Page 53 of The Blood we Crave

“You told me not to be late,” I say, spinning on my heel to face him. “So I showed up early. I was just looking around for a bit.”

I know Thatcher’s favorite color is red, but it does something to my insides every time he wears black. I try to hold in my gasp, keeping my lips sealed as I look him over.

His hair is parted to the side, pushed back out of his eyes, but a few stubborn strands dangle in front of his face. I like those pieces of hair the most. Reminds me he is, in fact, human.

The turtleneck and long overcoat make him look taller, more intimidating. He towers over me with a watchful gaze and rigid expression, lean legs wrapped in black slacks and paired with the same-colored dress shoes.

Black on black on black.

My stomach tightens as the bleak sun catches his eyes. Gods, maybe if he was a little less attractive, being around him wouldn’t be this hard all the time. White, sweltering heat blazes my core, thinking about seeing him the other day.

I’d waited years to feel his touch on my skin like that.

His hand curled around my throat, brushing my pulse with his fingers, fully in control of my body with just his grip. The feeling of his slick blood marking my skin. I’d wanted him to cover me in it. Wiping it off had been an act of stubbornness, not because I wanted to.

I have little experience in the sex department, and I know that. But somehow, my body knows what it wants from Thatch. Knows that what it craves, only he can provide.

Marked. Bruised. Soaked. Taken.

“I don’t recall telling you to be early either or to sulk around the garden,” he declares, reminding me that I’m not here to fantasize about what sex with him would be like. “When I tell you to do something, pet, I want it done perfectly. Don’t be late, and don’t be early. Be on time.”

Trying to lighten the mood, soften this tension that is between us, I stand straight, mock saluting him. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

The small smile I have falls immediately when I see his reaction.He just stares at me, unmoving, before shoving his hands into his pockets and turning around, leaving me to stand there like an idiot.

“I’m already regretting this,” he grunts, walking away from me.

I sling my arm back to my side, my cheeks warm from embarrassment. I follow him, moving my short legs at a quick pace to keep up with his long strides.

“I thought we were starting today,” I say to his back, trying to ignore the way his shoulders flex at my voice, how they stiffen and move beneath his jacket.

Fine, if he wants to be a jerk the entire time, then so be it.

They did not build Rome in a day, and Thatcher’s icy walls won’t fall in one either. His attitude does not affect our deal. Asshole or not, he’s still holding up his end of the bargain.

I steel my spine, prepared for whatever is coming next. Whether he likes it or not, I’m going to get beneath his winter skin, until I’m burned so deep in the marrow of his bones he can’t breathe without me.

Thatcher is teaching me how to kill, and I will be showing him he needs me just as much as I need him.

“We are.” His tone is clipped, like he wants that to be the end of this conversation.

But if we plan to work together, he has to learn to talk to me a little more. Even if he doesn’t like it.

“Then where are we going?” I ask.

He says nothing for a passing second, just keeps walking.

“The cemetery” is the only answer I get.

It’s only then, as we leave the garden, headed towards the front of the house, that I realize…

I never told Thatcher’s grandmother my last name.

hold this shovel

ELEVEN

thatcher