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Of course, Stefan was a thinking predator, and as gentle a soul as had ever had to develop a hard shell in selfdefense, but he was a predator just the same.
He had successfully fought his genes so that he was not simply a graceful, expert killing machine every time hunger drove him to appease it. But just the same—the romance that had made him and Elena a sort of legendary modernday Romeo and Juliet had come from another part of their selves entirely, Meredith thought. Elena had fallen in love with the beast despite the fact that he was, and would forever remain, a beast: a hunter, sniffing the wind, evaluating the odds, looking for the weak members of the herd. He was a different sort of being altogether than a human,
and Meredith knew then that she could never do what Elena had done. She could never entirely trust; could never entirely relax with; and she could certainly never fall in love with a being like Stefan Salvatore.
And now it was Meredith’s job to submit to this creature: to an intelligent being, a person, but not a human.
To try and distract herself, she wondered what name the scientists might give this variation on humanity, on homo sapiens sapiens. Homo sapiens vampiris? Oh, come on, Meredith, what was the Latin for vampire? Homo sapiens lamius? Maybe they wouldn’t bother with tradition and would go for a word that simply denoted what the new beings were: homo sapiens raptor—or homo sapiens superioris. They would undoubtedly take over the world if they could find a way to reproduce fast enough, and to cooperate with each other. For that matter, Meredith wondered that they hadn’t already taken over.
There was no question that the creatures were more intelligent than humans, quicker, stronger, higher on the food chain—oh, that was funny if you thought about it.
Anything was funny if you had to think about it in this situation. What was being demanded was perhaps the ultimate submission, that she give her very blood to one of these creatures; that she remain still while skewered like a grub on the toosharp canines of an insectivore.
She could feel the flow of blood, yes, and she could feel a sort of pleasure in being rid of it, as if medieval theories about leaches and cupping were true and she was overbloated with it. The warm flow was almost pleasant, relaxing. But she was far too aware of her own entire powerlessness, as if she were bound hand and foot, unable to have any say in the control of her own body. And she was far too aware of the—inhuman human—who held her. He was drinking her blood, for God’s sake! She had been relegated to the ranks of FDA products. They could measure her blood donation in terms of nutritional value—how did you decide what made up a single serving . . . ?
I gave my word, she thought, using the last of her discipline to keep herself from screaming. I gave my word. To save Fell’s Church. To save other girls from just this kind of . . . rape of their veins. Tears rolled down the sides of her face and fell into her hair, unheeded. And still she lay in Stefan’s arms, unmoving.
There was no rending pain, at least, so she supposed she was not resisting enough to merit that. But the only thing remotely like pleasure was the desperate thought that soon . . . it must be soon . . . this would end.
And then . . . oh God, she would have enough to think about. Starting with how to look Stefan in the face.
Maybe you shouldn’t look at him. Maybe you should just pack up your things and run from this town . . .
Stefan
Meredith’s blood was as complicated a flavor as the color of Meredith’s eyes. Blackberry wine was Stefan’s first thought. But it lingered and changed on the palate, becoming dryer, less sweet, more smoky with a hint of bramble. It ended with an aged, mature taste that was entirely individual, entirely indescribable because it was Meredithflavored—and it left him yearning for more.
And it packed quite a kick.
Meredith’s life force was strong. As strong, in its own way, as Elena’s had been, because Meredith herself was so strong in both body and mind. She also had something vampires loved in donors, a wisdom that had nothing to do with age. All that combined in the blood to make a heady wine indeed, and tempted Stefan to drink more than he should.
He tried not to give in to temptation, but instead to make this last, this bliss that could only be given by those strong in nature, but ready, for whatever reason, to lend their strength and sweetness for a few moments to the hunter.
Elena had been one of the elect. Fearless, adventurous, trusting: she had loved to love, and to “romp in Cupid’s sunny grove” as one of his own dreadful adolescent poems had put it. She had liked to tease him; to taunt his canines with featherlight touches until he was half out of his mind with need, before allowing him to breach her veins. Then she would give herself entirely to him, to the experience, glorying in giving all she could give to him, as if she could pour herself out entirely into his veins, so that they were completely intermingled together: one. She had been an artiste; but not out of experience. It was entirely out of love that she had gained her inspiration. She could have made Stefan grovel before her, worship her, abase himself. Instead she had joined her strength to his strength and suffused them both with joy.
Elena. . .
. . .was not Meredith.
And Meredith had not called for him.
Later, thinking about it, Stefan would count it as one of the few times in his life when he had showed good sense, when he had resisted although every nerve and muscle and sinew inside him was begging him to ignore the gadfly of a thought that told him that something was wrong. That he was failing Meredith.
Meredith was supremely disciplined and compassionate. Perhaps no one else could have remained in the inhuman clutches of a fairytale monster for so long and given so much, without panicking and attacking the monster. Elena had, of course. But Meredith was not madly in love with him, in love with the idea that she could give herself to him with every drop of her blood. And Elena—had thought of him as human. Cursed, but human.
She’d been wrong, of course. Damon’s desire to make her his consort, half of a mated pair of inhuman hunterassassins, had been much more logical. But when had Elena ever been logical?
And now he was torturing Elena’s best friend.
The thought came to him quite simply and, if not quite in words of one syllable, it was very simple to understand.
Meredith was too smart and too disciplined and too logical to struggle, and so he wasn’t causing her agony, but it certainly was nothing like the kiss. Meredith was experiencing, in all its raw ugliness, the truth behind the mindillusions that vampires usually used to seduce their victims.
He broke his promise about not reading her mind. He allowed himself to sense just a little of what she was experiencing.
She didn’t like it.
Panting, stunned, Stefan pulled his head up.
