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His expression is so…painfully adoring. A slight smile turns the corner of his mouth up, his eyes now the color of blue sea glass. That’s something I’ve always loved about them, how the vibrancy and shade of them changes with his environment and emotions.

“You look so kissable right now, Babybell,” he murmurs, fingers stretching across the counter to graze the sensitive skin of my wrist.

I let my gaze drop to where his inked fingers slide across my skin. I love how his tattoos look against me, how they looked digging into my thigh the other night.

Leaning forward, I capture his lips. It’s tender and slow, the absence of tongue somehow making it more intimate. His hand cups my face, delicate and warm despite the calluses on his palms.

I let my hand wander, sliding it against the base of his throat, feeling his breath hitch and his pulse buck under my touch. When I apply the barest pressure, it elicits a husky sigh from him.

“I think you have a neck kink, you know,” I breathe, squeezing lightly again.

“Nnngh, stop it. Unless you plan on showing the floor your knees.”

“Who says I’ll be the one kneeling?” I pull away, tilting my head in defiance.

Before he can get too excited, I take the steeper out of the cup, toss it in the sink, and pass the mug to him. I stifle a laugh at the pure look of disgust he levels at the contents.

“What’s this?” he says, pouting and reeling back slightly.

“Tea.”

“Is the tea going to help?” He sniffs it experimentally, screwing his face up again.

“If you don’t want what I lovingly prepared for you, I’ll drink it.” I hold my hand out as if I’m going to take it away, betting reverse psychology will work.

He lifts the cup away from my reach. “No, no. I’ll drink it.”

Bellamy 1, Sunday 0.

“It’s an herbal blend for protection. Drink it slow.”

“I couldn’t drink it fast even if I wanted to. This smells d⁠—”

I throw a brow up and press my lips together, daring him to continue.

“—licious. Thank you, Bels. I will savor it.” He flashes an awkward smile at me, baring all his teeth.

I snort a laugh. “You’re full of shit, Gravedigger.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Sunday

Idon’t know what the hell Bellamy put in that tea, but it worked—for a while. That bubbling sensation of wrongness inside me settled, letting me believe that maybe something as simple as a few herbs in some hot water could have magical demon-vamoose properties.

How fucking naive of me.

A week of the same herbal concoction, and its effects begin to wane. I don’t tell Bellamy that I can feel it happening, but maybe he can sense it anyway. I keep jumping at figures in the corners of my eyes, at the feeling of being watched even though there’s no one there. The murmuring in the back of my mind is back, low and near-constant.

Even now, as I stare at the bottom edge of the specimen room door, shadows shuffle around like there’s someone in there. I know there isn’t, because it’s locked. And the last time I went in there was on Tuesday when Bellamy’s boredom during a rare quiet day ended with me on my knees and my hand pressed against his mouth.

My hand tightens around the scalpel as I try to focus on my work. Sliding the blade along the original incision site, I carefully separate skin from the underlying connective tissues.

It’s slow, steady work, but my hands are trembling enough to make it much harder than usual. The more frustrated I get, the worse they shake, until the scalpel slips, damaging the skin.

“Fuck!” I yell, launching both bird and scalpel across the room. The bird lands with a dull thud, the blade turning over and over until it wedges into the specimen room door with remarkable precision.

Only, when I blink, there’s a flashing vision of Bellamy standing with the blade embedded in his chest, blood seeping out of the wound.