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“Do you want to get ready for bed first?” Noah asks.

“Sure.”

I drag my suitcase into the bathroom, wincing when I leave the carpet and the plastic wheels make a loud rolling noise across the tile. When I close the door, I look at myself in the mirror, preparing a pep talk.

“We get ready for bed in the same house every evening,” I whisper to my reflection. “This isn’t that big of a deal. We’ve just downsized a little.”

The bathroom is nice. Like, really nice. The counters look like marble, and a caddy is stocked with little hand soaps and lotions. Housekeeping even folded a towel into a bird.

A vase sits near the corner of the mirror, holding an assortment of brightly colored orange and pink lilies, accented with palm-like fronds of greenery that I don’t even recognize.

It’s a good thing the upgrade was complimentary. I doubt all these little extras are cheap.

I brush my hair, brush my teeth, and wash my face. Then I moisturize, slather myself with a body lotion that smells like orange blossoms, and put on my cotton shorts and tank top.

When I’m finished, I assess myself in the mirror. Noah has seen me without makeup plenty of times—once when I was practically near death. He’s seen my sleepwear, too. And I’ve seen his.

No surprises here.

I leave the bathroom and find Noah on the bed. He’s stretched out, fully dressed, minus his shoes. His eyes are closed, and he’s wearing earbuds—probably listening to his audiobook again.

“The bathroom is all yours,” I say.

He doesn’t respond.

I study him, watching the way his chest slowly rises and falls. His breaths are soft, and his heart is calm.

“He fell asleep,” I whisper to myself, trying not to laugh.

Well, that makes it easier. Being careful not to wake him up, I turn off the light and scoot under the covers beside him. It’s pitch black, too dark to even make him out beside me. Hopefully, he won’t wake up in the middle of the night and stub his toe looking for the bathroom.

I’m debating getting up to turn on the bathroom light, but then he rolls over and drapes his arm over me in the dark.

“Night, Piper,” he murmurs, only somewhat coherent.

I smile, closing my eyes. “Night, Noah.”

I’m almost asleep when I remember I forgot to take my evening blood. But the thought is fleeting, and before I can do anything about it, sleep claims me.

8

I wakeup to the sound of people walking down the hall outside our room. According to the light shining through the corners of the blackout curtains, it’s morning.

I groan, bleary-eyed, and roll toward Noah’s side of the bed. I realize it’s empty about the time I notice the shower is running.

We did it. We made it through the night.

I faced temptation in the face, and I didn’t bite his neck.

Oh.

Blood.

Just thinking about it makes me edgy. I’m hungry, too, but it’s not the same feeling. This is different. It’s raw and urgent.

And it suddenly hits me—I forgot to put my prescription in the fridge. Wait, though. What fridge? Noah said we were supposed to have one, but that was before they upgraded us to a balcony room. Did we gain an ocean view and lose a fridge?

Not that it matters now. Even though we packed my blood with ice packs, it’s got to be warm and spoiled by now.