Page 88 of Blood Lovers

The escape is still very much on.

What am I doing?

What. The fuck. Am I doing?

Well, it’s not really a mystery. I’m running and I’m taking Ryet with me.

But who am I running from, exactly? The vampire, Paul? No. He can find me anytime he wants through the dreamwalk. And I’m sure he can find Ryet that same way too.

And besides, if I was running from Paul, I wouldn’t need to leave the backpack and the truck behind. Because if I was running from Paul, those two things wouldn’t matter.

I’m not running from Paul. At least not yet.

I’m running from the Guild. Because they sent me here. They sent me here. There was some agreement between them and the vampire. And who was here waiting for me?

I look over at Ryet. He’s smiling as he drives the snowy mountain roads of Northern Idaho. When he notices me looking at him he smiles bigger.

How can this man—this charming, beautiful, careful man—be the scion who has been hunting me for my blood since I was born?

And how did I fall in love with him the moment we locked eyes in that stupid diner parking lot?

Fate, maybe.

Or magic, more likely.

And he has no idea who I am.

Which puts me in a precarious position.

Ya think, Syrsee?

How do I tell him? I have to tell him. He’s going to find out.

How do I explain any of this, actually? I fed him my blood last night. I fed him.

And I wasn’t even coerced.

He will make promises, darling. They will be magnificent promises.

But the vampire didn’t even do that. Not really. All he said was that Ryet was dying and I was his cure. It wasn’t a promise at all. It was something implied.

Save him and I get to keep him.

But the vampire never said that, Syrsee. He never said that.

And now that I think about it, I’m not saving Ryet for me. Not in Paul’s mind.

I’m saving Ryet for him.

That’s why we’re really running away.

Because Ryet is mine now and Paul can’t have him.

We don’t stop for lunch, just gas about an hour and a half out of town. Ryet turns the engine off and looks at me. “Want a snack?”

I’m glancing around, reading the temperature outside on a large digital sign. It’s fourteen degrees. So my answer to his question is one of sarcastic distraction. “Hmm. Gas station food. That’s sooo tempting.”

He chuckles as he opens his door, letting the frigid wind blow in. “Stay here. And we’ll skip the food. We’re about halfway to where we’re going. I think we’ll survive.”