Page 82 of Fallen Star

“Please,” I breathe, though I don’t know what I’m asking for.

For him to stop? For him to keep going?

The thought makes me want to crawl out of my own skin.

He pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, his midnight eyes blazing, his lips stained crimson.

Blood.

That’s myblood.

“You taste better than I imagined,” he murmurs. “Better than anyone else I’ve ever tasted.”

“And how many people have youtasted?”I say, glaring at him through the haze.

“None as delicious as you.” He scoops me into his arms, cradling me as if I weigh nothing, and lays me down on his bed.

The silk sheets are cool against my overheated skin, and I lie there, my mind hazy, staring up at the dark canopy above and trying to regain control of my body.

He doesn’t give me that chance.

He’s on the bed with me in an instant, his hand sliding under my neck, lifting me slightly to expose the bite he’s already left.

The hungry way he’s staring down at me makes my lungs squeeze with panic.

It’s like he’s lost all sense of control. Any bit of humanity I thought I saw of him that night in the bunker is gone.

It probably never existed at all.

His fangs sink in again, and the world spins, my body growing lighter with every pull of his lips.

I clutch at the sheets beneath me, desperate for something solid—something real.

It’s too much.

He’s taking too much.

Just when black spots start dancing at the edges of my vision, he moves away and gets out of the bed.

I just stare at the ceiling, trying to piece myself back together. But every nerve in my body is still buzzing, and I’m so lightheaded that I can’t bring myself to speak, let alone move.

“Here. This will help with the blood loss,” he says, sitting back down next to me and holding out a cup of juice. “I have cookies, too, but you should have this first.”

“Cookies?” I reach for my neck, expecting to find a wound, but it’s completely healed. “After all of that, you’re giving mecookies?”

“There’s the fiery human I love.” He holds the cup out closer to me. “Drink.”

“I hate you,” I say again, somehow managing to push myself up to lean against the insanely soft pillow.

“So you keep saying.” He presses the glass to my lips. “Open up.”

I should refuse. Knock the glass away and tell him exactly where he can shove his fake concern.

But my head is spinning, and my limbs feel like lead.

And really, after his venom, what’s a little juice going to do?

So, I drink, the sweet liquid cool against my throat. It tastes like berries and moonlight, if moonlight had a taste.

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