Page 23 of Blood Lovers (American Vampires #1)

Like an animal.

Or maybe a demon.

I was calm . It was OK. I was gonna let it all go. Chalk it up as a… a fantasy. The dreamwalk.

I don’t need to know about them. They’re gone. They’re never coming back. My family died, this much I know. And even if I could get the memories back, nothing good will come of it.

But there is an ache inside me. A horrible ache that has rotted my heart from the inside out. An emptiness. A loss. A terrible, terrible loss. And it hurts. I don’t want to admit that, but it fucking hurts. Just thinking about the loss—and being unable to even understand it—it makes me want to give up.

It makes me want to dig a hole, and crawl inside it, and cover myself with dirt, and never take another breath or drink another drop.

And this feeling, this knowing, this realization of my own end—and the desire to end it—I’ve been battling it for decades now. I know the truth will kill me. Even if I can’t die, it will kill me. I can feel that much. If I ever get those memories back, I will stop functioning. I will cease to exist. I will wallow in my pain, and my loss, and my sadness. I will be trapped in my own anguish and that will be the end of me.

I know this.

But he’s here . Paul came here. Because I’m here. And we were in a dreamwalk, fucking, and feeding, and he made me an offer.

That’s what it was.

If you give in, you will remember on your own .

But how? I don’t understand. Give in to what? To him? Haven’t I done that? I mean, we’ve been together for sixty-five years. What the hell does he want from me?

It’s torture. Pure torture.

But this is it. I can’t take it anymore. I need the truth, one way or another. And I will do whatever he asks to get it.

I’m not running down the path to the indoor hot springs building where the helicopter is currently on the roof, but I’m hurrying pretty fast.

It’s dumb. He’s here for me. He’s not gonna leave.

But I can’t take the chance.

I press in the code for the lock on the door and open it. The heat and humidity from the greenhouse and the hot springs hits me in the face, covering me in an instant sweat.

I’m hot again. But I like the heat much better than the chill. I shrug my jacket off, slinging it over my shoulder as I make my way through the jungle of tropical trees and head towards the hot springs.

I almost lose my breath when I come around a corner and find Paul, naked and standing under the small waterfall flowing over a natural wall of rock that feeds cold water into the hot spring pool.

He’s slicking his blond hair back with his hands, eyes closed, so at ease in that perfect body of his.

It’s a lie, that body. But then again, it’s not.

I know his true form, but I also know that what he shows the world—it’s not fake. It’s not an illusion. It’s him as he was before he was the monster.

It’s impressive, actually. That a human once existed who was that perfect.

He loves the pretty. He’s always telling me. He’s addicted to the beautiful.

But his beauty is godlike. Almost too magnificent to look at.

I study all his hard, statue-like muscles. Whoever he was—whatever he used to be—he was sculpted, not merely born. He was created.

He opens his eyes and they are lavender.

I squint. Blink. And then they are just blue again.

He smiles at me. “You’re up early.”

“I’m up early? It’s not early. And I’ve been up since you walked out on the dream. What did you mean? What do I have to—”

He puts up a hand, a signal to stop. And for some reason, I respond to this hand signal like a fucking dog. “We’ll get there, Ryet. Don’t rush things. It’s much better to go slow.”

“Go slow? You said—”

He puts the hand up again, and once again, I stop talking. It’s not even a decision.

“Stop doing that, Paul.”

He smirks. “Stop doing what?”

“Stop controlling me, you asshole!”

“Come on now. Why are you so difficult, Ryet? Take off your clothes, get in the water with me. We have hours before the building opens to the tiresome guests. Let’s take advantage of it.”

All the while he’s saying this, he’s crossing the water on stepping stones, not even looking at his feet. Like he has memorized the path to me. Like he’s Jesus Christ, in the flesh, walking on water. His arm is extended, his hand reaching for me as he come closer.

I’m not at the edge of the water—or I wasn’t. But I’m walking to him. Like I’m no longer in control of my own actions.

I take his hand as he steps off the last stone, water dripping down his body and forming a pool at his feet. We are eye to eye, looking at each other. He’s smiling, but I’m not. I’m just confused. “What are we doing?”

“We’re going to feed, Ryet. It’s time now.”

“Time for what?”

“For you to take the long drink from me.”

“ What ?” I make a face. But he’s already lifting my t-shirt up. I drop my jacket on the wet ground so he can pull it over my head. “The long drink? Isn’t that how you kill the feeders?”

“It’s good for that, yes. But it’s good for all sorts of other things too.” He’s got the button of my jeans open, unzipping me now. He’s gazing into my eyes. They flash lavender again.

And suddenly, I’m tired of fighting him.

Why? Why should I? What is the point? There’s no coming back from this. It’s not like resisting him is some kind of virtue. It won’t save my soul. I gave that to him when I agreed to let him turn me.

Paul pushes me backward, his hand flat on my bare chest. Still smiling.

It take those steps backward until I bump into the trunk of a tree. I look up and the expanse of palm fronds flowing out over us like an umbrella, and when I look back down, he’s kissing me. Blood already on his lips from the bite.

I almost fall down from the lust.

But if I fall, I’ll miss out.

And I want his blood. I want it more than anything right now.

His hand pushes against my thigh. My dick is hard under my jeans and he presses into it, feeling the length of me through the thick fabric. Then he takes my hand and wraps it around the shaft of his dick, helping me slowly jerk him off.

He bites his lip again and I kiss him harder. I jerk him harder. And then his hand slips inside my pants and pulls me out. He presses forward, his hips right up against mine, and, using both hands, he wraps my palm around us both.

Another bite, more blood, and I am rapidly losing control.

No. I’ve already lost control.

Paul pulls back, breaking the seal of our lips. “Bite me, Ryet. Right now. Anywhere you want. My neck, the inside of my thigh, my—”

That’s as much as I hear. Because my mouth is on his neck, my teeth—suddenly sharp, like his—biting into his flesh. The rush of blood is so hard and so fast I get dizzy as it floods my mouth.

Paul is petting me, soothing me as I suck on him. And then a noise burbles up from my throat. It’s something I’ve heard him do, but it’s new to me.

It’s a growl. An animalistic growl. And just as this happens, I pull back, my chin dripping with blood, my whole body hot, my eyes burning, and my fingertips tingling as we hold each other’s cocks in our palms. His fist is bumping against my stomach, my fist bumping against his.

I am chaos and he is calm.

How does he do that?

He kisses me, softly. Lightly. And then he drags his lips down my exposed neck, opens wide, and bites me for a drink.

The next thing I know, I’m on the ground. Paul’s naked body is on top of me, holding me down as I kick and fight, trying to push him off me. But he’s much stronger and there is no hope.

And anyway, the struggle is turning me on. I thrust my hips into him, grinding on him as he feeds on me, reaching for my cock so I can get myself off.

But all the while, I am growling. Snarling.

Like an animal.

Or maybe a demon.