Cristian was bleeding out. He shifted at the thought, torn between relief and regret. If he died, Atlas would be safe to flee. But if he died, Atlas would fail the job, which meant Bea would face Decebal’s wrath since her “best” agent sat there and let his son die.
Bea. She was working for vampires and had no idea. They could go after her at any moment. Would go after her if he failed.
“Fuck,” Atlas whispered.
Cristian tilted his head, but didn’t waste energy looking toward him.
He’d failed his platoon, in real life and in every nightmare he’d suffered after. He couldn’t fail Bea. Her death would kill him.
He clenched his fists. “You need to feed.”
“Obviously,” Cristian mumbled.
“How much?”
Cristian glanced at him, movement sluggish and painful to witness. Atlas buried that shred of concern. Cristian was a monster. A monster he was contractually obligated to protect. There was no room for worry or sympathy.
>
“I’m not sure,” Cristian admitted. He struggled to keep his head steady. “Enough to start the healing process. As long as I’m not dead when we get back, Héléne can fix me.”
“If I get you back, you swear your father won’t come after Bea?”
Cristian looked confused. “Why would he—”
“Answer me,” Atlas snapped. “Promise she stays out of this.”
“Fine.”
“On your life.”
“I promise on what little of it remains.” Cristian’s fangs made his smile too sharp, too cruel. Atlas shuddered.
He could do this. He had to do this. For Bea, he could do anything. “Get over here then.”
Golden eyes widened when Cristian realized what Atlas was offering and he gave a single, weak shake of his head. “No.”
“Then you’ll die.” Atlas let that cruel truth hang between them. “You can feed from me, or you can bleed out here. You decide.”
Cristian was too weak to stand. Instead, he dragged himself across the floor, his eyes fixed on Atlas’s neck. He was careful to not reach for Atlas, even as he drew within touching distance. Only when he was an arm’s length away did Atlas ask, “How do we do this?”
“I need a blood vessel,” Cristian said.
“Not my neck,” Atlas ordered.
Cristian, swaying faintly, didn’t protest. He forced himself to look away from his first choice, only to alight on Atlas’s arm. “Wrist or elbow?”
“Wrist.” An automatic response. Dislodging a monster from the elbow was far more difficult. He’d learned that the hard way.
“It’s going to hurt,” Cristian said. “Too weak to make it enjoyable.” He almost sounded apologetic. Only almost though, since his fingers were already dancing over Atlas’s arm, pushing up his sleeves and caressing the thin skin of his wrist, ghosting over the raised ridges of his tendons.
“Nothing enjoyable about your mouth on my skin,” Atlas informed him. His past attraction had died the moment he saw what Cristian really was. He closed his eyes, commanded, “Finish it,” and held his breath.
The bite was like nothing he expected. Quick, shocking, painful, yes. He knew that would come. But it was the growing pressure in his head, his panicked flashback to the attack slamming up against something else, something that grew inside his skull, coaxing and whispering and asking him to let it in and—
He lay on the ground, staring up into the yellow eyes of the gaunt, humanoid creature pinning him to the dirt. The shreds of fabric draping its body reeked of sweat and stale blood and worse things. Its thin lips peeled back from a mouth of jagged teeth, of long canines, and its overgrown nails—no, its claws—dug into his collarbone as it resettled its weight and prepared to latch on to his neck. Nothing but faint groans around him, too few and too quiet for anyone except the dying. If he could reach his knife, he might be able to save himself. But he’d have to time it right.
He had to survive. He had to get back to Bea. Had to warn his CO so no one else was sent here to die. He gave in to the pressure of its body, forced himself to relax, and waited. Patience. He must have patience.