Page 41 of Bite Back

ASHER

My head pounds, an insistent and insufferable drumbeat.

Stakeouts, I’m starting to realize, don’t go well with migraine.

Last night, I pushed through, thanks to my medicine.

Now, I’ve crashed down, sunken into my pain.

A glance at my watch tells me I took my medicine—again—over an hour ago. It should be working by now. It’s not.

Fuck. I’m supposed to meet Delilah now. I heave myself out of bed, a wave of nausea crashing over me as I force myself upright.

Nope. I sink back into bed, a groan on my lips.

I’m not going anywhere right now. Fumbling for my phone, my shaking hands type out a text to Delilah.

I hit send and shove the device away from me.

The bright light of the screen is a no-go for me right now.

I burrow further into my pillow, nestling my face down, trying to counteract the pressure throbbing in my sinus cavity.

The pain consumes me. It’s impossible to tell where the pain ends and I begin, or if there’s even any part of me that’s untouched by the pain.

It’s just pounding, pounding, pounding into my skull.

Nope. That’s the door. I could ignore it. But the knocking will stop sooner if I answer. Gritting my teeth, I haul myself to my full height and stumble towards the door. I crack it open and find Delilah standing there armed with a brown takeout bag.

Praline, who’d been asleep on a chair, pads over to greet her, winding between her legs, and Delilah reaches down to stroke her head, earning a soft purr.

I scrape a hand through my tousled hair. “Sorry, I’m not really company ready.” My normally neat apartment’s as disheveled as I feel, with unwashed dishes piled in the sink, discarded clothes strewn across the floor, and empty beverage containers clustered on the nightstand.

Delilah sets the takeout on the counter and scoops some food into Praline’s empty bowl, earning an affectionate chirp.

Another wave of nausea washes over me, and I lean against the wall.

“I can leave if you don’t want me here. But…” She hesitates. “I want to help.”

I don’t want her to see me like this. I don’t want anyone to see me like this.

Having her here, having her see me in this state feels vulnerable.

Like I’m blurring some unspoken line between whatever we are and something more.

I want things to work out between us. But things are still new, fragile, a tangle of attraction and hesitation. I don’t want to hurt her or me.

But everything hurts. And my apartment’s a wreck. And—fuck—I need to lie back down.

I stumble back over to the bed and collapse between the sheets.

“You can stay. If you want. I’m not much of a host right now.”

She clucks gently under her breath. “Don’t worry about that.” She places her hands on her hips. “So what can I do to help?”

“Tea, maybe? Ginger tea helps.”

She busies herself in the kitchen, filling a kettle and unpacking the takeout.

Praline jumps on the bed and nestles herself next to me. My fingers twine into her soft fur, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her chest. She stretches beside me, reaching up to paw my cheek.

I focus on my breaths, each inhale and exhale a plea to my body to cooperate, to endure. Still, even with my eyes squeezed shut, I feel Delilah’s presence as she moves through the apartment, quietly tidying and setting things right. I open my eyes at the gentle clink of a tea mug on my nightstand.

“Thank you,” I whisper, and she gives me a smile in return.

“And here’s some food.” I look down to find a tray laden with pastries, pork buns, and two sandwiches.

A small laugh leaves her lips. “I wasn’t sure what you’d want to eat, so I sort of just ordered it all.”

Warmth oozes in my core as I picture her carrying this bag stuffed with food here. All for me.

I select a sandwich and take a small bite. “Thank you.”

The word feels inadequate. It hits me then. The domesticity of it all. Me, her, the cat. Like a little family. This feels normal.

I want it to be normal.

I grip onto that as I sip my tea, the spicy tang sliding down my throat. The reality of it: that she’s here with me, for me. And the fantasy of it: that this could be something more permanent, more than just a moment.

Nothing could make me feel better—not with my head still throbbing—but her being here, settled on my couch, makes it a little more bearable.

What does it mean? That I feel so comfortable with her here, despite the fact that she’s a vampire?

That the boundaries we’ve built are crumbling?

My aching brain can’t find the answers, but the questions swirl in my head as the escape of sleep finally claims me.