Page 67 of Inked & Bloodbound

I laugh. “In a good way?”

“In a very good way.”

Mission accomplished. Kate was right about the sex dress. It’ssimple but sharp, a deep plum crochet knit that fits close through the top before kicking out in pleats at the hem. The high halter-neck makes it feel put-together, even though my shoulders are bare, and the ribbed pattern down the front draws the eye. Not fussy, just easy—and I feel good in it.

He offers the flowers, and when I lean in, he cups my chin delicately as if he’s afraid I’ll break and plants two kisses on my cheeks.

Che visione.

I direct a thought back.A vision? I could say the same about you.

“Do we have to go out?” I tease, draping my arms over his shoulders and blinking up at him through my mascara-coated lashes. “We could stay in. Practice listening with each other? I have a few ideas…”

He leans his nose against my neck and inhales deeply, his eyes fluttering as he pulls back. Then he runs his hand over my side, his fingers coming to rest over the soft fabric that skims my hips.

“As much as it pains me, amore, we must go. It’s time to put that beautiful gift of yours to the test.”

In the car, he does something he’s never done before. He reaches for my hand, and when I offer it, he laces his fingers through mine and brings it to his lips. Kissing me on the wrist and then resting it in his lap. I keep it there for the whole ride, only letting go when he shifts gears. Shivering every time his thumb strokes me absently across the knuckles.

We’re quiet the whole way, an intimate quietness in the safety of the car. When we pull up to Sixth Street, it’s like entering a familiar dream. The recent rainfall has transformed the asphalt into a liquid mirror, doubling the neon chaos—red devils and blue cowboys dancing in the puddles beneath my feet. The air still holds that clean, electric smell of rain, but it’s already being overpowered by the familiar cocktail of sweat, smoke, and malevolence.

Cassini comes around to open my door, ever the gentleman. I take his hand and step out onto the slick sidewalk. Immediately, I realize I’m overdressed in my little burgundy dress. The fabric suddenly feels too clingy, like my whole body is on display.

“I’m overdressed,” I whisper. “But also…kinda underdressed.”

We’re walking hand in hand toward the bar, me crossing my free arm self-consciously across my chest when Cass’ voice fills my head like warm honey.

You look delicious. If you’re not careful, I’ll have to eat you later. Again.

I smile.That had better be a promise.

I’m definitely overdressed.

Everyone at the Jackalope is wearing ripped jeans and printed band tees, punctuated with the occasional flash of plaid. The women propped up against the bar, or huddled together in small groups, are all so casually beautifully grungy with their smudgy eyeliner and imperfect lipstick. My hair, that I spent ages meticulously styling into a bouncy bobbed blowout, sticks out like a sore thumb in this room of black dye and disheveled hair.

“I look like a fucking news anchor,” I mutter, sipping my spicy margarita. The jalapeño-laced tequila burns my throat in a strangely comforting kind of way, so I go in for a second gulp, almost draining the glass.

“You don’t. You look perfect,” Cass says, not really looking at me. His body is draped casually over the leather-backed bench seat like he’s a confident regular, but his eyes tell a different story. They dart around the bar, surveying every inch of the place. “Hey, take it easy with that drink, okay? You need to stay sharp. Are you getting anything yet?”

Ever since I found out that my diet influences the taste of my blood, I’ve been eating thinking about how I taste. I chose the margarita because it felt light and clean, but now I feel like an idiot. I don’t know if Cass is ever planning to feed on me again, but all I know is I feel like I’ll die if he does, and die if he doesn’t.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes for a second, tuning out the drone of the heavy rock music that bounces off the exposed brick walls. I need to concentrate, so I imagine myself standing at the window, my hands pressed against the pane. I reach out to the sashand edge it open a cautious inch and get hit by a wave of energy rushing in.

When I open my eyes, it takes a second to adjust to the light. The colors are sharper. The details of the bar are more vivid. I take it all in, the way the neon beer signs crackle with electricity, humming and glowing like fireflies, and the way the black-and-red-checkered floor shifts imperceptibly under my feet.

Then I hear it. The voices. Tangled together at first, loud and different than what I’ve heard before. These aren’t the desperate, pleading whispers of the dead I’m used to. These thoughts are sharp, predatory, and alive with hunger. A well of desperation and bottomless thirst. It’s like swimming with sharks, but the waters are bloody, and I’ve got no cage to protect me. I think of the bolsita sitting at the bottom of my purse and feel no comfort. A tiny bag of herbs does very little in a place like this.

I focus and start to pick out the words, pulling at the threads and following them, but I’m quickly overwhelmed. The words rush in like floodgates opening, and I have to grip the edge of the sticky table to steady myself as the thoughts come crashing through the veil.

Wonder if she’d scream if I bit her thighs.

Blondie smells damn good. I bet she’s a screamer.

You wanna come over here and sit on Daddy’s lap, cupcake?

I stare up at Cassini, my heart hammering. “They’re all thinking about…” I swallow hard. “About feeding. Some of it’s about me, I think. It’s fucking disgusting.”

Cassini’s jaw tightens. “Focus on one at a time. Block out the rest.”