I don’t care, she decided. Just this once, for a little while, I’m not going to worry and I’m not going to care. She caught Gavriel’s arm and when he looked a question at her, surprised, she couldn’t bring herself to answer. She didn’t want to explain the recklessness, the pleasure of making the bad choice, the glory of at least this once, picking her own path to damnation. So instead of speaking, she brought her mouth down on his wounded wrist, newly sharp teeth piercing his skin and making him—even him—gasp.
She swallowed his blood, a dark vintage from some forgotten cellar. She felt like Persephone in Hades, pomegranate seeds bursting against her teeth, juice rolling on her tongue, and the more she had, the more she hungered. Her skin felt as if it were lit from the inside, her whole body shuddering with delicious sensation. He made a few soft sounds before he brought his free hand up to smother them, pressing his fingers against his own mouth. She drew harder on his wrist.
Finally, she forced herself to pull back and gaze up at him unsteadily. She felt drunk. He didn’t look particularly sober, either, watching her with slightly unfocused eyes, his lips apart when he drew his hand away from them, a shiver going through his body like some low electric current.
It occurred to her that Gavriel was going to fight a very old vampire in a matter of hours and that giving up even a portion of his strength was a terrible idea. He didn’t look as if he cared, though, head tipped back and eyes falling half closed. She wondered if she’d taken too much already.
“Gavriel,” she said, her tongue feeling clumsy in her mouth.
“Yes?” He blinked a few times, as though he was trying to focus on her.
“You can bite me,” she said. “If you want.”
That seemed to snap him out of his daze. He pulled back, eyes going wide.
She crawled closer, going up on her knees and straddling one of his legs, balancing herself with her hands on his shoulders. Her heart hammered in her chest. “I’m already Cold. I’m already doomed. It won’t matter.”
“Tana—” he protested, looking stunned. He wanted to, though, she could tell. He bent toward her throat as though the thrum of her pulse was beating in his ears, inhaling the scent of her skin.
She squinched her eyes closed, braced for the sharp stab of fangs.
“Tana,” he said again, whispering against her skin. “Tana.”
“Just do it,” she told him. “I’m scared enough as it is. Don’t let me chicken out and—”
She felt the press of his cold lips again and then the pressure of teeth on her jugular.
Fear choked a low sob out of her. He brought his bloody wrist to her mouth, and as her teeth found the fresh wound, he bit down on her neck. It felt like twin shards of ice slid into her throat.
She groaned against his skin. Pain raced along her nerves. She felt the pull of his teeth, the rush of everything warm inside of her pouring out. She felt the race of her heart, thudding faster and faster with fear. The taste of his blood was on her tongue, and cold pinpricks raced over her spine. Her lips felt numb.
Her body was pressed against his, one of his hands against the small of her back, nerves she’d never been aware of before clenched in sudden euphoria. Pleasure unfolded inside her, sinister and seductive. It was hard to remember to breathe, hard to remember to do more than bite down his wrist and drown in looping rapture.
She moved against him, as though she could crawl inside his skin.
Then he pushed her away, moving to the other side of the settee. Her neck stung and she gasped for air, the room coming into focus again. His eyes were closed, long sooty lashes brushing cheeks pink with her blood, black curls hanging in his face, mouth painted red. He was every bit the debauched angel, far from heaven.
Her lips parted, eager to taste, before she remembered herself.
Out the window, the sky was dark. She stood shakily.
He opened red eyes.
She wanted to tell him about Valentina and how she had to go, how she’d promised she’d help, and how she would help, except that right then she didn’t want to help anyone so much as to kiss him and maybe bite him again, too, but mostly kiss him and do all the things that came after kissing.
She wanted to tell him all of that, except then the camera above the painting, the one that recorded everything they did, would record her words, too.
At the thought of Lucien watching, her gaze flickered to it, before she could make herself to look away.
“I’ve got to get back to my room,” she said, not quite able to meet his gaze. She wanted him, wanted to stay and blot out all her fear with desire. She forced herself to take a step toward the door.
He looked as if he wanted to say something that would stop her, but he only stood, putting his hand against the wall to steady himself. Dark, bluish blood ran from his wrist.
Good-bye, she thought. Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye.
“It’s nearly over,” Gavriel told her, his voice low, a mad smile pulling up one corner of his mouth. “Time for us to read the day’s entrails and prophesy a glorious future.”
CHAPTER 34
Death did not come to my mother Like an old friend.
—Josephine Miles