“Does this always happen after a feed?” Maeve asks, a mixture of quiet wonder and curiosity painting her tone.
She sounds tired but not unhappy. And with every word she speaks to me, my worries ease a bit more.
She doesn’t regret it. She’s okay.
Now it’s my turn to reach up and draw my fingertips across her face. They trace her brow, then sweep a lock of silky dark purple hair behind her ear.
Has this ever happened to me after a feed? I search my long memory, sorting through the blur of moments I can recall. Then I shake my head. “No. This is... different.” Though I’m not sure why or how, and I don’t know what it means for either of us.
But it makes Maeve smile. “Does that mean I’m special to you, Professor?”
I think she intended it as a lighthearted joke, but it pierces me through the chest.
Does she not know? Does she not realize what this means to me? Whatshemeans to me?
Slowly, I rise up onto one elbow, then wrap my free hand around the back of her head and draw her in, pressing her forehead to mine.
“You’re more than that, Maeve. Don’t you understand?”
My whisper settles between us. There’s a moment of stillness in which all we do is breathe. Then Maeve softens, moving closer, her body curling around mine like water around river stones.
She fills all the empty, hollow spaces, warming my skin with hers, pressing herself to me until I can’t tell where I end and she begins.
“I think I do,” she whispers.
And though I can’t see her face with the way she’s got it nuzzled into the crook of my neck, I’m quite certain I feel hot tears against my skin.
I wrap my arms around her, squeezing her tight.
Good. I need her to understand. I need her to know that I’ve taken nothing lightly.
Every glance, every touch, every moment we’ve stolen for ourselves—I’ve carefully pondered each one, have considered and reconsidered what it could mean for me and, more importantly, what it could mean for her.
Specialdoesn’t even begin to cover the depth of my feelings for her.
Maeve shifts a bit, and I ease my grip from around her. I can feel her wipe her cheeks, and then she wiggles herself onto the pillow beside mine and looks into my eyes.
And hers widen.
“Your eyes,” she says.
Oh, right. I’d almost forgotten.
“They’re . . . turning red.”
There’s no mirror beside the bed, no reflective surface I can look into. But I know the color they take on after a live feed: a startlingly bright crimson, so vibrant they appear at times almost to glow.
“It’s from feeding,” I tell her.
She stares into my eyes for a moment longer, and then her lips curl into a smile. “I like it.”
I arch a brow. “Why?”
Now her smile grows. “Because it’s like I’ve marked you too.” She reaches up to touch my marks on her neck. “You marked me here.” Then she brushes those same fingertips across my cheekbone. “And I’ve marked you here. Like we...”
She hesitates, her brow furrowing.
“Like we what?” I ask.
