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Liam’s teeth sank into her throat again and he moaned, gulped a few times, and Kyla’s eyes darted to the bed. If only they were in the bed she could reach under the pillow. Was it still there? She felt so weak. Her throat was bleeding out on both sides. One side onto her chest, the other side into Liam’s mouth.
He lifted her up off the floor and put her on the bed and she thought “YES!”
Her hands were laying limply above her head.
“I’d better close that wound,” he muttered and put his mouth to it, “That’s a bad one. Fucking D’Alonzo. I watched footage of him stealing that vial of your blood from the lab. When he drank it? I knew I had to hurry or he’d drain you before I got here.”
Please God, let that dagger still be under this pillow.
Her hand reached under and she felt it. She gripped it.
Her body felt so weak that lifting her arm with the light dagger felt like lifting a fifty-pound barbell but she got it up and then summoned every ounce of fight she had left, felt a tiny cold burst through that arm and she drove it down, into his back. She left it there.
Liam went limp on top of her.
She couldn’t move. She had no strength. The throat wound she had was still gushing.
She looked down at Tristan, who was still laying on the floor, and prayed that he’d somehow wake up before she was empty.
Her eyelids started to flutter closed and everything started to go fuzzy.
~~~
“Kyla!” Tristan said, his voice sounding panicked.
Tristan?
Was she dreaming? Was she dead? Was she in heaven?
“Oh fuck, Kyla. Oh fuck, no, baby…” Her eyes opened just enough to see him and feel as he removed the weight of Liam from on top of her.
“She’s not gonna make it unless you turn her. She’s lost too much blood.” That was Adrian. He was behind Tristan.
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you, baby. No no no, don’t close your eyes. Stay with me, princess.”
He went fuzzy and then it was dark.-12-TristanHe felt sick. Sick to his stomach, sick at heart, sick in whatever small amount of soul there was left.
She was gone.
He’d turned her. He’d opened up his wrist and fed her his blood and she still had a pulse; she was still breathing. Barely.
She’d wake up soon. But she’d wake up and be someone else. She’d have green eyes and peaches & cream skin, and luscious lips, long curly eyelashes and a smokin’ hot toned body, but she wouldn’t be his princess. Not even close.
She’d be powerful. She’d undoubtedly be more powerful than Taryn, but because of that she would also be a cunning, calculating, cunt.
He’d be doomed to live with someone who looked like the love of his life, the reason he felt anything resembling human emotion. But that’s where the similarities would end.
He wouldn’t desert her. He couldn’t. He’d promised.
He’d never leave her, no matter what.
And he wouldn’t.
So he’d suffer.
He’d suffer like Andre but worse. Worse because as sweet as Becky used to be, and as much as Andre had cared for that girl, no one could love any girl the way that Tristan had loved Kyla.
It would hurt, it would kill, watching a vamp with Kyla’s body, Kyla’s eyes, Kyla’s voice. A nasty, hateful, spiteful creature, and he’d spend whatever life he had left, which could be an eternity, as her servant.
She’d lie, steal, cheat, murder, manipulate, and she’d laugh in his face if he dared show her a shred of emotion. It would be an eternity of constant reminders of what he’d lost and he could already feel his heart turning to stone.
He took a swig straight from the bottle of Jack Daniels. He’d need it. She’d be conscious soon and that was when his nightmare would come true. She’d wake ravenous and then it would be hell on earth watching her desecrate everything and everyone around her for her own primal urges.
She’s awake.
Relief moved through him, despite that train of thought because she’d almost been dead when he’d bled life into her, and now she was stirring. He couldn’t bring himself to let her die. He deserved the punishment of watching her as a she-vamp for all his many many sins.
And now her eyes were open. Those gorgeous green cat’s eyes that said so much… that sparkled with her jokes, that lit up with mischief, that went liquid with arousal, that went like lasers with anger, shiny with excitement, or that shone with love once she’d admitted that their connection was real. He cradled her and rubbed his thumb across the apple of her cheek, “Baby?”
He ached as soon as he said that. Immense loss rushed through his heart, his veins.
He had a thermal pitcher and glass with body temperature blood ready. He had a feeder in the next room, on standby, in case the pitcher wasn’t what she wanted or in case it wasn’t enough.
