“A little lightheaded, that’s all.”
“I took less than a half pint. And Clare, thank you,” he murmured softly, gazing into her eyes, and then the intimacy hit him like an anvil. The intensity almost stole his breath. This was more than her blood, surely… or was it because it washerblood? Clare’s.
He had never tasted blood like this in all his two hundred years. It was purer, more thirst-quenching than anything he’d ever feasted on before. It tasted like honey, worked like alchemy, healing him, making him feel powerful. Invincible even.
But with all that, came desire. His libido flared. Her parted lips, her eyes soft and dewy, tempted him. Oh, what he would give to place a kiss on that succulent mouth.
And yet… it was not just about her blood, he realized now. It never had been. From the moment he’d set eyes on her, it was about her, Clare Doyle, this human who intrigued and delighted him.
All along he’d told himself it was infatuation. But it was so much more.
What the fuck was he supposed to with that revelation?
Except react with his usual response.
Run.
“Clare—I—I have to go.”
“And risk getting attacked by that… thing? No way.”
“The way I feel right now, it won’t get within a mile of me.” He laughed, but it sounded falsely jovial, a poor attempt to hide how shaken he was by the intimacy they’d shared. “Clare,” he said again, more firmly this time. “I need to leave.”
She nodded, her features tightening, and stood up while he got off the bed, grabbed his shirt and put it on. Bloodied though the material was, as he touched his face, he could tell the deep cuts were almost healed.
Incredible.
Now what? Thank her at the door for the sustenance? Keep up the pretense that there was nothing, never had been anything between them?
How could he disrespect her by leaving without an explanation when she had healed him with the gift of her blood? She deserved so much more from him. He could at least unreservedly apologize for how he had treated her in the past.
He owed her that much.
“Clare, that night—” he said, as he tucked his shirt into his pants, trying not to let his hands shake.
“Which night?”
“You know full well which night—don’t play theI don’t recallcard.” His nerves made his voice taut as a rope.
“Oh,thatnight. Yeah, I think I do recall now. What about it?”
He tightened his belt, reached for his jacket, his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth.
Shucking on his jacket, he finally managed, “I treated you rottenly. And I’m sorry.”
For a long moment she said nothing. Then, quietly, “Why did you leave me like that?”
He grimaced. “Fear that I would take things too far and harm you.” Shit, was he actually blushing?
“You didn’t harm me tonight,” she pointed out.
He huffed a laugh. “Tonight I was in no fit state to harm anyone.”
“And now?”
“Now…” Before he could stop himself, he’d moved swiftly, so they were standing inches apart. She did not step away—on the contrary, she seemed to sway closer. He reached out and stroked her jaw, letting his finger rest on the pulse in her neck. “Now, I could so easily destroy you.”
Her luminous gaze held his, fearless. “What if I resisted?”
