The scent of her blood hums through the air between us—Ether-rich, electric, alive in a way that makes my fangs ache. Beneath it is her warmth, the faint trace of sweat and soap that makes heat coil low in my gut.
I lock my jaw. Force stillness into my hands even as my body tightens with need.
“You knew,” she says quietly.
Not a question. A statement waiting for confirmation.
I don’t pretend. “Yes.”
“How?”
I let the silence stretch while I think through the answer, finding the shape of truth I can give her without admitting how much it cost to stay away.
“She wanted what you never offer,” I say finally. “Control. Certainty. You don’t beg.”
Her eyes find mine across the small space. Something shifts in them—relief, maybe. Validation.
“She tried to let me feed. More than once.” The admission costs me, but I give it anyway. “But my hunger refused every time she spoke because I could taste the difference before I ever got near her. It wasn’t you.”
Her breath catches. Just once.
“So you starved yourself,” she whispers.
“I couldn’t touch her.” The words come out flat. Final. “Not when I knew.”
She steps closer. One step, then another, closing the distance I’ve been maintaining like a lifeline.
The space between us shrinks and my control frays at the edges. I can see the pulse in her throat now, the way her chest rises and falls with each breath. The way her lips part slightly as she looks up at me.
“Thane.”
My name in her mouth sounds like forgiveness. Like permission.
Her hand lifts, hesitates for just a heartbeat, then her palm cups my jaw. Her thumb brushes the corner of my mouth and the touch breaks something loose in my chest.
I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Just let her warmth sink into my skin, let the Ether humming beneath her pulse speak truths I can’t afford to question.
Her other hand joins the first, framing my face while her eyes search mine. Looking for lies, maybe. Or giving me one last chance to pull away.
“I know you’re starving,” she says softly.
I can’t deny it. Don’t want to.
My hands lift before I can stop them. One settles at her waist, fingers spreading against the curve of her hip. The other cups the back of her neck, threading through her hair, and the feel of her—solid, warm, real—makes something primal surge through me.
“Bree—”
“Let me.” Her voice is steady. Sure. “Please.”
The please does something to me because it’s not desperate—it’s a choice she’s making freely, without fear twisting through it. It’s trust, offered like a gift I don’t deserve but can’t refuse.
“Are you sure?” My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to, hunger and want bleeding together until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
She nods. “I trust you.”
Three words. Simple and devastating.
I lean in slowly—giving her time to change her mind, to pull away—but she doesn’t. She tilts her head, baring her throat in a gesture that feels like both surrender and claiming. The sight of her pulse jumping beneath pale skin makes my fangs descend fully.
