Page 116 of Bleed

His venom.

That intoxicating rush that I’ve missed so much.

He groans against my throat as he feeds, another wave of pleasure rolling through me. My eyes flutter closed as I sink into the sensation.

God, I remember now.

Why donors get addicted, why I wanted this so badly. Everything feels warm, soft, far away. Except Elliott. I’m hyper-aware of his hand in my hair, his arm around my waist, his mouth pulling relentlessly at my throat…

After several swallows, the pleasure starts to change. Not disappear, exactly, just… blur. My body feels heavier than it did a moment ago, my fingers loosening against his shirt as a strange coldness creeps into my hands.

Something isn’t right.

The realization surfaces sluggishly through the haze, and I try to lift my head.

“Elliott…”

His name comes out barely louder than a breath, but he just keeps drinking as if he can’t even hear me. My pulse pounds against his mouth, slower now, each beat seeming farther apart than the last as my vision darkens around the edges.

I dig my fingernails into his forearm as a jolt of fear punches through the venom. I try to push him away, but my arms are jelly, my fingers sliding uselessly against him.

He doesn’t stop. Not when I whimper, not when my vision narrows to a tunnel. I feel myself slipping, my breath slowing, hands going slack.

I want to tell him to stop, to warn him he’s gone too far. But all that comes out is a broken sigh before the world folds in on itself, darkness swallowing me whole.

Chapter

Twenty-Five

Consciousness returns in pieces.

First, there’s the weight of my body.

My limbs are impossibly heavy and even breathing feels like it takes more effort than it should. My fingers twitch against something soft.

Sheets.

I drag them weakly over the fabric, grounding myself in sensation as awareness slowly creeps back in. There’s warmth against one of my hands; a faint pressure around my fingers.

Then sound begins to register.

The quiet hum of air conditioning, a soft rustle nearby. Someone breathing?

My eyelids flutter open, and for several seconds, all I can make out is a blur of pale shapes above me. I blink slowly, waiting for my vision to sharpen until an unfamiliar ceiling finally comes into focus. Fancy crown molding, ornate brass chandelier… definitely not my bedroom.

“Bex!”

A familiar voice cuts through the fog, and the warm pressure around my hand suddenly tightens.

I turn my head toward it and find Taylor leaning over me, her chestnut hair spilling forward around her face, brown eyes wide with concern. The relief that flashes across her features is so intense that it scares me more than waking up in a strange room does.

“Wh…” I try, but the sound comes out as little more than a rasp– my throat’s so raw it feels like I deep throated a cheese grater.

“Shh,” she coos, reaching for something on the nightstand. “Don’t try to talk yet.”

A glass of water appears in her hand, and she slips her other palm behind my head, carefully tilting it up off the pillow.

“Drink.”