Page 61 of The Witch They Crave

"You've been asking me things for the last ten minutes."

"What does it taste like?" I nod at the glass, keep my voice light, like it's idle. Like I'm not asking because some small awful part of me wants to know and would rather die than say so. "Humor me."

He looks at me for a moment like he's deciding something. Then he lifts the glass and holds it out across the table.

I stare at it.

"I'm not going to—"

"You asked."

"I asked what it tastes like. I didn't ask to—" My stomach does something complicated. "No. Thank you."

He sets it back down without comment, but there's something in his expression I can't quite name. Not amusement. Something warmer.

"It tastes different depending on the source," he says. "The emotion. The diet. Whether the person is afraid." He looks at me steadily. "Yours, I imagine, would be extraordinary."

I put my fork down. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Whatever you're about to say next."

"I was simply going to say that I look forward to finding out."

I blink. "That will never happen."

"No?" He doesn't say it like a challenge. He says it like someone noting the weather.

"I am not—you don't get to treat me like—" I stop. Take a breath. "I am not something you feed from. That is not what I'm here for."

Leopold looks at me across the table. The warmth in his expression doesn't shift, doesn't flicker, doesn't do anything to help me.

"Calypso," he says. "You are currently living in my house, wearing a dress I chose, at a table I reserved, in an establishment that knows my name." A pause. "I'm not certain you're in a position to define what you're here for."

The words land like something cold and precise.

I pick my fork back up. Eat. Stare at my plate and breathe through my nose and give him absolutely nothing to read on my face, which takes more effort than it should because he is right. I’m at a disadvantage.

The only good thing is that my magic seems to be on its best behavior tonight.

I clear my throat. "The food was good," I say finally.

"I know." He signals the waiter without lifting his hand more than an inch. "I did mean it, though. About your company."

"You mean my blood."

"I mean your company. The blood was a separate compliment." He stands, comes around, pulls out my chair before the waiter can reach it. "You'll learn to tell my meanings apart. It's one of the more useful things about spending time with me."

"Can't wait," I say, and stand, and let him settle my coat over my shoulders because there are still seven vampires pretending not to watch and I've learned that much about how this works.

"There she is," he says, low, close to my ear. "You're getting better at this."

I don't dignify it.

We walk out the way we came, his hand at the small of my back. I count the heads that follow us to the door.

We get in the car and leave the restaurant and finally the tension in my body eases. I did it. That wasn’t too painful was it?