“If Timothy wins, I have to take a week-long vacation. If I win, he has to dress up as a French maid and serve me dinner.”
“Hmm. Well, sorry to disappoint, but you chose the wrong horse in that race.”
“It appears so.” Despite his admission, I didn’t detect genuine disappointment, which didn’t suck either. He didn’t want me to feed on someone to win a bet. Classy guy.
“But there is plenty of time for you to prove me wrong,” he added with cold knowing.
I laid my head back on the seat, trying to calm the torrential sucking feeling inside me. “Why don’t I want to drink your blood? Do you not have any?” I asked to distract myself more than anything.
When he didn’t answer, I lifted my head. Grim had gone so still, he could have been one of Madame Tussaud’s wax figurines. His dark eyes were fathomless. I could have fallen into them and still not have known what he was thinking. Fingers interlaced on one knee; his pose rivaled Rodin’sThe Thinker.
What wasn’t he telling me? There was something important—let’s be real, more than one thing—he was keeping from me. When I asked about his blood, I brushed up dangerously close to something he didn’t want me to find out.
A wave of thirst pounded through my body. I wasn’t in the master’s control anymore, but I still needed to feed. He’d set me off, and distance wouldn’t restore my equilibrium. Only a pint or two of life-giving blood would do that.
“Let me guess.” My voice came out as a rasp. “You run on caffeine and souls of the dead?”
Grim’s brows drew together in concern for a moment before disappearing. He regarded his cuticles with indifference. “Did you ever consider that my blood is too rich for you?”
“Come on, maybe you should donate to a good cause? For mere droplets a day, you too could help a starving vampire in need.” My Sally Struthers impression was lacking, but I gave it my best.
He leaned in. “This doesn’t sound tax deductible.”
“Blue bloods,” I joked, though my throat felt choked off by razor blades. Swallowing hard, I closed my eyes. “Will I die if I don’t feed?”
“Yes.” He said it as if he were a doctor, giving a diagnosis, not wanting to mislead the patient about their certain death.
“That’s what I like about you, G. You don’t pussyfoot around.” I said it with levity, but I meant it. For some reason, I knew I couldn’t take it if Death was a liar. But no, he didn’t hide behind riddles or half-truths. With him, it was all or nothing.
Sharp prickles stung behind my eyes. I would not cry in front of Death. I refused. “Would you reap my soul if I died, right here?”
“No.”
When I met his gaze again, I saw past his usual cold, hard superiority; pity was stamped in his eyes. I hated it. Was it because I wasn’t good enough for him to bother with, or because I didn’t have a soul anymore? I didn’t like the idea of being soulless, but all the vampire lore was clear on vampires being devoid of one. I’d argued with myself still. If I had a conscience, didn’t that mean I still had a soul? So, if Grim wouldn’t reap my soul it was either because I didn’t have one, or because it was too broken to collect.
“That’s fine,” I said in a disaffected tone. “I saw your Yelp. A lot of one-star reviews, G. Would not recommend. Reaping only half done before Death stepped out for a sandwich. And one guy said you reaped him while he was still on the toilet? For shame.” I was blabbering. I didn’t care. Every atom squeezed in vice-like pain, demanding I feed. It was pure agony.
Grim pulled out his phone and began typing.
“Am I boring you?” I wanted to punch him. Wipe away that dumb impassive expression on his face. If I expired right here on the floor of his limo, I knew he would simply pick up his feet and continue to text whatever sex bunny was dying to jump in his bed and add another dress to his already impressive collection.
He had said the closet full of women’s clothes had been Timothy’s doing, but at least a couple had to be his conquests. I saw the way people gawked at him. When I’d first set eyes on him, I remembered how his being smashed into mine like a wrecking ball. The need to fall in front of him and beg him to take me right there warred with the need to run like hell from his out-of-this-world intensity.
I couldn’t grasp why I wanted Grim to care about me. Maybe because no one did? Because I was alone and insignificant.
The limo stopped and instead of getting out, Grim held up a hand, signaling for me to wait. I’d graduated to shivering. The cold inside of me was biting.
He rolled down the window, and a hand stuck through it with a thermos. Grim opened it and handed it over to me. “Drink,” he commanded.
I didn’t consider whether it was a good idea. I simply grabbed the thermos and drank. Hot, human blood slid down my throat and I let out a sound half between a mewl and a moan.
I hated that the master had control over me. I hated that I needed blood. And I hated that I didn’t know what Grim was thinking as he passively watched me.
16
Iwas familiar with pain. I witnessed it with such regularity, I was dullened to its nature. But watching Vivien jerk in pain and wrestle with her thirst, I found myself sharing her distress.
I folded my hands to keep myself from doing something I never did. Comfort her.
