Page 69 of The Blood we Crave

I snap an eyebrow up, peering down at her inquisitively. “That isn’t my name.”

“That’s what you are inside of my head.”

An angel. Is she joking?

Her body rotates casually until her front is facing me, her feet dangling over the edge of the marble seat. Her knees are inches away from my own, my hand still resting against her throat.

I watch her finger hesitantly reach forward, skimming the fabric of my tan suit jacket. It runs up and down so nonchalantly it doesn’t even seem like she is moving.

“Angel of death,” she mutters. “The divine being believed to comfort souls and accompany them into another dimension.”

I’d hoped somewhere along the way, she would have let it slip from her mind what I’d done for her mother. But apparently, unlike me, Lyra remembers everything from her childhood. Especially that night.

The coins to pay the ferryman.

A Pierson family tradition that I’d been told about since I was young, one of the only memories I could recollect. All of those holding my last name that died were buried with coins over their eyes so that our wealth would not go unnoticed in whatever afterlife we were sent to.

I’d thrown snuck coins into my own mother’s grave just before helping my father bury her. A woman I could barely remember. I wasn’t sure if she had been neglectful or loving, what her voice sounded like or the clothes she wore.

Maybe it had been what was left of my conscience, wanting to do a good deed for Phoebe Abbott. But whatever it had been, my father had crushed it long ago. The desire to help anyone else across the River Styx had left me, only returning for when I met the boys.

“I’m no angel, pet. You’d be naïve to think that.” I use my grip on her throat to lift her head up so her eyes can meet my own.

She sits there, looking at me with those eyes, and I know it doesn’t matter what I tell her; she will believe what she wants. Her mind is her own creature, one that has begun to intrigue me.

“Then why did you come find me?”

The answer she is looking for isn’t the one she will be getting.

Even if it’s the truth.

Because the reason I’d been in the courtyard to begin with had been due to rage. I’d planned on ripping her from the crowd of people and dragging her by her hair to somewhere private, where I could teach her some manners. To remind her of how this deal between us worked.

“To show you your next lesson.” The corners of my mouth tilt upward into a smirk. I take another step into her body, forcing her legs to spread in order to make room for me.

I want my body to reject the feeling of her warm thighs touching mine, to feel repulsed by the contact, but the only disgust I have is from the feeling it gives me. The way my gut tightens and my cock hardens behind my slacks.

I’m repulsed by my reaction to laying my hands on her. Not because of her.

My free hand reaches into my pocket. “I’m your teacher, am I not, pet?”

Her throat bobs as she looks at the switchblade between us. My fingers press the button along the side to expose the spear-shaped knife. It slices through the dimly lit room, the tip grazing the front of her sweater.

All of that burning I’d shoved down earlier due to the distraction of that hacked limb is resurfacing. The urge to watch her beg for forgiveness, to hear that cherry-flavored mouth atone for what she’d done.

“Thatcher—”

“Answer my question,” I bite out, dragging the weapon up and snagging some of the fabric on the way. The sweater slices open, exposing the stark white material of her bra.

A groan rumbles in my throat, having my knife this close to her skin, knowing if I pressed just a little, a stream of crimson would leak down the valley of her perky breasts.

I circle the sharp edge around the front of her bra, pressing just enough so she’ll feel the sensation on her nipples, swirling the handle in my palm and watching her head toss back in pleasure.

My cock twitches, seeking more of the warmth that radiates between her milky thighs. I press further into her body, a whimper slipping from her mouth as my hardened length connects to her center.There is a glaze over her eyes, one that makes her look sorta dreamy. Like she isn’t sure this is real, only a dream that will be gone once she wakes up.

I’m not quite sure this is real either.

It feels too normal, too good to be something that exists in reality.