It’s one of the largest spaces in the manor, second only to the ballroom, and it’s nearly as bare. The walls are covered in dull red paneling, and the windows are painted black, blocking even reminders of the sun. Despite the grand space, there are only two lights, casting an eerie glow through the entire room. It’s difficult to see much more than the rows of identical tables and the people filling their seats.
To a passerby, it might look like dozens of couples on dates, facing each other, lips pressed to wrist or throat or chest, as if stealing kisses. Few mouths are smeared with blood.
Unlike a hunt in the natural world, feeding here is subdued. Boring.
“Bloodletters are paid a standard wage for each feeding,” I tell Grace. I don’t know when I stepped closer, but her back is now against my chest. The hand that once gripped her shirt rests on her hip. Surprisingly, she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she leans against me as I speak. “Most come weekly, some monthly, few daily. They allow us to feed, and in exchange, we don’t shred their veins or take more than they can handle.”
My lips brush against Grace’s ear, and I force myself to pull back. Thirty seconds against her, and I’m alreadypushing my limits. I slide my hand to its usual place on her back.
“Do you hate it?” she asks.
I still at the question, replaying it in my mind as if I might have misheard her.
“Do you hate feeding like this?” she asks. She turns, glossy eyes looking up at me. “Do you wish you could devour them? Rip them?—”
“We are vampires,” I interrupt. “Of course, we prefer to devour them. We crave the hunt. We’re beasts, Grace.”
She whips around, striding away from the room. I swing the door shut, and blissfully, the sound of feeding fades. Grace doesn’t slow her steps, even once I’ve caught up to her.
“You can’t outpace me. You realize that, right?” I ask.
“I don’t want to look at you,” she says, almost groaning the words. “You make mesick, Sebastian.”
I grip her shirt, forcing her to stop. To look at me.
“Iknow,” I say through my teeth. “I understand, Grace, but I am not going to apologize for what I am. We are all beasts here. We love the hunt, the kill, the torture. I didn’t show you that to prove we weren’t monsters.”
“There was a reason you showed me that?” she asks. Her eyes are glistening, so blue they barely look real. She’s going to cry, I realize.
“Yes,” I say. I can’t keep the exasperation from my voice. I step closer, forcing myself not to flinch when she steps away in response. “I wanted to show you that, while we may be beasts, we can control ourselves. We can suppress our urges. I’ve been doing it with you for months, Grace.”
“I’m supposed to be impressed that you haven’t drank my blood?” she asks. Her voice hitches, and blood rushes to her face. “You’re asking me tothankyou?”
“Hells, Grace!” I shout. “I’m not asking you to do a damned thing, and you know it. I’m trying to explain?—”
“You don’t need to explain,” she hisses. She shoves out of my hold, harder than necessary.
She stumbles, crashing against the wall. As she turns to glare at me, she steadies herself with a hanging portrait. It’s a painting of a long-dead vampire, whose name I don’t even know. The frame is simple and black—and apparently—sharp.
Grace grabs the painting, her soft palm meeting that hard edge of the frame. And that’s all it takes.
I smell blood before it even bursts through her skin.
For a fraction of a second, I stare at her palm, at the rush of scarlet spreading beneath her fingers. I’ve stopped breathing, but I swear, it’s already in my nose, my lungs, my soul.
“Sebas—”
I don’t give her the chance to finish. I slam against her, harder than I mean to. There’s no time to explain. I don’t try to stop the bleeding, or even to cover it. Instead, I throw Grace over my shoulder and run as if my life depends on it.
Because it does—allour lives do.
16
DON’T LET THEM MOVE
GRACE
Sebastian is moving faster than he ever has with me in his arms. It’s nauseating, the way the world spins, colors blurred and noises distorted. I’d expected him to wrap my hand, to say something irritable. Instead, he’d thrown me over his shoulder and run without uttering a single word.
