Page 33 of Bought for Blood

“Ah.” His hands find each other in front of his jacket. “My lord. There was a… scheduling matter. You’ll recall the reservation as drafted covers first call. The language is quite—”

“I don’t pay for shop-soiled goods.” My voice stays where I put it, low and even. Against the mantel, my hand tightens, and something gives in the stone with a small dry crack. His face loses its color. “Look at her, Vasile. Look at what your house did to my merchandise.”

Her head turns. I feel her stare on the side of my face. I keep my eyes on Vasile.

“The client was vetted, my lord. Fully vetted. A gentleman of considerable—”

“A gentleman?”

The word does it. My hold slips, and this time I let it.

It comes from the spine out. My jaw drops a degree past anything human. The fangs run out full length, cold against my own lip. My fingers stretch. The nails draw to points. Sound floods in from the whole building. Every heartbeat in it, arriving at once. The nearest one hammering itself ragged against Vasile’s ribs. His throat clicking, clicking, unable to swallow.

Salt comes off his skin. I can smell his sweat starting to prickle.

I take one step toward him. He goes back into the wall hard enough to rattle a picture frame. His legs quit. The wall is all that’s holding him up.

When I speak, the voice comes out of the changed mouth low and wrong, and I go slowly, because he needs to keep every word.

“Here is the new arrangement, Vasile.” His name hisses out past my fangs. “Her exclusivity is absolute. Not first call.Onlycall. No client touches her. No handler touches her. If the roof falls in, the rubble had better miss her.”

“Yes, yes, of course, of course.” He’s babbling. “Absolutely exclusive. Absolutely.”

I step closer. My shadow goes up the wall behind him, and the shape of it isn’t human. “Break it, and your house learns what my displeasure costs it. You personally will pay me in your own blood. A drop at a time. Ask anyone old enough to remember me. They will tell you it will not be pleasant.”

He nods. He can’t stop nodding.

“She comes out of that ward tonight. A warm room. A bed. A door that locks from her side. Proper food, and anything else she asks for. If she is anything but comfortable—if she sleeps cold one single night—your head goes on the gate. Have you understood me?”

“Yes. Yes, my lord. Tonight. Personally, I’ll see to it person—”

“Get out.”

He runs. A man his age, in a suit that cost that much. He runs.

I pull it back in. The fangs seat. The jaw closes. It takes longer than it should. I want to follow him out and finish the lesson. I stand where I am. Wait for the rage to go down. The building’s noise thins away, one heartbeat at a time, until one is left in my ears.

Hers.

She’s on her feet, staring at me. Her face is open for the first time tonight, eyes wide, one hand pressed over the wound.

“You—” She stops.

“Sit down. Please.”

She sits. Slowly, on the edge of the cushion, her hand at her neck.

“The bite,” I say. “I can close it. I will need to put my mouth on it. No more than that.”

Her fingers tighten over the punctures. Her heart is going hard. She stares at me with eyes that are as close to the sky as I’ve ever seen. I let her look for as long as she needs. Then her hand comes down. Her chin lifts. She turns her head and gives me her throat.

“Trust me.” I bend to her. She’s rigid under my hand—one hand, at her shoulder, only to steady her—and her pulse pounds up against the torn skin. I put my mouth over the wound. Her taste rises through the scabbing, faint and warm. Under it sits the sour trace of the other one. My free hand closes on the arm of her chair. The wood creaks. I ease my grip before it gives.

My tongue moves slow over the punctures until the skin draws itself shut beneath it. She goes through one long shudder, shoulders to feet. Not the kind she usually gives me.

Make it quick.

Her blood is right under my mouth the whole time. I leave it.