I found you.”
The silence stretches. Then, so quiet I almost miss it:
“So am I.”
And for the first time in a long time, I fall asleep feeling something that might be hope.
THREE
PHOENIX
Layden staysin bed for several days, shivering underneath the covers even though there’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead.
No fever, though. I’ve checked. Multiple times.
Every time I try to talk to him, he just shakes his head and turns away. After that first vulnerable night, it’s like he’s decided to just pull far, far inside himself. Like a wounded animal retreating to lick its wounds in private.
I wonder if, after so long alone, the concept of human interaction—even a warm, soft bed—is too much for his mind and body to handle all at once.
The one thing hewillaccept, however, is food.
So I spend the days chopping vegetables and making soup. Which is funny, considering that back home, I usually rebel against anything that overly feminizes me or that I consider “woman’s work.” In a compound full of kinsmen who are centuries older than me, I fought from the beginning not to be the one stuck with housekeeping.
And I certainly always refused to be involved in any sort offood acquisitionfor my vampire family.
I shudder at the thought.
They all took care of themselves long before I showed up, and nothing needed to change—even though the more caveman-like of my “uncles” sometimes disagree and try to push it.
Blood compulsion comes in handy for those arguments. And when a couple of them figured out how to shield against my mind control, it came down to proving myself in all-out combat.
Against men with hundreds of pounds on me.
But my power doesn’t come from bulk. And I have more tricks up my sleeve than just compulsion.
“Here,” I say on day four, perching on the edge of Layden’s bed with fresh potato, carrot, and onion soup.
He’s facing the window, his back to me, when he stirs. The stumps of his wings are only small lumps under the heavy blankets as he turns over, and I wonder if that’s what makes him wince—the pressure of them against the mattress.
“Are you okay? Does it hurt?” The questions slip out automatically. But it just makes his expression shut down even more. Unlike the first day, he carefully keeps his eyes down and averted from mine.
He shies away from my touch when he struggles to sit up, and I try to help by stuffing another pillow behind him.
“Don’t spill the soup,” he mutters.
