Page 67 of Demon Food

I gulped.

“Tell me, love,” he said, peering at the cigarette in his fingers that had nearly gotten snuffed out in our little tussle. “Was I hurting you in your dreams? Or was I just that good?”

I shot him a look. Because of that, but also because his health was so clearly worse this morning, from the hollows of his cheeks to the pallid grey of his lips to the setting creases on his forehead.

He was still epically handsome—that would likely never change—but he looked sick beyond measure. And he was fucking smoking.

“Let me see your side,” I said, tossing the covers from my legs. “Come on. Lift your shirt.”

One of his eyebrows arched as he exhaled smoke. “You want to see it, do you? So that you might find a home for your other knee?”

“You deserved that,” I said, venom in my tone. “Consider that my way of thanking you for putting your ghost hands all over me last night.”

His gorgeous smile only spread as he stretched across the bed, propping himself up on an elbow. “My apologies, Snow Fox. I did not realize they were ‘all over you’.”

I sucked my lower lip into my mouth. Do not get heated at the memory. Do not get heated at the memory.

“I thought they were just wrapped around your delicate neck.”

My heartbeat betrayed me, and I hated that he could hear it, but he could, so there was no use in trying to hide it. It was why his pretty (and satisfied) gaze wandered down to my chest.

“Lift your stupid fucking shirt,” I said, “and let me see your side.”

His brows dipped. “Bossy human⁠—”

“Now, Alek.”

He sucked on his herbs, humor dancing in his expression even as he eyed me cautiously. Then he lifted his shirt, and I was certain my face lost a full shade of color.

The sprawling veins had darkened to a blackened red and spiraled higher up into his ribcage. If he were a human, this would be the thing that lay him on his deathbed.

What I was about to say was stupid. Or stubborn. I could never quite tell those two things apart. I steeled myself with a breath and asked, “Have you read A Magnificent Constitution?”

He squinted, either at the question or the smoke curling into his eyes. “That a book?”

“Yes. A manual, rather. They call it the bible of vultae anatomy, and it teaches things like how to please one of you and what to expect in bed. It is the only reason whores are taught to read. I’ve read it three times front to back.”

He slanted his head, watchful as he exhaled smoke, like, And?

“And,” I continued, “there is a section that addresses how to heal a stubborn wound.”

I’d not seen a spark of hope in his eyes before, if that was even what this was. But his attention was instantly gripped. Even his tone changed as he asked, “And what does it say?”

I found myself suddenly without all the words I needed. Or at least without the most fitting words. The words that would make this sound less insane. “A human’s blood applied directly to the wound can quicken the healing process.”

He searched my expression, his eyes narrowing. “Blood?”

I swallowed. “Blood.”

“How much?” he asked, sitting up a little taller. “Some dangerous amount?”

I shook my head. “The loss of blood is not where the danger lies.”

He blinked.

“You see, the human has to be in a state of arousal for it to work.”

His expression didn’t falter. Didn’t give way to his thoughts.