Page 10

DEREK

W e're alone in the arts and crafts pavilion, preparing for tomorrow's afternoon activity. Sunlight filters through the canvas roof, casting dappled patterns on the work tables. It's after sundown, but the memory of today lingers in this space.

Hazel's rummaging through a box of craft supplies, muttering to herself. I'm organizing paint sets, matching lids with their corresponding pigments.

She sighs dramatically. "Do we really need glitter glue? It's the sand of the craft world. Once it gets in, you can never get rid of it."

Despite myself, I smirk. "I thought that was your brand."

Her head snaps up. "Excuse me? I believe I'm more of a... Sharpie-marker-wand kind of witch." She mimes casting a spell with an imaginary pen.

I scoff. "Because your magic is permanent and difficult to cover up?"

"Because it gives me colorful options to express myself." She grins, uncapping a cerulean blue paint tube and squeezing some onto her palm. "See? Like this."

Only Hazel would use crafts as an excuse to get paint everywhere. She makes a sloppy handprint on a nearby canvas, admiring her work.

But this is Hazel, so the moment is short-lived. She reaches across the table to grab a paintbrush and whips her hand out too quickly. The table shakes - and I notice a stray nail sticking out from the wooden edge, too late to warn her.

She gasps sharply.

I'm by her side in an instant, her hand cradled in mine. A deep gash runs across her palm, blood welling thick and red.

"It's okay," I say automatically. "I'll get the first aid."

But my mind is already racing. The scent of her blood fills the air, an intoxicating aroma that stirs years of carefully cultivated control. My fangs extend reflexively, and I bite my tongue to keep from groaning with want.

Hazel's eyes widen, but she doesn't pull away. "Derek..."

The blood seeps from her hand, beckoning me with an almost palpable pull.

"You're hurt," I manage, voice raspier than intended.

She swallows. "Your fangs are out."

Not a question. An acknowledgment. I can't look away from the wound.

"Your blood," I growl. "I can... I should heal it."

My mind spins with conflicting thoughts. Taking blood from her without permission would violate every code I have. But letting her bleed needlessly is unacceptable.

She studies me for a moment, then nods. "Do it."

I shouldn't. But her permission is clear. And before reason can override need, I lift her hand to my mouth and press my lips to her palm.

The first taste is perfection.

Sweet and spiced, like cinnamon coffee on a cool night. Her blood flows over my tongue, a beat of life shared between us. I feel her pulse as I drink, steady and strong. My body thrums with power and something else - something deeper, warmer.

I'm careful not to take too much. Just enough to close the wound, my tongue tracing the now-smoothed skin.

It's impossible not to notice how her breath catches with every graze of my fangs against her skin, or how her fingers curl loosely in my hair, holding me gently.

When I finish, Hazel looks dazed. Her cheeks are flushed, and I can hear her heart racing.

We're too close, her hand still cradled against my lips. I should step back. Be proper.

But for once, I don't want to.

Her voice is barely a whisper. "That wasn't...bad..."

I resist the urge to smirk. "It never is."

Her lips twitch. "Are we going to address the weird sexual tension you just brought into arts and crafts?"

"Are you always like this?"

I can feel the tension between us, this magnetic pull that's been building since the moment I tasted her blood. Hazel's eyes blaze with defiance and—is that desire?

She hesitates, searching for a quip, but nothing comes out. Typical Hazel, always needing to have the last word. But instead of surrendering, she makes a frustrated sound, throwing her hands up briefly before declaring, "Fuck it."

And then her lips are crashing against mine.

There's no finesse, no gentle exploration. Just raw, desperate need that mirrors my own. I meet her with equal ferocity as her fingers thread through my hair, gripping tightly as she uses the leverage to pull me closer.

My hands move to her waist, lifting her effortlessly onto the worktable behind her. The paints scatter with a clatter, but I couldn't care less. She parts her legs, welcoming me between them as her tongue demands entry past my lips.

I oblige eagerly, deepening the kiss as my hands roam across her body, squeezing the soft curves I've longed to touch. She whimpers against me in approval, nails digging into the back of my neck—a pleasurable sting that sends sparks down my spine.

Our clothes become obstacles. We rip and tear at them in our haste, buttons flying off her blouse, zippers torn apart without care.

I can't think beyond Hazel—her taste, her scent, the heat of her skin against mine.

