Page 61 of Inked & Bloodbound
I seriously need to learn more Italian…
Yes, you do.
Ever since he first fed on me, the space we occupy in each other’s minds is becoming easier to access. It’s not like it is at the window where I’m trying to sort through a swirling, chaotic mess. This feels sacred. It’s a beautiful emptiness that we can return to at will. A door I can choose to open and step into. I can close my eyes and push against the edges of his mind, and he can push back, joining me in a place only we can inhabit.
A space of our own.
“Do you ever miss home?” I ask, tracing my fingers over some elaborate Latin script on his inked forearm.
“I miss it every day,” he says. “But I cannot return, not yet.”
“Why?”
“Too many reasons.” He sighs, then kisses my scalp, pressing his nose to it and inhaling deeply.
I tear myself away from him and prop myself up to get a good look at him. God, he looks gorgeous in the low light of my bedroom. His dark waves and soft curls falling in random directions across his forehead. Moonlight filters through my half-closed blinds, painting silver streaks across the masterpiece of his torso. Black and grey ink winds across his skin—a huge cross anchoring the center of his chest, Latin words spiraling outward like sacred verses etched in shadow.
I’m staring, but he’s not bothered. He returns the favor by dropping his eyes to my bare chest and biting his lip.
I laugh out loud. “All this filth, and still you haven’t taken me out on a single date. Some gentleman!”
He leans over to brush a strand of hair from my forehead, stroking it between his fingertips. “I have a remedy for that. I am taking you out tomorrow night. We’re going to hit the town.”
A date. A real one? My stomach does a little flip at the thought of getting all dressed up for him. He’s only ever seen me in casual clothes, shitty scrubs, and pajamas. It’s time he saw me in a pretty dress—something nice and slutty to remind him I’m a woman.
“Great. Finally, you’re making an honest woman of me. So, where are we going, or is it a surprise?”
“The Jackalope. It’s a vampire bar. I want you to practice listening to their conversations. It’ll give you an opportunity to really hone your skills. Pick out useful information, follow the voices, stuff that can help us with finding Megan.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling a little deflated.
His eyebrows knot together. “What’s wrong? You still wanna help find her, right?”
I cover myself up with the sheet. “I do, of course I do. I just thought it was a real date, not a recon mission. Besides, I still don’t understand what you need from me. I don’t even know if I’ll be able to help.”
He reaches out a hand, and I take it. His chilly fingers wrap around mine, and he tugs me closer. “I didn’t tell you the whole story about Megan. Why Beau is so worried. There’s a part of our culture you don’t know about yet, and it’s not pretty.”
“Okay…” I say, bracing myself. “What is it?”
“The blood we drink is totally influenced by the human’s diet. So for example, if a human drinks a lot of red wine and only eats the finest Italian meats, their blood will taste like Chianti and prosciutto.”
I cringe, thinking about my love of junk food and unrefined palate. “Well, that’s embarrassing. I probably taste like frozen tater tots and bad coffee.”
He brings my forearm up to his nose and presses it against my skin, inhaling deeply. “You are delicious, my darling, and when I drank from you, I tasted stewed lamb and thick Irish butter.” He bares his fangs playfully. “Oh, and a little hint of nicotine. You naughty, naughty girl.”
I blush and tug my arm back, but he holds it firmly in place. “I’m not a smoker. I swear, I was just stressed out. Was it terrible?”
“No, it wasn’t. I haven’t had a cigarette in many years, and the taste was quite nostalgic.” He smiles and kisses my wrist before letting it fall. His expression shifts from playful to something much more serious. “Some of my kind use human blood not just for sustenance, but to get high. When someone’s been using drugs, their blood carries those substances—and for vampires, it’s intoxicating.”
My stomach turns. “So they target addicts?”
“Worse. Often they create them.” His voice hardens. “They’re called bleeders—humans who get pumped full of different drugs, then drained regularly. Some do it willingly for money, but others aren’t so lucky…” He trails off, but I can fill in the blanks.
“That’s disgusting.” I shiver. The wordbleederis so callous, so inhumane, and something about the way Cass says it, so casually, jars me.
I pull the covers up higher as an intrusive memory hits. “I…I think I saw one the other day. A young woman, I mean. Back at the hospital. Skinny thing, covered in bruises, low blood count. She was talking about some people who were after her. She’s the one with the same tattoo as my mom.”
“A tattoo usually signifies ownership,” he says quietly. “Like a cattle brand. It shows other vamps that a chattel, a blood donor slave, is off limits to others. I don’t know why your mother would have such a thing, but it’s never a good sign.”