Page 21 of The Baritone's Rival

“It’s better than it looks,” Trent mumbled, bringing his hand to his face and rubbing his eyes.

“It would have to be,” Anthony replied. “You’re alive.”

Oscar retrieved a plastic bottle of alcohol and gauze pads from the island. He crouched down next to Trent. His cheek was right by the man’s broad chest.

“I don’t think you need stitches, but this is going to hurt a little.”

Trent nodded, although Oscar thought he might be drifting off. He poured a few drops of alcohol on a pad and touched it to the topmost cut.

Trent breathed in sharply, his hands gripping at the sides of the chair and his eyes snapping open.

“Fuck.”

Well, he was awake now. Oscar worked as fast as he could, but he wouldn’t risk infection. His fingers made their way across the damaged skin tenderly. Tenderness was not something Oscar had known much of, or something he trafficked in, but seeing Trent there brought it out in him.

He just wanted his classmate to be okay, for his smooth, tan skin to be unmarred by scars and injury. He had to reverse the wound, to make it as if it had never been. He didn’t know why it was so important. Trent had said he’d been in vampire fights before. Still, something about touching him like this made Oscar’s chest open up. It felt raw, unprotected, to be caring for Trent in this way.

When he hit one particularly tender area, Trent yelped in pain, and Oscar’s heart leapt into his throat. Why was he having this reaction? He wasn’t squeamish. He’d killed vampire and human alike. Was it just that he was responsible because Trent had saved his life? Every sigh and moan caused another crack to run down Oscar’s cool facade.

When the cuts were clean, he covered the area with a large piece of cotton gauze, holding it in place with medical tape. Oscar stepped back to admire his handiwork. Trent looked almost rugged with the bandage. It was a contrast to his innocent, midwestern face and sun-kissed skin. And it was sexy as hell.

Oscar forced away the thought. This man despised him and clearly had a thing against vampires in general. He was straight! Yet Oscar couldn’t help drinking in the sight of Trent as he relaxed against the wooden chair with his eyes closed.

“How are you feeling, Trent?” Anthony asked, startling Oscar. He hoped he hadn’t been staring for too long.

Trent’s eyes fluttered open. “Okay. The sting is duller.”

Anthony stepped toward him, reaching out to help him up.

“Good. Let’s go sit you down in the common area. I can get some ibuprofen for the pain.”

Trent grabbed Anthony’s hand and heaved himself up. As they moved to the door, Trent looked over at Oscar with a strange look on his face. A question. Did he not want to leave Oscar?

“I’ll be right there,” Oscar said. A smile sprang up unbidden at Trent’s expression. “I just need to wash your blood off my hands.”

“That is a weird thing to hear,” Trent said, chuckling low. A spark of electricity ran up Oscar’s spine at the deep, rich sound.

What was wrong with him?

As Trent and Anthony left, Oscar went over to the porcelain farmhouse sink, tossing the scraps of gauze and medical tape in the trash as he passed it. He turned on the water and held out his hands.

There wasn’t too much to wash off. The wound had dried, other than a few drips when the t-shirt was removed. A quick rinse and he was clean.

Except for a single droplet of Trent’s blood that sat on the side of the knuckle of Oscar’s right pointer finger.

He didn’t know why he did it. It was an impulse, a sudden desire with no logic or reason. After staring at the burgundy bead for a long moment, he brought his hand to his face and licked it off.

His vision blew out in a bright rainbow of color. The taste of it exploded his senses, and a thrilling tingle ran from his tongue, down his throat, and spread to every inch of his body. He was overwhelmed with the sensation.

Never mind the sweet, perfect flavor of it. Honey and clove. It was all Oscar wanted to taste for the rest of his life. The intense, thrilling assault on his senses could only mean one thing.

No. He couldn’t be Trent’s mate. Would the universe do this to him? Would fate give him a mate who despised the very idea of it? A man who wanted nothing to do with vampires? Who wanted nothing to do withhim? Who probably hated him?

Oscar knew better. He’d already been convinced once that he had a fated mate by Elliott, who used him and manipulated him with the power of that belief. A bond like that, an unbreakableconnection, was a dangerous weapon. It could be held over your head, deployed to force you to do things you never wanted to do. To have a fated mate was to be constantly open to emotional blackmail. After all, who could deny anything to their predestined match? And who wouldn’t commit any evil act to save their fated one from harm?

Images of the past flashed in front of his eyes, shame and powerlessness flooding him as he relived the moments with his ex in his old coven. Elliott declaring his love and claiming Oscar as his mate. Elliott drinking from him over and over, yet denying Oscar a single drop. Oscar growing weaker and weaker as he was not even allowed to feed on the rats.

Seeing Elliott lying there, his life’s blood pooling on the gray carpet, and feeling a horrible mix of grief and loss…and overwhelming relief.

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