He set me to my feet but didn’t let go of my hand. I began to jog, my pace increasing until I sprinted. Eventually the sound of the demons vanished completely. We were only running from our shadows at this point. Still, I didn’t slow.
Andre didn’t say anything but kept pace at my side. I could feel his eyes on me, waiting for me to break. But with the wind in my hair and my lungs drawing in deep gulps of air, for a moment I could pretend away all the grisly events that had come to pass.
And then that unfeeling outer shell began to crack. My mind began to play out all sorts of horrible scenarios of what might’ve happened to Cecilia—what might still be happening to her.
“Don’t think of her pain,” Andre whispered. “She wouldn’t want that. Think of better memories of her.” Only after he spoke did I realize that I must’ve let out a sob.
I wish I could do as Andre suggested, but her screams still echoed in my ears. I pressed the back of my hand to my mouth. The monster that orchestrated it all would take me two days from now.
I stumbled, then fell to my knees. Once I landed, I decided I didn’t want to get up. My entire body shook. Cecilia was dead.
Andre picked me up, and cradled me in his lap. “Shhhh, soulmate,” he soothed. “She’s immortal. She’ll be back.”
But not before I died.
I pressed my face into his chest, allowing the material to muffle my cries. He’d have questions for me. Questions I’d never meant to answer.
Andre shifted me to pull out his phone. He made a quick call to his servants for a car and a cleanup crew before turning his attention back to me. His fingers brushed aside my own, and he lifted my wrist.
Deep gouges had shredded the skin there where the demon’s claws had swiped at me. They’d scabbed over, but the injury should’ve been a distant memory by now. Gently he probed the wounds, his expression unreadable.
When he caught me looking, his gaze flicked to my face. He hissed in a breath and reached a hand out. It came away with blood.
I touched my cheek, feeling the wetness there. “They’re just tears Andre.”
His thumb rubbed away some of the blood. “No, soulmate,” he said solemnly, tilting my head, “they’re not.” His brows pressed together as he studied the marks on my face. “The scratches are somewhat shallow. I’m … surprised they haven’t healed yet.”
Not surprised. Frightened. I could read it all over his face. He paused, then his nostrils flared.
Andre leaned into my neck. I thought he might bite or kiss me, but instead he drew in a deep breath. Beneath me, his body went rigid.
I wiped my bloody cheeks with the back of my hand, though it did nothing but smear the blood. “What is it?” I asked.
Ignoring my question, he pressed an ear to my chest. “Take a deep breath for me, soulmate,” he said.
I drew in air, stopping when I felt I might cough.
“Deeper,” he encouraged.
I did, and a wet, rattling cough wracked my lungs. It shook my body, and it didn’t resolve itself.
When Andre pulled away, that muscle in his jaw fluttered and his throat worked. “We need to get some blood in you,” he said, revealing none of his thoughts.
My stomach clenched uncomfortably at the thought. I’d have to force it down. Again.
I stared at him for several seconds, the truth lingering in the space between us.
Our time together was almost up.
Chapter 22
By the time we’d returned to Bishopcourt, my horror no longer cut like a blade. Maybe it was simply my exhaustion, or the sobering realization that I’d soon join Cecilia, but I’d become blissfully numb to it all.
Power cackled off Andre as he led me into his estate. I swear he was secretly hungering for another fight. His mood had plummeted since he’d seen my cuts and heard my wheezy breath.
“Would you prefer bagged blood or fresh?” Andre asked, leading me towards the kitchen.
I dragged ass, letting Andre drift ahead of me a step or two. “I already drank once this evening.”
“I can smell your lie,” Andre said, not bothering to turn around as he tugged me after him.
Dammit. “I’m not thirsty.”
“You’re not hungry either, which leaves me few options,” he said as we entered the kitchen. “You must imbibe something, soulmate. Otherwise you’ll waste away.” His eyes flicked back to me. “You’ve already lost too much weight—”
“Sir,” one of the servants said, following us into the kitchen. Human, by the smell of him, “the Politia called while you were out.” He might be human, but he was obviously in-the-know.
Andre dropped my hand and headed to the industrial refrigerator. Inside, rows and rows of blood bags hung.
“About time,” he said as he reached for one.
“They wanted to alert you that they’re aware of your presence on the island.”
Andre raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement while he emptied the bag’s contents into a cup.
“That better not be for me,” I said, nodding to the blood bag.
“Soulmate,” Andre said, like I was being unreasonable. He put the cup into the microwave and nuked it. Microwaved blood—yum.
Not.
Andre pulled off his torn, damp shirt, and holy baby Jesus and all the wise men, that torso looked airbrushed. He tossed the shirt into an industrial sink, and it hit the bottom with a wet slap.
A shirtless Andre leaned back against the kitchen countertop and, folding his arms, finally turned his full attention to the messenger. “And?” he said.
The servant fidgeted, glancing my way, a detail Andre noticed. “They said that they know you harbor an international fugitive. They said the truce is in danger of dissolving. That you can prevent it by handing the girl over to the authorities.”
Andre nodded, looking deep in thought.
Just then the microwave dinged.
Andre sauntered over to it, and I took the time to admire his backside.
Damn, son.
He grabbed the mug of blood and came back over to me. “Please drink the blood, soulmate.” His eyes pleaded with me. They slid to the side of my head, where the scratches likely still lingered.