Blood Rights

Drinking her was only going to make things worse. Not if you drink her to death.

His teeth ached, but not as much as other parts of him. He was a fool to pretend he didn’t want her. But a bigger fool to pretend he could have her. That she would want him back. When this was over, she’d be gone. Good. That’s what he wanted. What he’d told her he required if she wanted his help. Alone was what he was most used to anyway. What you deserve. It was the easiest. The safest.

The scent of blood overwhelmed his senses. The goblet must be nearly full by now. He swallowed the saliva pooling under his tongue.

No wonder she thought he viewed her as food. The beast inside him definitely did, but not the tattered remains of the man he’d once been. That infinitesimal part of him recognized her for the woman she was, and then reminded him he’d never been the kind of man any decent woman wanted. This time, the only voice in his head was his own. Not then, not now.

He shook his head in disgust. Thoughts like that were a disservice to his beautiful Shaya’s memory, rest her soul. She had been a decent woman. Whore. Thief. Cheat. He squeezed his lids together, desperate to ignore the voices. No, she hadn’t been a decent woman by society’s standards, or they wouldn’t have put her on the gallows.

Chrysabelle was a very different woman from Shaya, that much was certain. So different, that deep in that charred, grizzled place that had once held his heart, a speck of longing had taken hold. A hope so small, he refused to acknowledge it. You don’t deserve hope. Why should he? Wasn’t there enough pain in his life? No.

‘Mal?’

He whirled, caught off guard for a rare moment. ‘What? I wasn’t—’ The blood scent hit him hard, tightening his body with white-hot need. The voices leveled to a soft whine.

Chrysabelle stood waiting, goblet in hand. Two punctures marked her wrist. She’d purposefully pierced herself to make it look like he’d done it.

‘I called you twice.’ She met his eyes as she raised the goblet, peering at him like he’d become someone else. ‘It’s going to get cold if you don’t … ’ She shrugged and reached to set it down on the table.

He took it from her, brushing his cold fingertips over her warm ones. The brief contact magnified the cravings already echoing through him. He steeled himself against the need. ‘Thank you.’

Her brows lifted, but she said nothing. Was it such a surprise that he could show gratitude? Perhaps it was. Let it be. The shock was good for her. She shouldn’t grow comfortable around him. That way led to danger.

He lifted the glass to his lips, then stopped and stared back. ‘Do you like watching?’

‘What? No.’ She turned away, but not before the skin on her gilded cheeks colored.

He hadn’t expected her to be shy about this, of all things, and as proof of his depravity, needling her gave him pleasure. She wanted him to drink. She could bear a little suffering for it. Especially since he seemed to be the only one of them struggling with this strange partnership. ‘You can if you want.’

‘I don’t.’ She walked to the bed. Her hands smoothed the bed linens where he’d rested.

‘Why not?’ Even in Doc’s big shirt, the lean, feminine lines of her body were pleasing. Not that Mal cared.

‘Because.’ She fluffed the pillow.

‘That’s not an answer.’ The warmth seeped through the glass into his hand. Her warmth. He groaned inwardly. For a moment, he forgot which one of them he was torturing.

‘I don’t want to. That’s all.’ She stood by the bed, eyes focused on anything but him.

‘You should.’ He brought the goblet to his nose and inhaled. This time, he couldn’t muzzle the groan. The rattling in his head grew louder.

‘Why?’ That got her to face him. Her jaw was set in a stoniness matched only by her eyes. ‘For what purpose?’

‘You should know what you do to me.’ If he wasn’t already on a slow train to hell, that certainly guaranteed his ticket.

‘I know very well what my blood does to you.’ She rolled her eyes and had the audacity to look amused. ‘Now drink. The flirting isn’t getting you anywhere.’

‘Flirting? Is that what you think I’m doing? Not bloody likely.’ He hadn’t flirted with anyone since he’d given up the vein, and he wasn’t about to start with a woman who’d stated more than once her willingness to kill him. Annoyed, he knocked the glass back, downing the contents in several rapid swallows.

The power of her blood slammed into him like a fist.

Arcing pain shot from joint to joint, flaring through his muscles. He ground his teeth to keep from vocalizing, but the sheer volume of agony doubled him. He went to his knees. The glass slipped from his grasp, spraying red droplets over the Persian carpet. By the time the goblet had stopped rolling, the pain that had come so fast had disappeared. A new clarity invaded him, filling him with invigorating strength. His head cleared of all but his own incredulous thoughts. The voices vanished, buried beneath the rarest of all sounds – the beating of his heart.

Sweat cooled the back of his neck. He lifted his head. Chrysabelle stood directly in front of him, arms crossed, and smirking.

‘Feeling better?’ she asked.

He pressed his hand to his chest. ‘It’s beating. I can’t get used to that.’

‘Here.’ She handed him the bottle of water off the tray.

‘I don’t need that.’ Life, real life, coursed through him.