“Why ever are you looking at me thus?” she said, drawing the lapels of her robe more closely together.
Green eyes . . . in a face that was . . .
The Chosen glanced back at the door. “Perhaps . . . I shall just go—”
“I’m sorry.” Shaking himself, he made sure the covers were at his waist and motioned her over. “Just woke up—don’t mind me.”
“Are you certain?”
“Abso, come here. Friends, remember?” He held out his hand, and when she got within range, he took her palm and urged her down into a sit.
“Sire? You’re still staring at me.”
Qhuinn searched her face and then trolled down her body. Green eyes . . .
; So what about the damn eyes? It wasn’t like he’d never seen them before—
Green eyes . . .
He swallowed a curse. Christ, this was like having a song in your head that you could remember everything but the words to.
“Sire?”
“Qhuinn. Say it, please.”
“Qhuinn.”
He smiled a little. “Here, take what you need.”
As he lifted his wrist, he thought, Man, she was so damned thin, as she bent down and opened her mouth. Her fangs were long and very white, but delicate. Not like his. And her strike was as gentle and ladylike as the rest of her.
Which the traditionalist in him thought was only proper.
While she fed, he looked at her blond hair that was twisted into a complex weave, and her spare shoulders, and her pretty hands.
Green eyes.
“Christ.” When she made as if to pull out, he put his hand on the back of her neck and kept her at his wrist. “It’s okay. Foot cramp.”
More like brain cramp.
In frustration, he lifted his head and, in lieu of hitting the wall with it, rubbed his eyes. When he refocused, he was staring at the door . . .
. . . Layla had just come through.
Instantly, he was sucked back into the dream. But not about the beating or his brother. He saw himself standing at the entrance unto the Fade . . . standing in front of the white panels . . . standing with his hand out, about to reach for the knob.
Reality warped and pulled and went taffy-twisted until he didn’t know whether he was awake or asleep . . . or dead.
The swirl started to form in the center of the door, as if whatever it had been made of had liquefied to the consistency of milk. And from out of the tornadic center an image coalesced and came forward, more as a sound would carry than as if something visual would take shape.
It was the face of a young female.
A young female with blond hair and refined features . . . and pale green eyes.
She was staring out at him, holding his eyes sure as if she had captured his face in her small, pretty hands.