C h r i s t i e

I wiped my face as best I could with the back of my sleeve.

I thought about running after the girl but stopped myself. I had to deal with Crystal's jerk of an ex. I couldn't leave him alone and unconscious.

I kicked the dirt in frustration.

I should have been more careful.

What was Jacques going to say?

And that poor kid, what must she be thinking?

I walked back over to Crystal's ex and pick him up by the scruff of his jacket.

He's not heavy, may two hundred pounds plus. His breathing is shallow and his skin pale and clammy.

Oh dear, did I drink too much blood?

The training videos said not to drink for more than twenty seconds, and I'd stuck to that rule, so he should live...hopefully.

I lug him through back allies and darken streets, to a gas station on the edge of town and dump him there. It's late. But there is some traffic on the road. God willingly, somebody will find him and get him help.

A cold wind from the mountains blows through the town. I pull the collar of Jacques's jacket tighter around me.

It's so quiet.

Too quiet.

I get the uneasy feeling that I'm being watched.

I glance over my shoulder. The street is empty. I don't smell any humans. I don't hear any heartbeats.

And yet—the hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end.

I blow out a slow breath. There is nothing there, Christie. Get a grip.

I turn and head back to the motel, keeping my head down. I feel kind of proud that I was able to hunt for my own food. Although, I did break Jacques one rule—not to drink from any other man.

I'm sure he won't mind. It was an emergency, I can't think of a more deserving victim than Crystal's ex.

I return to the motel, and let myself back into our room.

Jacques hasn't moved. He's sprawled across the bed, chest rising so faintly I had to stare just to be sure he was breathing. He's beautiful when he sleeps. I sit on the bed next to him and reach out, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. His skin was warm and rough.

He was nothing like Rudolph with his ten step skin care routine and perfect complexion. Jacques had little frown lines, a tiny scar above his left eye brow, and a permanent five o'clock shadow around his jawline. He was unrefined and rough—and I loved it.

I bit down on my wrist, and lifted it gently to Jacques mouth.

"Come on," I whispered. "Please drink."

After a moment, Jacques lips parted, his mouth covering my wrist. I shivered involuntarily as he sucked slowly, drinking my blood with surprising gentleness.

When he finished, he let out a low groan and blinked up at the ceiling.

"Hey, beautiful," he smiled at me.

His voice was rough. Sleepy. He rolled onto his side to face me, warm brown eyes half-lidded, smile lazy.

I flushed, pulling my wrist away quickly. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired." His voice was thick. "How long was I out?"

"A few hours," I murmured, casting my eyes down. "Maybe more."

Jacques propped himself up on one elbow and reached for the collar of my dress. His fingers grazed the fabric, pausing where a smear of blood had dried at the edge.

He frowned. Just for a second. Then it was gone.

Still, his smile stayed in place—carefully set.

"And whose blood is this?" he asked softly, like it wasn't meant to matter. Like the answer wouldn't change the temperature in the room.

I hesitated.

He sat up straighter, slow and controlled. His hand slid behind my neck—not rough, but not casual either. Then he leaned in and pressed his face into the crook of my neck, right where my pulse thundered. He inhaled deeply.

And stilled.

The sound that rose from his chest wasn't human. A low, guttural growl, rough as gravel.

"You smell like another man."

My body tensed. He didn't move, just breathed me in again—slower this time, like he was memorising it. I could feel the muscles in his body tighten. Not in anger exactly. Something more primal.

His hand was still on the back of my neck.

He drew back just enough to meet my eyes. His were warm brown, but not right now. Right now they were hard. Dark. Possessive. A shade I'd never seen before.

"Who is he?"

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. My thoughts felt scrambled, like they'd all tried to speak at once and tangled into a knot.

"It's not—it wasn't like that," I said quickly. "I mean, yes, I fed, but I didn't mean to—he didn't—it wasn't..."

He waited.

I swallowed and tried again, quieter this time. "You passed out. I took too much and you were...you weren't waking up. I thought—I thought I might've hurt you. So I went to find blood. For you."

He exhaled, long and slow, then dragged a hand through his hair, the way he always did when he didn't know what to do with his hands.

"You hunted," he said, his voice flat.

"Yes." I didn't flinch. "Because you needed me. I couldn't let you stay like that. You were so pale and still."

Something flickered in his face. Jealousy? Anger? I couldn't read it.

Then he turned away.

"You should shower," he said, standing up. "Leave the dress. I'll burn it."

"Burn it?" I echoed.

His back was to me now. "It reeks."

I stood there, fingers twisting at the hem. "Are you...mad at me?"

"No." But it sounded like a lie.

He pointed toward the bathroom. "Go on. You shouldn't be walking around with someone else's blood on you."

I nodded, though I wasn't sure what I was agreeing to.

"I don't have anything else to wear."

He didn't look at me. Just peeled off his shirt—slow and fluid. His body was bronzed from the sun, lean and muscular, every line carved like it was meant to be admired. He balled the shirt and tossed it to me.

"You can look," he said, a rough edge to his voice. "We are married."

But I didn't.

I clutched the shirt to my chest, eyes on the floor, and padded to the bathroom. I shut the door behind me and turned the lock.

The shirt smelled like him. Warm skin. Salt. Leather.

I stood there for a moment, staring at the tiled floor.
Why did I feel like I'd done something wrong?
Why had Jacques reacted so badly?

And now it felt like there was an ocean of distance between us, instead of a single bathroom door. Was Jacques already regretting our hasty marriage?

Fear coiled around my throat and squeezed. What if he got fed up with me? What if he sent me back to Rudolph?

I stepped into the shower, grabbed the bar of soap, and began scrubbing the scent of Crystal's ex off my skin. I couldn't risk disappointing Jacques. I scrubbed harder, and harder, until my skin burned, until it hurt—until it felt like I could wash the mistake right off me.

I wasn't ever going back to Rudolph...ever.