“You didn’t do anything,” he snapped, forcing his hands into fists by his sides. He tried to clear the rage out of his mind, to really think of why she might ask the questions she had. When he came up with an answer, the rush of shame was immediate. “If you’re thinking of shacking up with someone because you’re worried about your future, don’t. You don’t need to. We’re going to help you get on your feet, Carmine. You don’t have to— You’re going to be safe. I promise.”
Forcing a smile, he added, “And for the record, I take it as a compliment that you got pissy with me. That means you feel comfortable. We’re good, I swear.”
“Okay.” She didn’t sound like she believed him, but how could he blame her?
Atticus swiped a hand down his face. He was flushed, sweaty. Aggression still bunched his muscles. He would have done anything to go for a run in the cool night air.
But even if he could trust Carmine not to escape, the idea of leaving her exposed made his skin crawl. He needed her back home. Somewhere dark and safe. Somewhere like his bedroom, which was once a root cellar but had been converted to a luxurious suite. It didn’t have windows and it remained cool even on the hottest days of the year.
A deep, primal urge demanded he lock her inside and never let her leave.
Switching to rub the back of his neck, Atticus dared to look at her. She was watching him warily, like she knew exactly what he was thinking. Maybe she did. He wasn’t the first vampire to crave her. Junger probably had dreams of locking her up, too.
Fucker.
At least he’d never act on it, and Junger would be dead soon, anyway. The thought of how satisfying it would be to see the light leave his eyes was enough to calm Atticus down.
His head wasn’t screwed on right, but at least he had some sense back. Enough to notice how bad Carmine looked. Eyeing her dark circles and gaunt cheeks, an alarm sounded in the forefront of his mind.
She’s starving.
If his aversion to synth hadn’t told him enough, the screeching worry he experienced over her hunger was undeniable. It didn’t matter that he knew she wasn’t his. Instinct was instinct. When a vampire fixed on a potential anchor, they became single-minded about their care and keeping.
Yeah, he would have cared about anyone going hungry, but this was different. If an anchor starved, so did a vampire. The urge to provide for them was a hardwired survival imperative.
He was up and lurching across the short distance to the kitchenette before he’d made the choice to do so, and certainly before he could process the staggering confirmation of what instinct and desire were trying to tell him. “You need to eat,” he barked. “How many bottles have you had since you left the crypt?”
He didn’t give her the chance to answer. Tearing a bottle from the pack, he gave it a shake and then twisted the lid. The seal cracked and the bottle began to heat in his hand.
“Here.” He sat back down on the bed and shoved it under her nose. “Drink. I’m not moving until you do.”
Carmine curled her shoulders and turned her head away, her nose wrinkled like she’d smelled something foul. He expected her to refuse, but she didn’t say anything at all.
“Carmine,” he pressed, voice tight with worry. “Doll, youhaveto drink. You’re killing me. Please just take a sip.”
She squished her face into her raised knees and mumbled something. His brow wrinkled. “What was that?”
“I can’t drink that.”
He glanced at the bottle. “Why?”
She went quiet again. Reluctantly lowering his arm, he used his free hand to brush her dark hair out of her eyes. She peeked at him from under the fringe of her lashes. “Why, doll?”
There was a moment of hesitation. “I hate the taste. Really hate it. I can’t get it down.”
Atticus stopped breathing. “You…” He cleared his throat. Tried again. “You don’t like the taste? What about the other kind?” There were still plenty of bottles of the brand Junger’s lackeys stocked. She had options.
Carmine shook her head.
“Is there— Is there a brand that sounds good? A flavor you want?” He shifted his feet and flexed his fingers around the bottle. “Are you doing a hunger strike, doll?”
She shook her head again.
Holy fuck.Sweat dewed on the back of his neck. He knew how Adriana’s appetite was. If Carmine was similar, the fact that she couldn’t just force herself to drink the synth was…
Good gods, she wants me.
Did she even know what her aversion to synth meant? He doubted it. Why would they teach her that in the crypt? He knew blood brides were sometimes taught that they would be fed on, but not that it would be reciprocated.Thatwas supposed to be the purest form of matehood, the perfect vampiric circle, but most of the shitheads who bought brides didn’t like the idea of being fed on. It was some macho man bullshit.
