Page 2 of Hot Blooded

She looked him over, brows drawn together. She seemed to gather herself, inhaling deeply, squaring her shoulders, and meeting his eyes—before wilting back again. “Your eyes changed,” she said faintly.

Like a stalking cat, his pupils always dilated wide when he was about to feed—when he was hunting. He didn’t want her to feel like prey, so he looked down, focusing on the welcome mat beneath her feet.

“Yes, they do that.”

An uncomfortable silence followed. Finally, she blew out a breath. “Alright, well, are we going to get this over with, or what?”

Amos jerked his head up, meeting her gaze again. Her expression was still wary, her spine stiff. She didn’t look afraid so much as resigned. Her obvious reluctance was putting a damper on something he’d been looking forward to for months—ever since he’d enrolled with the blood matching agency, eagerly awaiting a donor. Finally, she was here, and she looked like she’d rather be anywhere else.

“Not if you’re unhappy about it,” he said. “I can wait for a different match.”

At that, her expression hardened. “No. I said I’d do it, and I will.”

“Just what a man loves to hear,” he muttered.

She scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I don’t want to feed from a suffering martyr. Sorry you wasted your time coming by.” He started to close the door, but her arm shot out, catching it. She was just a mortal, he could’ve easily overpowered her, but he didn’t want to hurt her, so he sighed, and let her hold the door.

“Wait.” Her expression softened to something regretful, if not apologetic. “I’m sorry. This is really weird for me, and I won’t lie, I’m a little afraid of the pain, but I really need to do this.”

Amos frowned at her. “Why?”

“That’s my business.”

He opened his mouth to object, but she spoke first.

“I promise I’m not trying to be a martyr. I’m just nervous.” She held his gaze, a hint of vulnerability shining in hers.

He still planned to send her away, but then the breeze fluttered again, basking him in the unspeakable allure of her scent.

“Alright,” he rasped. “Come in.” He stepped back, giving her space, repressing the instinct to grab her, immobilize her, drink his fill of her. She stepped into the hallway, giving him a forced smile. He tried to return it, but the slide of his lips over his pulsing fangs was too much and it turned into a grimace.

“My name’s Tessa, by the way,” she said. “Well, Teresa. But everyone calls me Tessa. Tessa Vargas.”

He nodded, pretending he was a civilized creature, as though his thoughts weren’t drowning in blood—her blood. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Um… where are we going to do this?” She looked down the entryway, still clutching her bag. He wished he knew some way to put her at ease, but he’d already demonstrated his utter incompetence in that regard.

“In the sitting room. If you don’t mind removing your shoes first?”

She toed off her sneakers and nudged them over against the wall.

“Thank you. This way.”

She followed him silently. He could sense her perusal of his home, feel her gaze tracking over his art and furnishings. He’d had the entire house cleaned, every crevice and cranny from floor to ceiling, in anticipation of hosting a donor, even though he knew she’d only be seeing the entryway and the sitting room. Amos didn’t do things halfway. And besides, something could have come up that necessitated using a different part of the house. He liked to be prepared. Guests or no guests, he liked things to be done right.

In the meticulously arranged, spotlessly clean sitting room, he gestured for her to take a seat on the settee. It was a green, velvet-upholstered reproduction of an Edwardian-era piece with carved wooden trim and cabriole legs. Amos wasn’t one of those pretentious vampires who had to fill their homes with authentic remnants from their mortal days as a mark of status. But he couldn’t help but prefer the aesthetics from his mortal lifetime, especially those that had been beyond his means as a mortal. That said, he drew the line at dressing like a relic. It would have made him just too much of a cliche.

“You want to… feed…” Tessa clearly struggled with the word. “…on this nice couch? Shouldn’t we put some towels down, or something?”

His brows drew together. “I’m not a slobbering barbarian.” Even in his hunting days, he hadn’t left anything more than a rusty little smudge on the throats of his prey.

“Oh.” She flushed. “Uh, sorry. No offense intended.”

Amos forced himself to relax. Her tension was making him tense. And now that she was in the enclosed space of the sitting room, her scent was becoming overwhelming.

“It’s fine,” he said stiffly. “Why don’t you sit however is comfortable for you, and then I’ll arrange myself accordingly.”

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