Page 42 of Fangbanger

I pull away and stalk into the kitchen. I need to apologize to her. A mate is precious and I’m wasting what little time I’ve been given with her. I brace my hands against the counter, let my head hang. I owe her more. I owe her truth.

I swallow heavily, a weak human response to nerves. I should not feel nerves. I’ve killed thousands in my lifetime. And yet, somehow, she is the worst enemy I have faced.

“Marcus?”

Here goes nothing.

27

MARCUS

“Iwas forced to fight.”

No movement from behind me. I don’t dare look. If I see pity on her face…my jaw works soundlessly.

“I know.” Her voice is infinitely gentle.

I finally turn. Her knees are drawn to her chest. She’s curled against the wall. I don’t see pity at all—just that softness I am quickly coming to prize.

Telling her this is a terrible idea. The first rule of battle is to never show your tender underbelly to the enemy. I fold my arms over my chest.

“You do not know all of it. No one—except my brothers and sister—knows all of it. I have kept my past hidden because it is my greatest weakness.”

She sucks in air.

I will myself to feel nothing, the way I did every night in my cell. The way I did in the arena.

“My sire was a rich man who lived just outside of Rome. His villa was palatial. He hosted parties for his friends constantly. The fights were the main source of entertainment. It was known that if you needed money, you could agree to fight for him in the arena, and he would pay your debts, help your family, whatever you needed. You could name your price.”

She looks horrified. I can barely stand to hold her gaze, but she deserves to know why I am unwilling to take a mate.

“My mother was very sick. We were poor. We didn’t have enough food. Julian and I hatched a plan—we would fight, and in exchange, the rich man would grant us two things—a home outside the city for my parents and enough food to last them for the rest of their lives. We were fools.” I can’t keep the bitterness from my voice, even after all these years. “We got the food, and the house. But we didn’t know that his fighters were all vampires. He turned us, kept us prisoner, and starved us before the fights.”

“The stories,” she whispers.

I nod. “I started them myself. A way of reclaiming something. Marcus Antonius, the berserker of the battlefield. As if the hunger had been my choice.” I shake my head. “It was a lie. I was fed only when I won for ten straight years. I knew nothing but hunger—until I murdered my sire.”

I do not tell her that my control is iron now, from years of having blood-givers dangled in my face, only to be ripped away. I excel at telling myself that I do not want, that I do not hunger, that I do not need anything or anyone.

I do not tell her that she is the closest anyone has come to shredding my control since those very early days.

“Taking a mate would mean being a prisoner again, wouldn’t it?”

Her voice is gentle. She drops down from the table and approaches me warily.

My throat works. “Yes,” I rasp. “I would only be able to feed from you. You could control me completely. I cannot—” The horror of it steals any eloquence. “Leah—I cannot.”

Her slim arms rise, and I jerk back, but she wraps them around my waist and puts her head on my chest.

“I know, vampire.”

I am utterly still. I have not felt this in centuries. She is so soft and vulnerable. I feel her heart beat against me, and I take quick huffs of her scent, even though I do not need to breathe. She smells like temptation—rich plums and red grapes.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I understand. We will never seal the bond. Will you be able to restrain yourself?”

There’s a twisting sensation inside me. “For a time. But eventually I will have to leave, or I’ll be forced to seal it.”

She hums and presses closer. “Okay, vampire. As you wish.”