He doesn’t know.
The thought froze her words, and she struggled to find anything to say. Caught between regret for having mentioned it and for what he had lost, she delayed too long.
He slipped from her with a rush of wetness down her inner thigh, turning away as he adjusted his clothing. She slumped against the wall, legs too weak to fully support her, the emptiness inside sudden and aching.
“I’m sorry,” she said, watching him over her shoulder. “Your bite hurt more than it… did before. But I don’t mind,” she added quickly, “I will get used to it.”
He licked his fangs, his brow furrowed in confusion. “It is I that must apologize,ma chérie.I was not aware that I am… less than I was.”
“No,” she said, turning toward him. “No.” This time, firmer. “You are as much as you always have been. My blood is yours, and only yours.” The pain didn’t matter. “Taste me… like I taste you.” She dipped her fingers between her legs, raising them to her lips, and licked them as he watched, salty and slick. Heat flashed in his gaze, then faded as his eyes lowered.
“I had not expected this,” he said in apology, then bent and swept her into his arms, carrying her to the bed like she was something precious. He whisked away the duvet and set her down gently, then lay it back over her. “Does it hurt still?”
“No, not at all.” She offered him a smile. “Only an ache, in all the right places.”
But he wasn’t mollified, his jaw clenched. “I will leave you to sleep.”
“Antoine, please.” She reached for him.
He hesitated. “Are you hungry? Do you want food?”
“No, I want sleep, but I want it with you. Stay with me? At least for a while?”
He was slow to agree, then his face softened. “Of course.”
“Without clothes, please.”
She watched as he stripped and climbed in beside her, his expression thoughtful. She pressed to his side, her palm laid over his heart, and kissed his shoulder. “I’m going to make your sheets sticky.”
“Do you want to shower?”
She hooked one leg over his, pulling herself to him, and closed her eyes. “In the morning.”
Twenty-Five
Cally lay still and peaceful, breathing gently, her arm across his chest.
But Antoine couldn’t sleep.
It wasn’t just the hour—he’d slept all day—it was the thoughts that circled his mind. Revenge. Darkness. Self-loathing.
His serum had dried up, and he hadn’t even realized. How had that happened? Why?
In three hundred years, he’d never had to worry about any aspect of his health; his phenomenal regeneration took care of it all.
Enough to heal almost any wound, even regrow a limb—it had happened, once or twice. Enough to keep him alive in a box, without oxygen or even blood.
Maybe it was psychological, somehow. Maybe the damage was deeper than he knew, and he hadn’t recovered as much as he’d thought. He had told himself he was in control again, that he wouldn’t hurt her like he had before.
And then he did.
Antoine slipped from beneath her arm to rise, belting on a robe as he watched her sleep. So calm, so beautiful. So undeserved.
So bitter, so melancholy, so pathetic.
He turned for the door, needing to be elsewhere. He had to do better than this.
The house was quiet, even Marcel was asleep. Zoey was in her room; Noah was out of range. Probably leading the thralls in their search of Milton or Dedham. That would take time. Vampires didn’t exactly publish their addresses.
