“Yeah.”
He moves before she can react, shifting so she’s pinned beneath him, his mouth at her throat. Her chin kicks up, granting him access. She’s all reflex, lightning crackling in her blood.
“The neck is the most vulnerable part of the body,” he murmurs into her skin. “Every single animal on this earth is born with the instinct to defend the throat, and then look at you. I could sink my teeth into you right now, and you wouldn’t even try to stop me.”
“I would,” she says into the tiled dark.
“Prove it, then. Fight me.”
The ensuing quiet is a held breath. She wedges her hands flat against his chest and feels him brace for the shove. His heart is a jackhammer. It drills into her palm.
“You can’t do it,” he says bitterly. “I’m in your blood.”
He says it like it’s the worst possible thing he can think of.
“I don’t need to prove anything, and neither do you. We both know you won’t hurt me.”
He pulls back just far enough to meet her eyes. “Your trust in me is synthetic.”
“Is it?”
He doesn’t answer. There’s a hint of panic in his expression, like he’s not so sure. Like he wants to believe the opposite is true.
“You didn’t come after me that night on the bridge,” she reminds him. “And I know you don’t want to talk about it, but Isawyou, Lys. You were barely in control, and you still didn’t hurt me. Just like you’re not going to hurt me now.”
The panic in his eyes sharpens into revulsion. Leaning in, he licks a brazen stripe along her throat. Her surprise comes out in a gasp.
“Maybe you think about me all the time,” he says, “but I think aboutthisall the time. This spot—right here. I can see your pulse. I canhearyour pulse. It’s in my head, even when you’re not in the room. It’s making me fucking crazy.”
“So, bite me.”
“No.”
“Then Turn me.”
He goes still as Perseus, the air shutting up around them like a box.
“Turn me,” she says again, emboldened by his silence. “And then it won’t be like this.”
He shuts his eyes, brow furrowed. Slowly—reverently—he leans in and presses a kiss to the flutter in her throat. So fleeting, she doesn’t even realize what he’s done until it’s over.
And then—in a voice so low she’s not entirely certain she heard it—he says, “Not yet.”
The quiet is ruptured by the sound of the bathroom door flying open with enough force to crack tile. The curtain wrenches back and Lys sails off her with a yelp, the base of his spine slamming hard into the sink. He crows out a laugh, righting himself.
“That was a very exciting entrance, Sunshine.”
In the open door, Asher stands with his shotgun slung over one shoulder. He’s in an orange ball cap and a fleece-lined jacket, the cold wafting off him in waves. Shea scrabbles to her feet, humiliated—an explanation at the ready—but Asher isn’t looking at her.
“You need to feed on someone, feed on me.”
“Tempting,” says Lys. “Although I’m not so sure you’d be appetizing.”
“Then starve. I told you, Parker’s off-limits.”
Anger drives away the sting of embarrassment. She clambers out of the tub, her socks slipping over tile. “Don’t talk about me like I’m not in the room.”
Asher rounds on her, primed for a fight. “You want to be included in the conversation? Great. Let’s talk about it.”
