Page 78 of Make Me Bleed

The walls are made of old brick, and when I run my hand over it on my way to the balcony door, I hiss from the rough texture. When I slide the door open, the frigid autumn air hits me, and I breathe it in as I look across the city before taking in the small table and the two metal chairs.

There’s an ashtray with some small roaches in it and a pink lighter, and the sight of it makes my heart squeeze. I reach down and pick it up, flipping it between my fingers for a moment.

“What are you doing?” Abel says from behind me, and I startle. The lighter clatters to the concrete ground, and I reach down to pick it up, but Abel beats me to it. He arches a brow but doesn’t say a word as he very deliberately places the lighter back on the table next to the ashtray.

“I made some tea,” he says eventually, and I arch a brow.

“Tea?”

“Yeah,” he says defensively as he crosses his arms over his chest.

“Okay.” I turn and brush past him to go back inside. It smells of cinnamon and spice, and I breathe in deeply.

“What kind of tea is this?” I ask as I pick up one of the dark gray mugs.

“Harney and Sons Hot Cinnamon Sunset. It’s my favorite,” Abel says with a smile as he picks up his own mug and takes a sip. His eyelids flutter closed, and I watch him rapturously. “I imagine if my blood were to taste like anything, then it would taste like this,” he says, and I jerk, startled.

I quickly pick up my mug and take sip of the burning hot liquid. The flavor dances on my tongue, and it’s amazing. “Your blood tastes nothing like this,” I tell him after I’ve swallowed, and he frowns.

“Thanks for ruining the fantasy,” he snarks.

I smirk. “Always. I don’t know why you’d think your blood would taste like tea.”

“Not liketea,you idiot. Like… spicey. Cinnamon-y. Whatever. It doesn’t matter,” he flaps his hand in the air and takes another sip. I follow suit and relish in the warmth as it travels down my throat and into my stomach.

“Surely you’ve tasted your own blood before.”

“Of course, I have!” he snaps, and I lift a brow. “You don’t get it.”

“Explain it to me.”

Abel sighs. But he does. And my heart pounds realizing I get to know something new about him. “It’s not that I think it actually tastes like that. Or that I think it does, necessarily,” he adds. “It’s more that I always imagined to the right person, but blood would taste how this tea does in the way that it’s warm and tingly and it smells incredible, and I can’t ever get enough. Seriously, I could huff this shit.”

He sets his mug down, face flushed from his vulnerability, and I reach across the counter to wrap my fingers around his slim, bony wrist. That draws his eyes up to mine, which I take in greedily. “Abel, you have no idea how addictive you really are, do you?”

“Peris…”

“I’m serious, runt.” And for some stupid reason, I want to lay it all out. I want him to know. But I can’t chance it, even if I already know I won’t let him go again… it has to be his choice, in the end.

“We’ve spent nearly two years apart, and I’m still just as obsessed with you as I was then… Actually, I think I am even more so.”

Abel blushes so prettily at my admission, and I can’t resist following it with the tip of my finger.

“Me, too,” he confesses, and I feel my heartbeat in my throat. He leans into my touch, and I cup the side of his face. “What are we doing, Peris?”

“I don’t know.”

“This can’t work.”

“I know.”

“Even if I give it up…”

“What?” I choke out, eyelids flying open. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t get your fucking hopes up. I didn’t say I was.” His fingers tighten on his mug. “I saidif I did.You clearly don’t trust me. And we can’t be anything without trust.”

I narrow my eyes. “Why do you think I don’t trust you?”