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I picked up the sandwich and took a bite, letting the familiar flavors roll over my tongue. The filling was cured meat that Frowh, Ella’s husband, and I had bartered from Royal One last week. The cooler was filled to the brim with these preserved meats; we didn’t harvest during winter and cured game lasted the longest.
“Tastes just fine to me,” I said, setting the rest of the sandwich down on the plate.
She frowned at the sandwich as though it would give her the answer. “It’s going to drive me crazy not knowing what it is.”
“You can keep trying different combinations of meats and sauces until you feel it’s right,” I offered.
“Mmm.”
She was just murmuring her acquiescence around another mouthful of sandwich, but it sounded so much like her mind’s voice in my head earlier this morning. I shifted in the chair, trying to shake off the intoxicating memory. I failed.
“What’s your ancestry?”
Had I meant to ask the question? I didn’t even know—my brain and body seemed to have separate agencies of their own now.
She blinked prettily, her generous lashes curled delicately upwards. Damn it, how could eyelashes be so beautiful?
I frowned.
“What do you mean?” she asked, tilting her head slightly when she noticed my frown.
“Do you have Fanger blood?” I asked pointedly.
She shook her head slowly, popping the last bit of bread into her mouth. “Not that I’m aware of. When both my great-grandparents first settled on Royal One, their mods were undetectable.”
I couldn’t even begin to imagine how many credits that must have set them back.
Twyla stood, grabbing the empty plate and placing it in the sanitizer in the corner.
I watched her fill a glass with water. Her movements were delicate and graceful—unique. Grace was a factor that was usually missing from most people on my Star. We were farmers and tradespeople; we didn’t have time or energy for delicate words or ways of life. Everything we said or did had a clear purpose.
When she raised the glass to her lips, I watched her. The smooth, dark column of her throat worked hypnotically as she swallowed.
She was a few feet away, but my eyes fixated on the point under her jaw where her pulse point and sweet artery would be—where she would wear the permanent mark of my fangs if we were mated.
I almost shivered at that thought.
Oh, not again.
The foreign voice was back in my head, now a mere whisper. I watched her turn away from me and place the glass on the counter, fingers gripping the edge of the synthi-marble.
She took a large, shuddering breath, releasing it with much effort.
Can’t, can’t, can’t.
The word was like a chant in my head. Despite its connotation, a warm flow of need hit me like a blow.
I closed my eyes and forced myself not to move, hands folded so tightly in my lap that it hurt.
When I opened my eyes again, she met my gaze, her cheeks darkening prettily. She swallowed reflexively—out of fear or desire, I didn’t know—and my eyes dropped to her neck again.
Please.
The word was like a whine breezing through my mind. My body went rigid, fighting the urge to press my skin against hers and hear those little words of need out loud.
“Come here.”
I was weak. I couldn’t stop the words from leaving my lips.
