His eyes popped open. “What? You? No.”
“Don’t be an idiot. You need it, and I have it. Besides, where else will you get it? I doubt some crusty, grizzled gold prospector is going to show up anytime soon and offer you his vein.”
“Grizzled gold prospector?” He started to laugh, but ended up coughing. “What”—cough, wheeze—“what century do you think we’re in?”
Scotty ignored his sarcasm and thrust her arm in his face.
Clearing his throat, Mace dropped his gaze to her wrist. Hunger put hollows in his cheeks, and a glimmer of gold in his eyes, but a heartbeat later, he turned away. “I can’t.”
“Bullshit. Since when have you ever turned down a female offering something?”
“You’re not…you’re not one of those females.”
“Knock it off.” She thrust her wrist upward, closer to his mouth. “Stop being an idiot.”
“I can’t, Scotty,” he breathed, but his fingers curled around her forearm, drawing her hand to his lips. Lips that had probably touched a thousand females in ways she didn’t want to think about.
It’s finally my turn.
It was a thought she shouldn’t have. But right now, she didn’t really care.
For a long, drawn-out second, she worried he’d refuse, but then his fangs sliced downward into her wrist, and she sucked in a harsh breath at the abrupt, sharp sting.
A heartbeat later, the sting morphed into a surprising, pleasanttingle that radiated from where his mouth worked her wrist. Oh, sweet sin. The effect was intoxicating. Warmth flowed through her, tingling and effervescent. It was like bathing in sparkling wine, the bubbles bursting against all her erogenous zones, and she could imagine—
Mace released her, shoving her hand away with such force that she almost tipped backward.
Blinking, swaying on her knees in a drunken stupor, she struggled to regain her composure. “What’s wrong?”
He dropped his head back against the tree with a sigh. “Your body’s healing my bite too quickly. It’s like sucking ice cream through a straw. Juice ain’t worth the squeeze.”
She cursed and glared down at her wrist. Stupid immortal genes. “Shit.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay,” she insisted. “You’re too weak to walk, let alone fight if we get attacked while the others are gone. You need blood.”
Mace opened his mouth to protest, but whatever he’d been about to say was silenced when she straddled his thighs and brushed her hair away from her neck.
“Take it from here. The jugular won’t heal as quickly as the vein in my wrist.”
“Are you serious?” He gaped at her. “No. Fuck, no.”
Baffled, she stared back at him. “Areyouserious? You just tried with my wrist. What’s wrong with my throat?”
He averted his gaze, dropping his eyes to where her legs bracketed his. “It’s different,” he murmured.
Still baffled. “How?”
“It just is.”
People said Blade was the stubborn one. But no. Of the three of them, Mace could out-mule anyone. Blade dug in his heels out of careful thought and didn’t generally let emotion play a role—except in the case of his brother, Stryke. But Mace’s stubborn streaks were irrational as hell and often born of ego or pride.
She’d learned to weaponize those weaknesses a long time ago.
“You scared?”
His dark eyes snapped up. “Of what?”