We push and shove the remaining clutter off the table, clearing a space for us to tumble back.

Her body is bare beneath me now, panting and wild-eyed.

I've never seen anything more beautiful.

She reaches for me, tearing at my remaining garments, too impatient to be graceful.

The roughness of her desire fans the flames in my blood as she takes me in her hand, stroking.

I have to bury my face in her neck to stifle a moan, my fangs grazing her skin, craving to taste her again.

"I need you inside me," Hazel gasps, bucking her hips against mine.

Fucking hell.

Her words are a siren's call, and I answer immediately, positioning my cock at her entrance. I sink into her pussy with one hard, deep thrust, and she cries out, throwing her head back in ecstasy.

I begin to move, relentless at first, losing myself in her tight heat. Hazel's legs wrap around my waist, locking me in place as she meets me thrust for thrust. The table groans under our weight, shifting unsteadily with every wild movement, but I don't slow down.

"Don't you dare stop," she growls.

"Not a chance," I manage, my voice rough with effort. "Not until you're a wreck."

Our bodies meld, sweat-slicked and desperate. Her fingernails rake down my back, urging me deeper, and I bite back a growl of pure primal pleasure as I drive my cock harder into her.

It's all-consuming madness: the pounding of our hearts, the sharp tang of her sweat and blood in the air, the soft sounds of her moans circling me like a spell. Her hips roll in rhythm with mine, urging me to go harder, faster.

I feel her muscles tense as she nears the precipice, her breaths reduced to sharp, needy whimpers against my neck. One of her hands tangles in my hair again, pulling sharply as she begs, "More, more, please?—"

I obey, swallowing her cries with another searing kiss as she shatters around me, her body clamping down hard, coming with so much noise I'm almost worried she'll wake up the whole camp.

She tightens around me like a vice, and with one last thrust, I follow her over the edge, spilling myself deep inside her.

The world shatters, and for a moment, I'm nothing but raw sensation: the taste of her blood on my tongue, the perfect heat of her body around me, the desperate, needful sounds she makes as we both come undone.

I'm still buried in her when I open my eyes, and all I can see is Hazel. Magnificent, beautiful, messy Hazel, hair fanned out beneath her, face flushed with pleasure and wonder.

"What was that?" she whispers, her voice shaking slightly. She's trying not to laugh, or maybe to cry, or maybe some terrible combination of the two.

"I think," I say, swallowing hard, "that was fucking stupid and fantastic all at once."

"Smart and dangerous," Hazel counters, her hands running through her hair. "Brave and reckless. That kind of thing."

I don't dare try to make sense of it. Not right now. I simply nod, too raw to do much else.

She laughs then, sharp and bright, and the tension breaks. "You know," she says, tracing a finger down my chest, "if we're going to make a habit of this, maybe we should find somewhere that doesn't threaten to collapse with every thrust."

"You mean other than every flat surface in the camp?"

She grins back. "Your bedroom, maybe?"

"Better lace reinforcements on that bed," I growl.

She throws her head back with a laugh, the motion stretching her throat, revealing delicate veins that I've already tasted. I could spend an eternity discovering every inch of her, every nuance, every reaction.

But first, we need to get dressed before we're caught destroying the arts and crafts pavilion.

I pull out of her slowly, both of us shivering at the sensation. My movements are reluctant, like each millimeter is a battle, but eventually she's free, and I'm stepping back to find my clothes.

I offer her my hand, and she takes it, gripping firmly as she slides off the table. The place where we've been is wet and messy, and Hazel blushes, looking around for something to clean it up with.

But the damage is extensive: splattered paint, glitter, glue, and now sex.

"I think we're going to need more than a few paper towels," Hazel says, eyeing the chaos around us.

I smirk. "It gives the place character."

She grins back. "Let's chalk this up to artistic inspiration gone wild."

We manage to get dressed, although I have to summon a new shirt for myself, the one Hazel ripped earlier beyond repair.

As we head for the door, Hazel pauses, glancing back at the mess. "You think anyone will notice?"

I look back over my shoulder, then lock eyes with Hazel. Her cheeks are still flushed, and her lips are swollen from kissing.

"No," I say, smirking. "They'll just think you had a particularly inspired arts and crafts session."

"Worth it," she declares, and I can't help but agree.