The mention of Gabe had momentarily dulled his appetite, but he was hungry. Still, it didn’t feel right, somehow. Not yet.
“Le Comte de Monte-Cristo?” That was ironic. Appropriate. Not because she was reading it, but because it was a story of revenge. Mondego, Danglars, Caderousse, Villefort.Nico, Tobias, Roberto… maybe not Gabe.“Did I tell you once that I identified with Edmond Dantès?”Now more than ever.
“Yes. It wasn’t that long ago.”
He turned to face her. “How long has it been?”
“Three weeks.” She chewed her lip. “Halloween, remember?”
Yes. She’d said. “I apologize, I am not quite myself.”
“It’s fine, it’s… fine. It’s only been a day. Why don’t you feed, and maybe go back to bed? I could join you, if you like. We could…” She left the sentence unfinished, uncertainty in her tone.
“I suppose you’re right,” he said, anger curling cold and sharp within. “I’m an invalid, broken and in need of care.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Her eyes filled with hurt and pity. “Whatever you need, whatever you want.”
“What doyouwant? You want me to feed on you, is that it?” Like Éliane. Nothing more than seeking the pleasure his bite would bring. Éliane had never loved him, not truly. He’d never loved her. Hell, he’d never loved anyone.
Except Cally.
Did he though? Did he still? Wasn’t that… before?
He shook his head, then closed the gap between them faster than she could see, slipping behind her. He took her jaw in his hand, pulling it up and to the side, exposing her neck. “Very well,ma chérie, as you wish.”
She gasped at his bite, and her blood flooded hot and thick over his tongue. So vibrant, so delicious. So potent, so powerful. More so than he remembered. It gushed into his mouth, his eyes flicking open in surprise, then closing as he savored each pull, each mouthful.
“Antoine…” Her gasp was high, pained.
He drank, throat convulsing in the pleasure of it, over and over as he took from her, like he’d never be able to stop.
“Antoine… it hurts…”
She tried to pull away, but that was pointless. He might be weak, but he was still so much stronger than her. He held her to him easily, barely conscious of the fluttering of her heart as her blood nourished him, intoxicating and rich. He already felt stronger, his body recovering more with each swallow.
“Antoine…” It was barely a whimper, and he sensed the moment her heart stopped.
He was back in Paris, Éliane lying across his lap, feeling her life give out as Belle fed to just this point.
“How long until she recovers?”
Belle laughed as she turned away. “Chattel are so weak, my pet. When she is gone, let the Seine have her.”
Antoine pulled away, staring at the wound on Cally’s neck that still bled. He licked it, more from habit than conscious thought, and it closed as it healed. Cally hung limp in his arms, and he let her drop. She slumped to the carpet like sleep given form, lifeless and abandoned.
He stared at her.
That wasn’t right.
She lay like death, pale and crumpled, her head so close to the coffee table, another few inches and she’d have struck.
The door from the hallway opened. “Cally, Marcel made some—”
Eve stood in the threshold, two steaming cups on a tray. A moment of frozen inaction as she took in the tableau, and the tray canted, the cups sliding off. They fell to the carpet, one shattering, the other not, both spilling tea across the green weave in a dark, wet stain, like blood.
“Zoey!” Eve yelled. She ran to Cally’s side. “Move back please, Antoine,” she said, her tone incongruously calm, quietly insistent.
The sound of running feet, and Zoey skidded to a stop in the doorway. Eve turned Cally over, pressing her fingers to her neck, right over Antoine’s bite mark.
