Yes.Kit’s heart was still beating. In theory, Roger could use a few of the blood bags that he’d kept for himself and Takashi as emergency supplies and pump them into Kit to give them a better shot. But the wound …
His long life had given Roger too many opportunities to smell the dead and dying. Having been the cause of much of it, he knew the scents. He ignored his hunger and sifted through theodors of blood around him. Kit’s was overpowering, but only in the most delicious of ways. No trace of foulness polluted the smell of them. No organs were nicked.
“Can you move?” Roger asked Vincent.
“Yes?”
“I need you to go into the bedroom across the living room,” Roger said firmly. “Underneath the bed are three duffle bags. You want the one that has C.W. on it. There’s a dark green pouch. Bring it to me.Hurry.”
Vincent scrambled to his feet and dashed for it.
Left alone with blood covering his hands while more soaked into the blanket beneath his fingertips, Roger had to focus on the world outside himself. If he let himself think of the blood so close to him, he might lick his fingers clean. He might lose himself to feeding on Kit.
But blood was only part of feeding. The sustenance from blood truly came from its connection to a mortal’s spirit. Kit was fighting for their life. They couldn’t afford to lose an ounce of their essence.
Breathing wasn’t necessary for a vampire, so Roger slid out of the habit to cut off his sense of smell as much as possible and relied on his hearing and psychic senses. He didn’t hear anyone else in the suite. Kit was unconscious, so they had no wants or fears. The only source of emotion that Roger felt outside himself was the bubble of fear that was Vincent.
Darling, I said you weren’t going to die tonight. I said nothing about anyone else, Anton had said before snapping his neck and leaving him unconscious.
Was everyone he loved dead or gone?
Not everyone. He had people he cared about outside the suite. But were they safe? Was anywhere safe?
“Got it!” Vincent ran back toward them. “Is this a first aid kit, master?”
“A hunter’s med kit,” Roger replied. “It has suture supplies.”
“You think that’ll work?”
“If it couldn’t, they’d already be dead.” Roger held out his hand for the med kit.
Vincent looked over at Roger, and his features hardened, sliding from panicked to determined. His blue eyes were the color of storm clouds, and he shook his head. “I’ve got this.”
“I—”
“You’re hanging on to the edge. I’ve seen it before. Last thing they need is for you to start hoovering up their blood.” Vincent set the kit down on the counter and washed his hands in the sink. He took a second to wet a towel and wipe his face as well.
When he settled down next to Kit again, he was no less young, but Roger knew the mantle on his shoulders. A survivor’s weight. It didn’t tear away his youth by adding the burden of years but created that odd juxtaposition of an old soul in a young body.
“You’ve done this before,” Roger murmured.
“Yes, master. Do you have a water bottle?”
“Don’t bother with calling me that.” Cracking the small bar fridge open in their current setup was hard, but Roger managed to dig out two bottles of water.
Vincent peeled away the blanket and set to work flushing the wound and closing it. Rather than steeping in his guilt, Roger let it make him steadier. He tore open Kit’s beautiful dress farther so that Vincent would have easier access to the wound. He sifted through the scent of Kit’s blood after Vincent washed the wound to ensure he was right that nothing serious had been nicked. If anything deeper had been damaged, Kit had healed the worst of it. They might live.
The last conversation Roger had had with them, they were wishing that Roger had been more for them. Roger paid them and Carver to be exclusive donors for him and Takashi, butthat wasn’t what Kit had dreamed of having with a vampire. The words felt like they’d been spoken months ago instead of hours. Another eternity passed while Vincent worked to stitch the wound closed. His movements were precise, practiced.
Roger had to close his eyes. Not because of his hunger. Seeing Vincent stitch another’s flesh while his own was marred caused an echo reaching back into the earliest of Roger’s nights. Seamus had always had a collection of pets. He had always treated them abysmally.
Abused them, Roger corrected himself. He had avoided words like that. Manipulated. Abused. Raped. Those and more applied to him just as much as others. He was certain they applied to Vincent. Roger had seen Seamus do so to other pets and done nothing for fear of his own life.
Bloody tears colored his vision, and he had to sit back against the bar. Vincent had Kit’s wound handled. But Roger was passing off responsibilityagain, he was becoming uselessagain, and worse yet was the way his heart ached for Zack or Takashi to miraculously appear, hold his hand, and tell him what he needed to do next. For anyone to give him guidance because his own wisdom was fucking terrible.
Centuries doing nothing but partying and pretending that the world couldn’t be changed when the truth was he could have done anything. His fucking monster of a sire would’ve fought to keep him alive just to spite his lover.
No, no, his pain was his own fault because he let his fear pen him in.
