The problem with this situation. . . well, one of them. . . was that he wasn't alone in knowing how close to death she was.
Her anger at Lash had been a sustenance while she'd been jailed and abused, and she'd thought it would have kept her going outside as well. But the instant she'd made that call to Rehv, all her energy had drained out of her and left her nothing but a heartbeat. And not much of one at that.
John moved his wrist even closer. . . so that his skin brushed against her mouth.
Her fangs elongated in a sluggish push at the same time her heart hiccuped like it wasn't working right.
She had a choice in this quiet, charged moment: Take his vein and stick around. Deny him and die in front of him in the next hour or so. Because he was going nowhere.
Moving her hand from her face, she shifted her eyes to him. He was as beautiful as always, his face the kind of thing females dreamed of.
Lifting her palm, she reached up to him.
Surprise flared in his eyes and then he bent down so that her hand landed against his warm cheek. The effort of keeping her arm elevated proved to be too much, but as her fingers trembled, he put his own palm over hers, holding it in place.
His deep blue eyes were a kind of heaven, the color like that of a warm, darkening sky.
She had a decision to make here. Take his vein or. . .
As she couldn't find the energy to finish the thought, she felt as though she'd lost herself: going by the fact that she appeared to be conscious, she guessed she was alive--and yet she wasn't in her own skin. Her fight was long gone, the thing that had defined her most in the world having evaporated. Which made sense. She had no interest in living anymore and she couldn't fake that, not for him, not for herself.
Two trips around the prisoner park had taken her too far down.
So. . . what to do, what to do.
She licked her dry lips. She hadn't been born on any terms she would have chosen or volunteered for, and her time of breathing and eating and fighting and fucking hadn't improved where she'd started from. She could, however, leave on her terms--and do so after she had put things right.
Yeah, that was the answer. Thanks to the last three and a half weeks, she had one hell of a bucket list. Granted, there was only a single entry on it, but sometimes that was enough to motivate you.
In a rush of resolve, her hard outer skin re-formed, the odd floaty feeling that had fogged her out dissipating and leaving a sharp awareness in its wake. Abruptly, she pulled her hand out from under John's, and the withdrawal spiked a flare of pure, silvery fear on his emotional grid. But then she drew his wrist to her and bared her fangs.
His triumph was a heat wave.
At least until it became apparent that she didn't have the strength to break his skin--her incisors did nothing but scratch his surface. John was on it, though. With a fast move, he punctured his own vein and brought the source of him to her lips.
The first taste was. . . a transformation. His blood was so pure it blazed in her mouth and down her throat. . . and the fire it ignited in her stomach tore throughout her body, thawing her, enlivening her. Saving her.
With greedy pulls, she took from him to revive herself, each swallow a life raft for her to crawl into, each draw a rope slung over the cliff of her demise, each pull on his vein the compass she needed to find the trail back home.
And he gave without expectation or hope or the stirrings of emotions.
Which even in her frenzy caused her pain. She had well and truly broken his heart: There was nothing left for him to anticipate with. But she had not broken him--and didn't that make her respect the guy like nothing else could.
As she fed, time flowed as his blood did, into the infinite and into her.
When she finally had taken her fill, she released her seal on his skin and licked the wound closed.
The shaking started soon thereafter. It began in her hands and feet and quickly centralized in her chest, the uncontrollable tremors rattling her teeth and her brain and her vision until she felt as though she was a limp sock thrown in a dryer.
Through the trembling, she caught sight of John taking his cell phone out of his jacket.
She tried to snag his shirt. "N-n-n-no. D-d-don't--"
He ignored her, cocking the damn thing and texting.
"F-f-f-fuck. . . " she groaned.
When he clipped the phone shut, she said, "Y-y-you try to t-t-take me to H-H-Havers right n-now--not gonna g-g-go well. "