Cold, black water engulfed her, and she tried to scream . . . hands in the dark, laughter . . .
Miranda woke with a start, struggling against an invisible assailant that turned out to be the comforter, her breath and heart both racing. She sat up into the darkness and tried to calm herself, torn between the urge to run and the urge to strike out.
She groped mindlessly to one side and shocked herself when her palm met something solid.
Memory returned. She gasped.
David was sound asleep beside her, the sheets low over his hip, the faint watery daylight coming in beneath the bedroom door just barely silhouetting the line of his body and the light from the Signet a dim red bathing the places where there should have been dark cuts in his skin. They had already healed.
Vampires were sound sleepers during the day; he didn’t even stir in response to her movements. She sat there watching him for a moment while she grounded herself—it was far easier than she expected thanks to the gravitational pull of his oblivion. Still, she was wide-awake and anxious . . . not to mention she had to pee. She climbed out of the bed and, wincing at how sore and strained her muscles were, went to the bathroom, washed her face, and tried to get some sense back in her thoughts.
She looked at herself in the mirror. There were three bite marks in her throat, one on the left and two on the right, and though the holes themselves were closing, there was blood dried on her neck, and the pale purple shadows of bruises forming on her breasts. She smiled a little and touched each one, feeling fluttery inside at the memory.
The fuzziness refused to leave her mind even after she splashed cold water on her face and cleaned herself up with a washcloth—she felt almost high, tremulously weak in all her limbs, but it was a pleasant sort of weirdness.
She went back into the bedroom to find he’d shifted position, turning over to face away from the door; she smiled again, remembering the silk of his skin against her lips and the way the tattoo had been raised, just a little the way she’d hoped it would be, like a relief map of ink.
She caught sight of his knife on the bedside table. The blade was still open from the third . . . fourth? time, and seeing it almost made her stagger backward as the realization of what they had done hit home.
I drank blood. His blood. That’s why I feel so strange. Oh my God, I drank blood.
And I liked it.
Miranda slid into the bed and curled up against his back, kissing his shoulder and wrapping one arm around him to press her hand against his heart. She ran her hand over his chest, then around the side, sighing happily. He had cooled off in his sleep, but it didn’t bother her; the blankets were warm, and she was exactly where she wanted to be, and if she were to give the appropriate attention, he’d be warm again in seconds. She considered doing so, but there was too much going on in her mind . . . and as tired as he had seemed, she didn’t want to wake him yet.
She wasn’t surprised at the nightmares. What had surprised her was that they didn’t come until she was asleep. There had been no flashbacks, no real hesitation except at the beginning—for a few hours her memories had been banished to the past where they belonged.
But now there was something new to fear. She could feel it coursing through her. It was as if every cell of her body had opened up to take him in, and something dark and hungry was stretching inside her, waking slowly from years of slumber. She knew the rules—if it happened again, or if she encouraged it, she would change. Forever.
It’s not too late. In a few days everything will be back to normal. It doesn’t have to happen again.
The body in front of her shifted, muscles flexing and twisting, and he turned over to face her, wide-awake with sadness in his eyes. “Don’t worry,” he said softly. “It won’t.”
Regret rolled through her, but she said, “How did you . . .”
“I can hear you,” he replied. “Open your shields a little.”
She did as he said, parting the barrier like a curtain just enough to let his energy in, and instantly her mind was flooded with thoughts and images, memories . . . and pain. He’d been awake long enough to feel her reaction to what had happened. Her fear had dashed whatever embryonic hopes he’d had.
“No,” she said. “No, I didn’t mean that. I . . . I just feel so weird . . . I . . .”
She couldn’t find the words. It was hard to think straight with his mind so close to hers, the blood between them so strong it hurt. All she knew was that she didn’t want him to be sad, and that she needed him to understand. She shut her eyes, not wanting to block him out but her mind reeling from even a few seconds’ connection.
“It is a little overwhelming,” he affirmed. “But it has its advantages.”
“Oh . . . like what?”
She felt him touch her; as his fingers wrapped around her shoulder, his energy pulsed through her in a psychic caress, centered on his hand and spreading out to her toes. His hand moved around over her heart, and this time he sent emotion coupled with the pleasure. It felt like he was touching her everywhere at once, inside and out, and Miranda’s breath hitched in her chest. She couldn’t help but respond in kind, grabbing his hand in both of hers and projecting her own emotions into him. She felt him shiver slightly.
“You’re so strong,” David said. “I don’t think you realize even a tenth of what you can do.”
She smiled. “I’m starting to.” She breathed slowly, finally taking the time to actually feel out what was different, and found it wasn’t nearly as frightening as she’d initially thought—it was dark, yes, but it was still her. Whatever changed inside her, she could still choose what to do with it. She thought about the vampires at the Haven—about the one in her arms right now—and how they used what they were to protect, not abuse, even though the power within them was a hundred times darker and pervaded their entire lives.
Surely, if they could do that, she could . . . and, she realized, she wanted to. Something about this felt right to her. She had spent her entire life feeling out of place, out of step with the world, never feeling completely alive . . . but now, she was starting to wake up to who she could be, and whoever this new Miranda was, she wanted more.
“I’m sorry I freaked out,” she said. “This is . . . it’s a lot to take in.”
“I understand.” She could feel that he did; she could feel, in fact, that he was a little freaked himself.
She leaned in to rest her forehead against his, and for a moment they simply breathed in each other’s presence, taking strength from it as if their energy came from a single source and all they had to do was share it.
“How long can you stay?” she asked.
“Only until sunset . . . I’ll have a lot waiting for me when I get back.”
“So that gives us, what, two hours?”
“Two and a half until it’s really dark enough for me to go.”
“Good,” she said, and kissed him. “Show me what else we can do now.”
He laughed against her lips and pounced on her, ideas blossoming in his mind with the eagerness of a teenager. She laughed, too, catching his mouth again, forgetting sore muscles, the future, and everything else, surrendering to the perfect sweetness of desire.