Night's Promise (Children of The Night 6)

He growled again, though it was more of a purr, and then he bent his head to her neck and took what she offered.

Sheree closed her eyes as his fangs brushed her skin. How was it possible that something so unnatural—so revolting—could feel so wonderful? She should push him away, never see him again, but she knew she would not—could not. There was something remarkably intimate about letting him drink from her, about knowing that her blood was nourishing him. A little voice in the back of her head reminded her that she would die if he took too much. But even that didn’t seem to matter as pleasure rippled through her.

She felt bereft when he lifted his head. His tongue laved her skin, sealing the wounds, and then, murmuring, “Forgive me,” he buried his face in the curve between her neck and shoulder.

“There’s nothing to forgive.” Sheree sifted his hair through her fingers, then softly whispered, “I love you.”

“I . . .” Derek cursed inwardly, afraid to tell her he loved her, afraid to believe she loved him. Those three words had started feuds, brought kings to their knees, changed the fate of nations.

He had no idea what havoc those words might cause in his life.

Or hers.

Dammit, he had to say something.

“It’s all right,” Sheree said. “I didn’t mean to say it out loud, but”—she made a vague gesture with one hand—“I couldn’t keep it in any longer.”

Sitting up, he raked a hand through his hair, conscious of her steady gaze. “You remember I told you I’d learned something new about myself?”

“Yes.”

“I think I’d better tell you about it before this thing between us goes any farther.”

Sheree’s heartbeat ratcheted up a notch.

Derek closed his eyes, one hand massaging his brow. How was he supposed to tell her he might turn into a werewolf ? She had accepted his being a vampire without much fuss. Time to find out how she felt about werewolves.

“Listen, I don’t know how to sugarcoat this, so I’m just gonna say it straight out. My father was a werewolf, but the gene he carried was latent and never manifested. Turns out, I also carry that gene.”

“Werewolves are real, too?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you be both at the same time?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll probably find out the next time the moon is full.”

She fidgeted a moment; then, murmuring, “Excuse me,” she left the room.

He heard the sound of a kitchen cupboard opening, water running, knew she was trying to ease her nervousness. He didn’t smell fear on her, which surprised him. But she was ill at ease, confused, unsettled. Well, he could hardly blame her. He felt the same way.

He was debating whether to go to her or just leave when she returned. She hesitated a moment, then perched on the edge of the sofa like a bird poised to take flight at the first sign of danger.

“Do you want me to go?”

“I don’t know.” She fiddled with the hem of her sweater. “It doesn’t change the way I feel about you, but . . . well . . .” She spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s a lot to take in, I’ll grant you that.”

“You must be . . . I don’t know . . . worried. Upset.” Her gaze searched his. “Scared.”

He nodded. Scared didn’t begin to cover it.

“What do you want to do?” she asked.

“That’s up to you.”

Sheree bit down on her lower lip, then drew a deep breath. “I think I’m going to go home and visit my parents for a week or two and sort out my feelings.”

She was leaving. Hadn’t he known that, sooner or later, she would go? And though he knew it was for the best, he was tempted to use his preternatural powers to make her stay because, heaven help him, he was afraid of what he’d do—what he might become—without her.

“Derek?”

“I think that’s a good idea.” It was, he thought, the biggest lie he’d ever told.

Mara listened quietly as Derek told her about Sheree’s decision to go back to Philadelphia. Though he spoke with no inflection, she knew the girl’s decision had hurt. Her first instinct was to compel the girl to stay, to love her son the way he deserved. The only thing that stopped her was knowing Derek would hate her for it.

The words I’m sorry seemed inadequate, but, in the end, that was all she could think to say.

Later, alone in her bedroom, Mara paced the floor, her heart breaking for her son’s pain. For the first time in his life, he had fallen in love. She told herself that Sheree’s leaving was probably a good thing, at least for now.

Logan materialized in the room a few minutes later. He didn’t have to ask if there was something wrong. The air was thick with the tension radiating off his wife.

Wordless, he drew her into his arms. “Want to tell me what’s wrong?”

“Sheree has decided to go home to her parents and Derek is devastated. I don’t know what to do.”

“Stay out of it. This is between the two of them.”

“My son is hurting, and it’s all her fault!”

“Yeah, well, there’s nothing you can do about it. He’s a big boy now. He doesn’t need you to lick his wounds.”

She sagged in his arms, her cheek resting on his chest. “I always thought when he grew up I’d stop worrying. He doesn’t need this on top of everything else. The full moon will be here before we know it.”

He snorted softly. “I’m not looking forward to that, either.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Sheree cried while packing her suitcases, cried when she went to bed that night, sobbed quietly in the taxi on the way to the airport and during the flight to Philadelphia, and sniffled on the taxi ride home.

When her father opened the door, he took one look at her tear-ravaged face and folded her in his arms.

“Whatever it is, ducky, it can’t be as bad as all that.”

“Oh, Daddy, you have no idea!” And the worst of it was, she couldn’t tell him everything.

“It’s got to be man trouble,” Brian Westerbrooke murmured, draping his arm around her shoulders as he guided her into the living room.

Sheree nodded. “Where’s Mother?”

“The hospital was having an auction. Naturally, she’s in charge. She took Trudy with her. They should be home in an hour or so.”

Trudy Simmons lived in the little cottage behind the house. She had worked for Sheree’s parents for as long as Sheree could remember. She was a sort of jill-of-all-trades, taking up whatever slack was left by the maid, the cook, and the gardeners.