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“As I said, some of them become dangerous. After my father’s death, my mother cared for nothing but vengeance. She hated the Cheld for what they had done—”
“And instilled that hatred in you.”
“When they killed her too—”
“Oh my God, Kenton,” she blurted out. “You must hate me.”
He reached across the table and captured her hand, the one not gripping the stem of her wine glass.
“No. I do not hate you.”
She did not pull away. His touch felt like the only thing anchoring her to reality.
“Will I become a murderer too?”
It was surely the strangest question she’d ever asked.
He didn’t answer.
“Kenton?”
“I don’t know.”
She tried to pull her hand back, but he wouldn’t let her.
“What the hell . . .” She’d expected a flat-out no. That was the answer she’d wanted, needed. A murderer? Her? No way. Absolutely no way. And yet he hadn’t denied it.
“I will not lie to you,” he insisted. “I care for you.”
“Why? You hardly know me.” Part of her wanted to run. To get up out of that chair and get the hell away from this place.
“Listen to me, love.”
Whether it was the squeeze of his hand or his use of the word “love”—or hell, maybe just the way he was looking at her right now—she stayed put.
“I will be here with you, for all of it.”
“All of it?”
“We’ll have plenty of time to discuss your bloodline, and the . . . unique qualities that come along with your ancestry.”
Deep breaths.
Why hadn’t she ever learned to meditate?
“But we’ve something more important to discuss over dinner.”
A dinner that would never come because every time the waitress tried approaching them, Kenton sent her away with his intense gaze.
“What’s that?” she managed, taking a slow sip of her wine. What could possibly be more important than the possibility that her blood would turn against her and she’d unwittingly become the next Jack the Ripper?
“You said you didn’t get a massage this morning.” He lowered his voice. “It would seem I remember this morning a bit differently.”
That was what he wanted to discuss?
“Do you now?” Suddenly she was acutely aware of the fact that he still held her hand, and that he’d started rubbing slow circles on her palm with his thumb.
“I do.” He increased the pressure, ever so slightly. “Although I will agree with you on one point.”
He moved his ministrations to her wrist.
“What’s that?” she said, her voice sounding breathy.
“I’ve thought of very little today other than ruing the fact I never ventured under that damn blanket.”
And that was when she completely lost it.
