32. Zoey

Zoey

The pain is sharp but brief, quickly shifting to something darker and deeper. It’s like being wrapped in silk and shadow, and calm blooms inside me, spreading from the point where his fangs sink into my skin through the rest of my body.

I try to fight the feeling, to hold onto my anger and fear. But it slips away like water through my fingers, replaced by a floating sensation that makes everything cloudy and dream-like.

The room spins, and I’m distantly aware of my heartbeat pounding in my ears like a drum. My breaths come shallow and quick. But most disturbingly, heat blooms inside me, centering in places I shouldn’t let myself think about.

I should be terrified. Furious. Disgusted.

Instead, my skin is on fire, and I melt into him as his fangs sink deeper.

A low groan escapes him—a sound that vibrates through his chest and straight into mine.

“Stop,” I whisper, but it comes out as a plea, soft and shaky, without the bite I meant it to have.

His lips curl against my neck, and he drinks slower, savoring me.

The heat in my veins sharpens into something else—something raw and consuming. Every nerve in my body comes alive. The soft brush of his lips against my skin is electric, the cool press of his fingers on my waist both grounding and maddening.

My body’s betraying me in ways I can’t even process.

No, a small voice inside my mind finds its way through. Fight.

I try to push against his chest, but my hands fall uselessly, my fingers clutching weakly at the fabric of his shirt instead of shoving him away.

“Please,” I breathe, though I don’t know what I’m asking for.

For him to stop? For him to keep going?

The thought makes me want to crawl out of my own skin.

He pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, his midnight eyes blazing, his lips stained crimson.

Blood.

That’s my blood.

“You taste better than I imagined,” he murmurs. “Better than anyone else I’ve ever tasted.”

“And how many people have you tasted?” I say, glaring at him through the haze.

“None as delicious as you.” He scoops me into his arms, cradling me as if I weigh nothing, and lays me down on his bed.

The silk sheets are cool against my overheated skin, and I lie there, my mind hazy, staring up at the dark canopy above and trying to regain control of my body.

He doesn’t give me that chance.

He’s on the bed with me in an instant, his hand sliding under my neck, lifting me slightly to expose the bite he’s already left.

The hungry way he’s staring down at me makes my lungs squeeze with panic.

It’s like he’s lost all sense of control. Any bit of humanity I thought I saw of him that night in the bunker is gone.

It probably never existed at all.

His fangs sink in again, and the world spins, my body growing lighter with every pull of his lips.

I clutch at the sheets beneath me, desperate for something solid—something real.

It’s too much.

He’s taking too much.

Just when black spots start dancing at the edges of my vision, he moves away and gets out of the bed.

I just stare at the ceiling, trying to piece myself back together. But every nerve in my body is still buzzing, and I’m so lightheaded that I can’t bring myself to speak, let alone move.

“Here. This will help with the blood loss,” he says, sitting back down next to me and holding out a cup of juice. “I have cookies, too, but you should have this first.”

“Cookies?” I reach for my neck, expecting to find a wound, but it’s completely healed. “After all of that, you’re giving me cookies?”

“There’s the fiery human I love.” He holds the cup out closer to me. “Drink.”

“I hate you,” I say again, somehow managing to push myself up to lean against the insanely soft pillow.

“So you keep saying.” He presses the glass to my lips. “Open up.”

I should refuse. Knock the glass away and tell him exactly where he can shove his fake concern.

But my head is spinning, and my limbs feel like lead.

And really, after his venom, what’s a little juice going to do?

So, I drink, the sweet liquid cool against my throat. It tastes like berries and moonlight, if moonlight had a taste.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and before long, I’ve finished it all.

Steadier now, I take the glass from him and place it down on the nightstand, next to what looks like shortbread cookies. “If that kills me,” I say, “at least I won’t have to deal with you anymore.”

“You’re resilient,” he says. “I’ll give you that.”

“And you’re insufferable.”

His smirk widens. “I’ve been called worse.”

Angrily, I take a cookie and bite.

It melts on my tongue, rich with butter, vanilla, and an herb I can’t quite place.

Aerix leans back against the headboard, his long legs stretched out beside me, his arms crossed lazily over his chest. The casualness of his posture only pisses me off more, like he knows he’s the one in control of this situation.

Which, to be fair, he is.

“Very impressive.” He studies me as I eat, his midnight eyes glittering with amusement.

“The way I inhale cookies?” I reply, grabbing another one.

