Page 19 of Luna

In that moment – that exact moment – I realize that no matter what the circumstances that brought her here, this is what I’ve always wanted since the moment I first saw her.

To make her mine.

“No, I did not.” I lean past her and tug the bathroom door closed. I feel her breath hitch as my body moves closer to her.

“Then you have a lot of female guests staying here?” she asks.

“No, I do not.” I lean on the doorframe, arm positioned above her so she is sheltered beneath it.

Now, she lowers her arms. She drops them to her sides and grips the frame. Her pelvis tilts toward me. She doesn’t even know she’s doing it, but her body tells me things she does not.

“Who was the queen?”

The question catches me off guard. I was lost in the vibration of heat between us, but now I stand back, lace my fingers behind my back and pace away from her.

“That doesn’t concern you.” I don’t look back. I stand in the doorway, facing the dark hallway instead of her brightness.

“I think it does. I think it has to do with why I’m here.”

“It is a business matter.” I wrap my fingers around the handle. “And something you are best staying away from.”

I wait a beat longer than I should. Curious to see whether she will challenge me more. But then I feel her sigh. Her energy shifts. I hear her sit down on the edge of the bed. Is she resting her head in her hands? Is she rubbing her aching back?

“Get some rest, Luna. We will talk tomorrow.”

I close the door and take a key from the hook on the wall beside it.

Then I lock her in.

It takes me only a few seconds to reach my office. Moving at speed isn’t something I like to do unless there is true urgency, but knowing Luna is here, locked in my house, is doing something to the instincts I usually keep under control.

I feel like I’ve consumed some particularly powerful blood, and yet I have drunk nothing all day. My muscles are tight and alert. I want to run, jump, climb. Use the power that I restrain and keep buried.

I want to feed.

It has been months since I fed on a human. Occasionally, I have my men bring me a donor. Never females, always males. I make them sit in the armchair by the fireplace in my office, and I feed from their neck. Standing behind them. I slide my hands down their chest, beneath their shirt. I feel their breathing change as I drink, their pulse quickens, and their blood becomes more acidic as the adrenaline in their body starts to run riot.

I take them to the brink. To the point where they think I might be about to end them for good.

And then I let them go.

I have often wondered whether it is my way of proving to myself I still have control. That the reason I am so powerful, and can command this godforsaken city, is because I am better than the rest of the vampires who live here.

I don’t need the rush of a feeding session.

I can live without it.

I can fight the animal inside me.

I can control the demon.

Right now, though? For the first time in a long time, I think I would struggle to control myself if a thick, throbbing vein was offered to me.

I slam the office door closed, open up the computer and reach for the flask in my desk drawer. The good stuff. Aged but not fermented; I do not do drugs. Never have. And I don’t know a single vampire who takes Fermented Human Blood who has kept hold of their sanity.

I take a long, thirsty drink.

The crimson liquid coats my teeth, and gums, and slides exquisitely down my throat.