I grimace when I shuffle forward at a speed that would do a granny proud. It’s all I can manage. By the time I reach the bags, I’m shaking and sweating like I’ve run a marathon, my breath coming in gasps.
I lean my back against the glass, then slide down the wall, not caring that I must look ridiculous. It’s the only way to make it to the floor without collapsing.
“Eyes on me.” He infuses his voice with an order, the need to obey rubbing against my brain like sandpaper. “Watch me.”
It’s not the order that has me listening to him—I could’ve easily shrugged off the command—but the underlying kindness in his tone that has me automatically turning to listen.
And nearly lurch back when I find his earnest face just inches away from my own on the other side of the glass. The only thing that saves me is I don’t have enough energy to move.
“I know the blood tastes horrible, but you’ll get used to it.” He lifts his own bag, urging me to do the same, and I watch, almost hypnotized, as the blood sloshes inside it. “The important thing is to eat and keep yourself from going into a rage.”
With his eyes on me, he leans forward, and I watch as his lips peel back, revealing a wicked set of fangs. His eyes dilate, eating away the green color, but the whites remain. His fangs pop the plastic bag easily, and he shudders in pleasure as he feeds.
His gaze never once leaves mine, and I swear I can actually feel his fangs scrape along my neck, feel the slight pull as he sucks. My nipples tighten painfully, and I barely repress a groan as a different type of need overtakes me.
I’m not aware of turning to face him or pressing my hand against the glass, as if trying to get to him. It’s only when he taps on the partition separating us and points to the bags at my side that I’m able to shake off the erotic effects.
I pick up the bag, noticing it’s slightly warm, and I can’t repress a shiver of revulsion. With great reluctance, I bring it to my mouth. I concentrate on my throbbing fangs and parched throat and swallow hard.
My thirst rolls over me, my revulsion turning to hunger, and I strike hard and fast. The bag gives a faint pop as my fangs pierce it, and the first pull of blood goes down okay. With the next swallow, my throat feels tight, like it’s swelling closed. By the third, my stomach heaves.
I swallow repeatedly to keep it down, then force another mouthful down. I’m sweaty and shaking by the time I finish the bag. I’ve barely pulled the plastic away before my stomach twists like I’ve ingested poison.
Lurching forward, I barely catch myself before I throw up every last drop of blood I just consumed. The blood is so dark that it’s almost black as it hits the ground and splatters. It comes out in clumps, my saliva so thick that it’s basically just slime.
I hear the man swear, hear him pound on the glass, but I don’t have the strength to lift my head. All my concentration is focused on keeping my arms from collapsing and dumping me into a disgusting pile of vomit.
Just as my arms quiver, ready to give out, movement at my back has me lifting my head, and I sway alarmingly as vertigo hits. A whoosh of sound is all the warning I get. Fresh air swirls around me just seconds before strong arms wrap around me from behind.
I’m pulled against a surprisingly firm chest. An arm is wrapped across my upper chest, while another one settles around my waist. To keep the world from spinning, I grab on to him and collapse against him with a groan.
Being held close eases the pain that has been threatening to consume my soul since I first woke up after dying. I release a shaky breath, my muscles unwinding for the first time, and I take comfort from the press of his body against mine. When I notice his erection nudging against my lower back, I stiffen and wait for the panic to take over, wait for the memories of whattheydid to assault me, but all I feel is smug satisfaction at having killed every last one of those sadists.
“Milo! Get the fuck out of there!”
I jolt at the sharp command, the order tugging at me to obey, even though it’s not directed at me.
I turn to face the threat, but I’m distracted by the most delicious green apple scent. My mouth waters, and my stomach rumbles, threatening to eat itself. Then I’m no longer thinking. I lurch forward, my fangs sinking hard and fast into the closest body part—the crook of his elbow.
The first taste of him has me groaning in pleasure, lust hitting me hard and fast. The man behind me stiffens and curses, then my cinnamon venom hits and he stops struggling. He pulls me closer, nuzzling the side of my neck, his cock throbbing against my ass as he thrusts against me.
I give a hum of pleasure, and more cinnamon floods my system. The man releases a strangled sound that’s stuck between a groan and a growl. He lifts me up with one arm, twisting me until I’m straddling his lap, and I can’t resist the urge to rub up against the erection that settles heavily between my legs.
His free hand slips between my thighs, and I automatically open to him with a moan, desperate to feel his touch. Just as his fingers brush against my core, strong hands grab my arm, and I’m ripped away and thrown across the room at a speed that makes the world blur.
A roar echoes behind me, but I’m struggling to process what the fuck just happened. I twist mid-air, barely having enough time to bring up my arms and brace for impact as I hurtle toward the stone wall. The impact shudders through me, and a sickening crunch of bones reverberates through my body as my arm shatters and my shoulder pops out of joint.
I twist as gravity takes hold and land on my feet in an impossible feat of agility that is still new to me since being reborn. Cradling my arm to my chest, I whirl toward the door just as it clicks shut. I snarl at the one who dared interfere. Before I’m fully aware of moving, I’m across the room and slamming my good arm against the glass. “Let me out of here, you prick!”
An older man effortlessly holds my rescuer against the wall with a single hand wrapped around his throat. The asshole’s eyes are brown, but his pupils are large, his vampire edging for control. My rescuer, Milo, struggles ineffectually against his hold, much like a kitten would swat at a dog.
“Enough!” The command rings through the room, and Milo immediately goes limp in his arms.
“Hey, fucker, let him go!” I bang on the glass again, feeling absurdly protective of the man, pissed when the wall warbles alarmingly but holds strong. “Pick on someone your own size.”
I grit my teeth as my bones slowly slice through my flesh as they knit back together, the pain nearly stealing my focus.
The elegant man glances toward me with a snarl of disgust, like I’m shit he has to scrape off the bottom of his shoe. His black hair is stylish, if a bit long, his dapper, formfitting suit showing off every angle of him to perfection. It’s a little intimidating to be the center of his attention, even with the glass between us, when I’m wearing nothing but a stained paper sheet, but I don’t back down.
