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“Yeah.”
“Take care of you.”
Sydney smiled, though the effort took the last ounce of her strength. “It’s what I do best.”
Days bled into nights. Nights grew into weeks. Eventually Kellan stopped turning over in bed, expecting to find her there. But he never stopped aching at the knowledge that she wouldn’t be.
Everything between them had happened so quickly. He shouldn’t have gotten used to her being around so fast, but he’d underestimated the power of finding his mate. And yes, maybe he’d taken it for granted that she would grasp the significance of their joining, but he hadn’t ever guessed he could drive her away.
Or that she’d stay gone.
The bagged blood that appeared at his mouth upon wakening made him snort with disgust. He shoved the hand that held it away, then rolled over and pressed his face into the pillow. Even after fifty washings, the sheets still bore her scent. Strawberries and sunshine.
Come walk with me into the light, or stay forever banished to the night.
The song, Luke’s favorite, pulled at his mind. He’d believed he had moved past the urge to be human. They were so frail, after all. And yes, they experienced joys he never would again, but their losses were just as staggering. Happiness, no matter how brief, always exacted its demand for payment, so he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised he was paying now.
“Well, that solves the problem.”
Kellan pulled the pillow over his head.
He didn’t want to talk to anyone, least of all his best friend. Somehow he knew Luke believed he’d caused this to happen. He was smug about it, too, as if he’d finally been vindicated in his decision to tiptoe around Emily. Women, he’d said, couldn’t handle the truth in one straight shot. Better to spoonfeed them a little at a time. And while Luke still didn’t have his mate by his side, he also hadn’t struck out so resoundingly that Emily refused all contact with him.
All phone calls. All e-mails. All deliveries of calla lilies and irises—though they were out of season and extremely expensive—arranged with blood-red balloons and enormous heart-shaped boxes of truffles. He’d taken the flowers to the cemetery and left them on graves that lacked fresh ones, but the balloons were another issue. They clung to the ceiling around his bed, taunting him with their dangling red tails until he slapped at them like a deranged mental patient.
She’d even returned the emerald velvet gown he’d had delivered. The one he’d had specially made, sized from memory. Not only had she refused it, she’d sent the pristine white box back with the dressmaker’s seal intact. She hadn’t even looked.
Could his ego be crushed any further?
Luke grabbed the pillow off Kellan’s head and threw it aside. “Drink, you slimy bastard.” This time, the bagged blood he’d already forgotten about was slammed against his mouth until his fangs popped out in sheer retaliation. “All of it. Every last drop.”
He drank, from reflex more than hunger. He hated the bagged stuff. Hated being told what to do. But from the clench of his body as the first heavenly trickle slipped down his throat, he’d obviously waited too long to feed.
“And shower,” Luke put in, as if reading his thoughts. “You reek.”
Younger vampires—those under a couple hundred years old—didn’t possess the ability to mind-read, but the decades between them lent knowledge of each other. Often, they didn’t even need to speak.
Which meant Luke probably knew exactly how much he was suffering. Not that he’d made much of a secret of it.
Kellan drained the blood and tossed the plastic hull aside. Then he raked a hand through his hair, now longer than he liked. Damn stuff grew like a weed when he wasn’t making bi-weekly trips to his barber, and it had been more than five weeks since he’d thought of a haircut.
Three weeks since Sydney had been gone. Might as well have been three lifetimes.
“Hey.” Luke snapped his fingers in front of Kellan’s face. “You in there? I said you need a shower.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I live here, too, you know. Hard to bring chicks around when you’re moping in your smelly bed.”
“My bed doesn’t smell.”
“Fine. You’re what smells. Get a grip on yourself, man.”
Kellan cast Luke a sideways glance. “And what chicks are you bringing around? I haven’t seen you boning anything but yourself.”
Luke kicked back on the edge of the bed and tipped a bottle of root beer to his lips. That was a recent affectation, because Kellan had never seen him touch the stuff before. “And you talk about my language.”
“I’ve decided decorum is overrated.”
