“I nearly lost control,” I muttered.
“You fought,” Kit countered. “You protected me. That’s not losing control.”
The warmth in his voice undid something deep in me. I didn’t have the words to answer, so I just nodded. He gave me one last look, then stepped into the dark.
When the door closed behind him, I sank down beside the cold hearth.
The hunger was still there, coiled tight and angry under my ribs. I could taste it. Metal and heat and need. The fight had woken something I’d been keeping buried for far too long.
The part that wondered what it felt like to feed properly. Human blood.
No. I pressed the heel of my hand to my forehead, breathing through the ache that pulsed behind my eyes. I wouldn’t cross that line. I’d survived this long without it.
I wasn’t about to destroy what fragile control I had left.
But my mind wouldn’t stop playing the same image over and over again. Kit’s face lit by the fire, his eyes steady and full of something that wasn’t fear.
The way he’d reached for me earlier, how he’d said we when I told him he should stay away. It was unbearable, that kind of faith. That kind of trust. The door creaked open again. I looked up, startled.
Kit stood there, dirt smeared on his cheek, breathing a little hard from dragging the body out back. His hair was mussed, his jacket torn where one of the feral’s claws had grazed him.
“Thought you left,” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral.
“Didn’t feel right,” Kit answered simply, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “Didn’t want to leave you like that.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like you were about to fall apart.”
I huffed a quiet, humorless laugh. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?” Kit asked.
Kit crossed the room before I could answer. He stopped just in front of me, close enough that I could smell the faint copper tang of blood where his wrist was scraped. The scent hit me like a punch to the gut.
My gaze flicked there before I could stop it. Just a drop of red, bright against his skin. It was nothing. Nothing, but every cell in my body screamed for it.
“Simon,” Kit said quietly, catching my expression. “How long has it been since you fed properly?”
“I can’t remember,” I lied.
“Answer me.”
“Maybe two days ago,” I admitted.
His jaw tightened. “That feral attacked because it.could smell how weak you were,” Kit pointed out.
“Hey!”
Kit didn’t flinch. “You should really keep your strength up.”
“I’m fine,” I pointed out.
“You’re not.”
He reached out and caught my wrist before I could push him away. His hand was warm, grounding, and when I met his gaze, what I saw there wasn’t pity. It was resolve.
“Then drink from me,” Kit said.
