Especially not now.
Especially not here.
I guess survival is going to force the confrontation anyway.
I extend my wrist toward her.
The gesture is practical—she needs blood to shift back to her vampire form, which she needs to control Damien's hellhound, which we need to survive the current situation. Simple chain of necessity that requires no emotional examination whatsoever.
"Hurry up and drink," I say, keeping my voice flat, controlled, carrying none of the turmoil that churns beneath my surface. "So we can calm that beast before he does more damage."
She looks at my offered wrist.
Studies it with the particular attention of someone examining something they're not sure they want to touch.
Then she pouts.
Pouts.
Her transformed features arrange themselves into stubborn expression that makes something in my chest tighten with a mixture of frustration and reluctant affection.
She turns her head away.
"No."
The refusal lands with impact that doesn't compute.
What?
I stare at her.
My expression probably broadcasts the particular confusion of someone who has just encountered behavior that defies all logical analysis.
"What?" The word escapes before I can stop it.
"Nope." She crosses her arms over the ridiculous Fae dress that still clings to her transformed body, the gesture carrying defiance that seems entirely inappropriate given our current circumstances. "You can't make me."
Can't make her.
She's refusing blood she desperately needs because?—
Why the fuck is she refusing?
A groan escapes me before conscious control can intervene.
Woman!
The internal exclamation carries exasperation that I've been accumulating since the day I met her—frustration with her stubbornness, her recklessness, her absolute refusal to prioritize her own survival when literally anything else presents itself as an alternative.
"Little Mouse," I warn, the nickname emerging with the particular edge that usually indicates I'm approaching the limits of my patience.
She glares my way.
Those pink eyes—pink, not the silver and crimson I've grown accustomed to, pink with golden rings that speak to heritage she didn't know she possessed—lock onto mine with defiance that makes my teeth grind together.
"You won't tell me you're mad," she declares, voice carrying the particular confidence of someone who has decided on their position and refuses to be moved from it. "Then I won't drink your blood. So there."
So there.
