“Doesn’t matter.” He turned away, staring out the window at the murky bayou water. “It happened. And I have to live with it.”
“If it makes you feel any better, Costin only procured it six months ago.”
Rocco snorted. “Beat Angelo to it.”
His shoulders curved inward, his reflection ghosting in the glass—broken, hollow. He’d been alone for so long. Whether by choice or not, he deserved to be comforted, to be loved. He was my mate and I wanted to take the pain away from him.
I pushed off the headboard, wanting to reach him, but my legs wobbled and black dots floated in front of my eyes. I swayed and fell backward.
Strong arms caught me. The room spun—walls blurring, ceiling tilting—and I grabbed fistfuls of his shirt just to stay anchored to something solid.
“You’re still weak.” His breath was warm against my temple.
I hated how good it felt to be held by him. Hated how my body melted into his grip like it had been waiting for exactly this. My legs were useless, my head swimming, and the bite mark on my neck pulsed with a dull, relentless ache that reminded me with every heartbeat why I was in this state.
Because of him.
“I’m sorry,” I managed, the words slurring at the edges.
“Don’t be. I’m the one who drained you. Betrayed you again.” His arms tightened around me, just slightly, like he was afraid I’d dissolve if he let me go. “You need more blood.”
“You said there’s more Chosen Blood?”
A pause. The kind of pause that shifted the air in the room.
“Take mine.”
My heart skipped a beat. Then slammed hard against my ribs like it was trying to break free. “What?”
He didn’t repeat it. Didn’t need to. The offer hung between us, heavy with everything it meant. This wasn’t just blood. Not between vampires. Not between mates—even rejected ones. Sharing blood was intimate. Personal. It would flood me with his essence, his strength, his taste. It would pull the bond taut between us like a wire and there’d be no pretending it didn’t exist.
He had to know that. Hehadto.
He laid me back down on the bed, gentle despite the tension in his shoulders. His fingers brushed my hair off my forehead, the touch so tender it made my chest ache. I stared up at him, searching his face for hesitation. For regret. For any sign that he understood what was offered and wanted to take it back.
There was none.
I should say no. Every shred of self-preservation I had left screamed at me to refuse. He’d rejected me. Bitten me without my consent. Made me his prisoner. Taking his blood now—willingly, intimately—would blur every line I’d drawn to protect myself.
But my body was failing. I could feel it—the hollowness in my veins, the tremor in my hands, the way my vision kept fading at the edges like a photograph left too long in the sun. He’d taken too much. And the part of me that was pure survival instinct didn’t care about pride or boundaries or the wreckage of our history.
And then there was the other part. The part I didn’t want to admit existed. The part that had been starving for him for two years—not just his blood, but his closeness, his touch, the raw and terrifying pull of the bond I’d never been able to sever.
That part didn’t just want his blood.
It wanted him.
My fingers trembled as they reached up and curled around the back of his neck, drawing him closer.
“Okay,” I whispered. And I hated how much I meant it.
He turned his head, exposing the long column of his throat. His dark hair fell across my face like silk, and I could smell his blood pumping through his veins—rich and heady, calling to something primal inside me.
It was such a terrible temptation. Hunger gripped me, sharp and desperate. I’d dreamed of this moment for so long. Wantedto taste him. Wanted to know what it would feel like to drink from my mate.
I leaned closer, my breath ghosting over his skin. He shivered but didn’t pull away.
I scraped my fangs over his neck and trembled. His pulse jumped beneath my lips.
