Page 45 of Fangbanger

I glance over my shoulder to see him glaring at the pan like the meat killed his firstborn child, and I burst out laughing.

He growls low in his throat. I lean weakly against the counter. There is a shirtless vampire in my kitchen attempting to cook frozen meat.

“Slayer.” He cages me against the counter with his arms. “You will let me in on the joke.”

I shake my head and press my lips together.

“Leah,” he croons. I shiver. Laughter dies in my throat.

He feels it. His eyes gleam and start to bleed black again.

“I think you might be really bad at cooking,” I whisper.

The edge of his mouth lifts, showing a hint of fang. “I think you need to eat and stop mocking me.”

“Not that.” I make a face.

“But you will eat.”

I poke a finger into his chest. His face is so close. I really need to avoid looking at him because I definitely wanted to kiss him yesterday, and if I’m not careful, I’ll go through with it this time. He leans into my touch, crowding me with his size.

“You’re very overbearing.”

“If you’re going to feed me, you must eat. Meat, eggs, protein.” I feel his breath against my mouth. His thumbs brush my hips. A muscle low inside me twinges.

He has a point, but being intimidated by the male I tried to kill five days ago rankles.

“I can take care of myself.”

“Can you? Because last night you came home drenched in blood and barely able to stand.” His words have a growl underneath them, like he takes my injuries as a personal offense.

“I’ve had worse. I don’t need a bossy ancient vampire telling me what to do.”

His flat look tells me what he thinks of that. “You shouldn’t have invited me into your home, then, little slayer. My mate eats before she feeds anyone else.”

My mate.

The words make my skin prickle.

They kill any argument I was going to make.

They make me feel wanted.

“Satisfied?”

“All of it,” he grunts.

I shovel one final bite of eggs and bacon into my mouth and chew exaggeratedly. Marcus sprawls in a chair at my dining table, looking far too at home in my eat-in kitchen. I want to kick his chair, but that would be childish, so I settle for glaring at him.

He and his nine acres of bare skin are regrettably impervious to glaring.

His gaze is on my mouth, the way it has been for the entire meal. I can’t read him. He looks like a broody young Roman god in the moonlight.

“Why don’t you have a partner?”

I nearly choke on the egg. “Excuse me? Like a partner for hunting?”

He shakes his head. “A…man. Or woman. Husband. Boyfriend.” The last word sounds foreign coming from his mouth.