Rare Vigilance (Whitethorn Agency)
“In that case, what bad news do you have for me?” Cristian asked, glancing up at him.
Atlas didn’t know when they’d moved in so close to each other, but the world was fading away, replaced with the quirk of Cristian’s mouth as he started to smile. “Atlas?” he whispered. “Stop thinking and speak.”
He closed his eyes, lost in the sensation of breathing Cristian’s air, of feeling his words brush against his mouth, of hearing his name spoken with affection. Cristian’s grip on his hand flexed, tightened, and he wanted to stay in this moment.
He looked back and found Cristian staring down at his hand, eyeing the crimson bead. His body was relaxed and his gaze was contemplative, not hungry, but Atlas suddenly remembered Andrei’s casual accusation.
“Are you going to feed when we go to Rapture again?” he blurted out.
Cristian gave him an odd look. “What?”
“You—you haven’t seemed to be feeding as often. Things are only going to get busier, so I thought maybe you would want to indulge while you still could.”
“I don’t need to indulge,” Cristian said.
“Won’t you feel better if you feed more often?” Atlas challenged. His pulse picked up when Cristian’s gaze dipped to his neck for a brief moment.
Cristian’s gaze returned to meet his. “You don’t need to worry about me,” he said. “And I’m not interested in finding another donor—”
“Because you’re waiting for me.”
Cristian recoiled, dropping his grip on Atlas’s hand and stepping back. It was the worst confirmation of Andrei’s accusation, and Atlas’s heart sank. Feeding was an intimacy he couldn’t afford. He remembered the sensation of Cristian’s mind pressing against his, of his own mind opening, and of the memory they shared. He’d offered Cristian his most intimate moment already. How could he ever keep anything else from him? No secret would be safe. Not even the secrets that would break Cristian’s trust in him.
“If you need to feed, you shouldn’t wait on me,” he said slowly, tucking his injured hand behind his back.
“It can be good—”
“I don’t care. I never want to do it again. No amount of time will change that.”
They faced each other, unmoving, while tiny drops of condensation gathered like dew on the warming beer bottles. Cristian broke first. He glanced away and crossed his arms over his stomach. “That’s your choice, and I’ll respect it.”
“You’ll find another donor then?” Atlas pressed.
He’d almost forgotten the empty sound of Cristian’s false laughter. It was wrong to hear it again here, with only the pair of them in the room. Belatedly, he understood how deeply his statement had hurt Cristian.
“How I feed is my choice,” Cristian said. He tried for nonchalance, but there was too much underlying pain for it to land. “And I expect you to show me the same courtesy of respecting my decisions.”
“Of course,” Atlas agreed miserably.
“Vasilica and Dinu are waiting for you. She lost the auction,” Cristian said, fleeing from the room.
He didn’t talk to Atlas again the rest of the night.
Chapter Eighteen
Atlas believed in intelligent, rational thought. He believed in hard-won experience and the rewards it brought. He didn’t believe in signs. He didn’t believe in divine retribution for taking the wrong path. But, fuck him, tonight was trying way too hard to change his mind.
“Are you okay, man?” the kid kept asking.
Atlas gave a wordless growl, loud enough to earn him a fearful look and a wider space between them.
At least the kid had stopped crying, which meant the burgeoning migraine Atlas had been fighting for hours wasn’t getting worse. He’d spent too few hours of sleep dreaming of Cristian. It started with them tangled in the fine sheets of an enormous bed. Biting kisses stung his lips and hands clutched at his shoulders and biceps as they pressed against each other. The kisses drifted lower to his neck and he arched toward Cristian’s mouth, petrified by fear of the bite and needing its pain at the same time. But every time he thought Cristian would feed, his lips would pull away, until Atlas was gasping. Cristian rose up, fangs extended, and Atlas felt no fear at the sight. He dug his fingers into the sheets, tugging on them to hold himself in check as he waited for Cristian to strike. But the sheets pulled free and the room flooded with sunlight and Cristian made a choked sound and turned into a statue of ash that fell over Atlas, coating him in dust, suffocating him—
He shot awake well before his alarm with a vise around the base of his skull. He’d considered calling in and begging off his shift, but the thought of Cristian going to Rapture without him, especially after last night’s painful confession, was too much. He’d medicated, drunk some water, and prepared himself for the shitstorm of a shift he was about to have.
And then he’d been rear-ended on his way to Decebal’s house.
The kid had misjudged the distance between him and Atlas when he pulled out of a parking lot and clipped his rear bumper. The damage to their cars wasn’t awful; the broken lights could be replaced by insurance, and both cars still ran well enough for them to get off the street to exchange information. It shouldn’t have taken half an hour to untangle the mess, but the problem was that the kid wasn’t insured, looked high, and had broken down in tears no less than six times as he begged Atlas to not call the cops.