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“Would I let you?” Meredith repeated. “Oh, my dear dimwitted friend. You’re serious, aren’t you? You don’t know your own power, do you?”
Stefan felt himself flush a little. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Stefan, let me tell you something. I may be fond of Alaric Saltzman—and someday, someday I may marry him, true—but you can kiss me anytime you like. Yes, I’ll pretend with you, Stefan. If I’m going to die tonight or tomorrow, I would be glad to go having a memory of comfort instead of fear.”
She understood that it could be either. That was the important point. And when she rested back into the crook of Stefan’s arm, her body was relaxed. Stefan didn’t wait for new doubts or fears to overtake her. He put a gentle hand to her cheek and shut his eyes.
Then he bent to his first real kiss—not dream, not reverie—since Elena had died. He noted that Meredith’s lips were soft and surprisingly warm—and then there was a sort of silken explosion in his mind. Meredith was opening to him, giving of herself, showing him that Elena was not the only one who could turn a kiss into a glimpse of the kingdom of heaven. Or into the garden of Eden; the garden of green valleys which Stefan could glimpse, but never again enter. Heartstricken, he clung to her, and the kiss stretched on far longer than he had ever meant it to. It resonated like a chord so pure and beautiful that it builds and builds until everything is vibrating to its tone, until Stefan felt it in his bones and in his aching body . . . and his aching fangs.
Hazily, he sensed the thoughts of logical, practical Meredith—and found them too hazy themselves, with too great a generosity in her, too much willingness to give of herself.
They mustn’t go straight from this into the bloodfeast. Even in the daze of Stefan’s desire for it he knew that much. They had to tune this down.
Stefan broke from the kiss.
Meredith made a faint, longing noise and tried to cup his head back down, only to meet in her fingers the steel of a stubborn vampire’s neck. She sighed, her breath slowing.
Then she opened her eyes and he saw the rainbow sheen of tears in their darkness and the dampness on her face.
“You cannot do that to Bonnie,” she said, with a tremor in her voice. “You can’t.”
“Bonnie’s a little girl.”
“You think? You’ll find out. Bonnie was born a woman—in certain areas. Yes, she dots her i’s with little hearts. But, maybe because she’s psychic, or a witch, or whatever, she’s grown up in that one matter.”
Stefan laughed, glad to see that they were both calming down. As for Bonnie, it wasn’t even worth arguing over: giddy Bonnie of the flashflood emotions; Bonnie who was a sweet bubbly child, nothing more. “All right,” he said amiably. “I won’t. But before I forget”—he held Meredith’s eyes and waited a beat and then said—“thank you.”
“Thank you,” Meredith returned and for one moment her eyes misted over. But she had regained her composure, although her olive skin was still flushed and her breathing still slightly unsteady. “Now I know that Elena wasn’t just bragging on you.”
“And now I’m embarrassed.”
“You’re not. You must have heard it, in all sorts of ways, from all sorts of girls. Over all sorts of centuries.”
Stefan, with those dark eyes on him, felt his own skin flush. He met Meredith’s gaze squarely. “I won’t lie to you. It’s a—tool—in the repertoire of vampire tricks. Usually. But that was . . . the meeting of two kindred souls in lovingkindness, I think. And I thank you.” Meredith gave a longer sigh. “Sometimes I wonder if anyone can catch a vampire unawares without a snappy answer.”
“I’ve been playing this particular game for”—he smiled—“all sorts of centuries.”
“And that’s usually how it’s started, is it? Getting the blood you need. Under the guise of romance?”
“Or straightout mind control.” He wasn’t happy talking about this, but Meredith had the right to ask whatever she liked of him, as long as they got on with it soon.
“And sometimes you feel things strongly, like just now, just like a human—”
“Almost just like a human.” Stefan could hear the undercurrent of savagery in his own voice.
Meredith ignored it. “And when you’re drinking blood and you’re—tempted to go too far—you’re able to keep your head? The way you did a few minutes ago when I wanted to go on kissing and you wouldn’t let me?”
Stefan stared at her.
It was one of the most courageous things he’d ever heard done in cold blood, Meredith asking that question.
He knew Meredith would rather not think about the bloodfeast at all, and certainly would rather not talk about it. And he knew she didn’t want to think about the consequences of this particular feeding.
He
shook his head slightly. He’d underestimated her again.
And now he had to face the question, too, and it didn’t matter that the situation had been forced on him, against his most violent objections. Meredith was right: he had been tempted a few minutes ago.
