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“Right.”
He didn’t fucking like it.
“Keep me posted?”
He hung up without responding.She was asleep, plastered against him, but shivering and burning up.
He pried her off, sat on the edge of the bed, and shifted her damp hair off her neck. He could see her pulse in her neck and sensation transcended into him. He envisaged her blood pumping through her, as if it was pumping through him.
Even if he hated how she tasted, he had to do it to try to help her, see if feeding could take these withdrawal-like symptoms away.
He leaned over and ran his nose along her throat. It hurt to do that, to do something so familiar with her, but something that meant so much to him.
He leaned in and his fangs elongated. He braced as he pierced her throat and felt the liquid surge into his mouth. Her body stiffened. It washed over him, how she tasted and he was as surprised as the first night he’d tasted her. She tasted like nectar.
Not just her blood but it tasted like that other blood, her nectar, but maybe even better. It was a taste that he hadn’t been aware of until now, other than when he found it on his face the day she took off on him. The knowledge of this flavour, it’d been there, under the surface for him, because he’d been blacking out when he’d tasted it before but it slammed into conscious awareness now that it was just like that other blood.
Fuck.
Euphoria swept through every inch of him as her beautiful sweet ambrosia blood flooded his mouth and went down his throat.
And then POW!
His eyes went wide as he felt her emotions rush into him with the force of a levy breaking. Pain, fear, loss. She was lost. She was in a barren wasteland and she was groggy, disoriented, confused, in intense fucking pain.
She needed something. She needed something but he didn’t know what it was and she needed it desperately.
He let go of her throat; he had to. The emotions coming at him were so fucking intense!
He swallowed what was in his mouth. He put his hand on her face. Her face was already considerably cooler. She closed her eyes, blowing out breath rapidly over and over, winded.
She’s in there.
Elation flooded him.
“You’re in there.”
He put his teeth on her again and took another small amount and for another split second, he felt her, felt more of the same. He released her throat from his mouth and looked to see she was empty-eyed.
“Come back, princess,” he pleaded and then his fangs retracted.
He put his mouth to hers and kissed her passionately. She didn’t respond.
He let out a pained moan and collapsed half on top of her.
A split second later he was off her, so he wouldn’t crush her, and looking down. He felt better than he had in days, maybe weeks; maybe ever. In a physical way, anyway.
He felt like he could run marathons, climb mountains, conquer. He felt strong. He looked at how listless she was. He’d taken all she could give right now. She needed to recover. But he was so fucking relieved because she was in there, somewhere deep, but she was there.
He felt something else rising with his inner strength, inner strength that felt like it rose in him, like it was rising because Kyla’s blood made him emerge into who he was meant to be. And besides that, something else that was rising was his wrath. He was ready to fucking kill. It wouldn’t wait. There were vampires that needed to pay and at least one of them would pay right the fuck now.
He stood and spied his phone on top of the dresser. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror over that dresser and as he moved closer to get a better look he saw that his eyes were black, his skin was grey, and the whites of his eyes had broken blood vessels in them. He snarled at his own reflection and then reached for his phone.
He phoned Sam, who he could tell he’d woken.
“Get here. Now.”
“Yeah, brother. Right there.”
Sam was accustomed to middle-of-the-night requests. He had explained to Tristan, before things went wrong, that he’d been appointed his concierge specifically because of Sam’s bloodline.
Tristan was the third royal Sam had played the role to. When royals who were in succession for an important role hit their 25th birthday, they were first turned and soon after they did a little stint with another royal in a mentor/protégée role, they were assigned a right hand man, someone who played a role of concierge, a guardian, someone to teach, to provide for, to protect, as well as to report back to other senior leaders on personality, shortcomings, strengths.
When royals hit their 35th human birthday, that’s when they typically got their enchanted blooded pet. Their concierge stayed with them about five additional years, some permanently.
