My heart throbbed, and the blood rushing through my veins sounded unnaturally loud. Dixon licked his lips, his eyes still on me, but hooded now, relaxed. He walked slowly around me, as if examining every inch of me.
“No.” It was a weak croak, but the effort of pushing the tiny word out past my teeth was immense.
“Aw,” he whispered, “don’t be afraid.”
I tried to shake my head, imagined myself spitting in his face. But I was rooted, and his words were so very melodic.
I felt Dixon’s fingertips as they walked up my spine, the cold and pain biting to the bone as he gripped. “You know, Ms. Lawson,” he said, his breath a throaty whisper, “I’m really going to miss having you around the office.” Another sly grin. “Until you come back, of course.”
He slid a long, slender hand from my forehead to the back of my head, smoothing my hair and putting gentle pressure at the base of my neck. I felt his grip as he slowly gathered my hair and pulled on it. I arched backward and he grinned, his eyes traveling up the length of my exposed throat. I felt my own heart race, could hear my own blood pulsing; my muscles tensed and my insides dropped to liquid as Dixon’s eyes latched on to the vein throbbing in my neck.
“Don’t,” I managed.
Dixon smoothed an errant hair from the tight ponytail he was making, then used his fingertip to frame my face. The gesture was so intimate that it dirtied me down to my soul, and I knew that if I survived this, no amount of washing would ever make me feel clean again.
“You really are very lovely,” he said, his dark eyes staring into mine.
I blinked up and saw the ink in them; saw a mesmerizing starburst of gold and copper. It spun and moved and riveted me.
The glamours . . .
My eyelids started to feel unusually heavy. The heat that was searing me was now a gentle warmth, and the blood that was pulsing was now a low, melodic hum . . . like a lullaby.
I watched a red triangle of Dixon’s tongue poke out and moisten his lips. “I’m glad we get to have this final meal together.” He twisted my hair and pulled me lower, then used his other hand to smooth the skin on my neck. The cool of his hand was nice and I licked my own lips, suddenly overcome with thirst.
“I need a drink.”
It was my voice, but my lips didn’t move. I didn’t make them move, didn’t feel them move. But I was still talking.
“A drink, please.”
“We have to finish off your friends,” he whispered.
I don’t remember moving, but I saw the walls of the warehouse bob as I nodded my head. Dixon took a single fingernail and sliced at the duct tape that hugged my left arm. My arm swung free, the handcuff flopping against my thigh.
“Thirsty,” I said again, trying desperately to wet my lips.
Dixon cocked an eyebrow, then opened his coat and pulled out a gun. From somewhere deep down, I know I should have been terrified. Something—someone—in my gut was urging me to fight, but I was so tired, and so thirsty. I just stared while Dixon popped that single silver bullet into the gun. “Hold it now,” he said, pressing it into my hand.
I felt my hand, alien to me, tightening around the grip of the gun.
“Drink.”
Dixon smiled and his tongue curled around one angled fang. It was razor sharp. He moved his tongue, pressing the edge of his fang against the bottom of his lip. I heard the pop of the skin. I heard the rush of the blood as it bubbled toward the fresh wound.
I needed it.
“Thirsty,” I mumbled again.
More smiling. More swirling of the coppers and golds in his eyes. I remembered that my grandmother had a clock that would swirl like that....
I heard his fang slide out from his flesh. Could smell the musty, metallic scent of his blood. It filled me. I wanted it.
Dixon pulled me closer as the blood bubbled on his lower lip. He brought his head down, his lips coming to meet mine. I wanted to help, to bring myself to him, but I couldn’t; everything was heavy. I tried anyway and my arm flopped loose, listless, like a rag doll’s. It swung behind me, the metal bracelet cuff clanking against the metal folding chair.
The sound was startling.
It stopped the warm rush of blood, wrenched open my heavy eyelids.
“What the hell are you doing?” I cringed as Dixon’s blood dropped on my chin. I squirmed to get him to loosen his grip but he dug in, pressing his lips toward mine.
“Look at me,” he growled.
“No!”
“Look at me!” The rumble came from his chest; it was so low, I felt it rush through my entire body.
The glamours . . .
I backhanded Dixon as hard as I could, the muzzle of the gun digging into his belly. It didn’t hurt him, but he was startled enough to jostle backward and I was fast enough to yank the gun, steady it, and aim it directly at Alex.
Dixon grinned at me. “You’re going to send your fallen angel back to hell?” He blinked, his eyes spinning once again. I felt my lips snake into a smile, then I cut my eyes to Alex, Dixon’s gun leveled right between his eyes.