“The way you bounce back.”

“Glad to know I’m meeting your high standards,” I say, taking another angry bite.

“Tell me something,” he says as I chew what turned out to be way too big of a bite. “All of these things you’re good at. Cooking, gymnastics, cat taming, horseback riding, building pillow fortresses, throwing a punch—or trying to, anyway.”

“How do you know I did horseback riding?” I ask, since there’s no way I ever told him that.

“Your posture when you were on Nyx’s back,” he says simply. “And given that humans in the mortal realm don’t typically ride jaguars, horseback riding was the logical guess.”

I press my lips together, hating that he’s right.

“Anyway,” he continues. “What’s the one thing you’re truly passionate about? The thing you’ve stuck with? The thing that defines you?”

I swallow the cookie, buying time. “I have lots of passions.”

“Do you?” His midnight eyes narrow. “Or do you just have lots of hobbies that you’ve dabbled in?”

“What’s the difference?” I ask, although his words hit closer to home than I’d like.

“The difference,” he says, “is commitment. Dedication. The willingness to pursue something beyond the initial excitement of learning something new.”

“I stick with things,” I protest, but even as I say it, I know it’s not entirely true.

Gymnastics lasted until I discovered soccer. Soccer gave way to tennis. Pottery led to painting, then woodworking, then jewelry making. Each one replaced by something new once I’d gotten decent at it.

“I thought so,” he says, leaning back again. “You’ve tried everything, haven’t you? Always searching, always chasing, but never committing. Never sticking around long enough to truly master anything.”

“I just like to explore,” I tell him, which is the same thing I told Patrick. “To keep my options open.”

“You’re searching,” he says, continuing to study me in that annoyingly intense way of his. “Always trying new things, never settling, never finding what truly calls to you.”

“Maybe I just like variety.”

“Or maybe you’re afraid of committing to something and discovering you’re not as naturally talented at it as you’d like to be.”

Anger flares inside me.

How dare he try to psychoanalyze me? This monster who brought me here, claimed me, drank my blood, and now thinks he knows me?

I open my mouth to tell him I want to leave—to get as far away from him and his “insights” as possible—but something else entirely comes out instead.

“Since you’re apparently invested enough to have taken extreme notice of my varying interests, I want some things to keep me occupied,” I tell him.

His eyebrows rise slightly. “Things?”

“A wood whittling kit, for starters. And paint supplies. And a?—”

“A wood whittling kit?” he interrupts, laughing. “How quaint.”

“Are you going to let me finish?” I snap.

He raises his hands in mock surrender, his smirk still firmly in place. “Please, continue.”

“Sketch paper and pencils,” I tell him, rather enjoying his allowing me to make demands of him. “Watercolors too, with good brushes. Some clay would be nice—the kind that air dries, since I doubt you have a kiln lying around this place.”

“Anything else?” he asks, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Yes, actually.” I lift my chin defiantly. “Thread and needles for embroidery. And yarn for knitting. Oh, and a garden plot.”

“A garden plot?” Now he looks genuinely surprised.

“Yes. Nothing big. Just enough space to grow some herbs and flowers. I took a class on medicinal herbs last spring,” I add, although I don’t mention that I only attended three sessions before getting distracted by archery.

“Interesting,” he says. “And what, exactly, do you plan to carve with your whittling kit?”

“Why can’t you move on from the wood whittling?” I ask, irritation rising inside me.

“Since you’re the one making demands, it’s fair I ask questions,” he says, though it’s clear from his tone that my demands are another source of amusement for him.

“What I carve is none of your business,” I say, because the truth is, I don’t know yet. I just need something—anything—to keep my hands busy while I brainstorm possible ways to get out of this place.

“You don’t know what you’re going to make,” he says, angering me further. “Do you?”

“I’ll figure it out.” I hold his gaze in challenge, putting the remainder of my cookie down. “I always do.”

“All right. I’ll consider it.” He stands, moving toward the door with that fluid grace that makes my stomach flip. “Although I suspect by the time your supplies arrive, you’ll have thought of a dozen new hobbies to pursue.”

“You’re making fun of me,” I accuse.

“Not at all.” He pauses at the door. “I find your determination fascinating. Now, finish your cookies and rest. Aethelthryth will come fetch you when you’re recovered enough to return to your room.”

With that, he’s gone, leaving me alone in his chambers with nothing but cookies, anger, and the unsettling feeling that Aerix sees far more of me than I want him to.