Page 100 of The Blood we Crave: Part Two

“Fuck,” he moans as I constrict around him, grabbing my hips with a bruising grip, forcing my body into his as he pistons into me.

My head falls back limply as I let him use my body for his pleasure. His body drapes over mine, his teeth sinking into my throat hard enough to leave a dark bruise.

He loses rhythm, becoming quicker, needier. “Shit, I’m gonna come, baby. I—”

My fingers scramble to his hair, pulling his head up so that I can stitch our mouths together, smothering him with a kiss as my hips roll into his as he stiffens.

A loud groan rattles me as he spills into me, coating my insides with his warm release, continuing to fuck his come into me with torturously slow thrusts.

Our foreheads meet as we stare at one another with labored, choppy breaths that make his sculpted chest rise and fall sharply. I let Thatcher’s biceps cage me against his chest as I try to catch my breath.

If he never says he loves me, I’ll be okay with it. I don’t need the words to know Thatcher cares for me. It’s a trivial word compared to the lines we would cross for one another.

I don’t need the word when it’s real.

He is my protector, my defender. A connection that will never leave or stray, no matter how it’s tested. It’s a love that stays with me in the quiet nights when I’m trapped in my head.

I’ve never needed to make myself digestible for Thatcher. Never had to curb who I am or be less. I’ve never had to make myself easier to love.

He has always swallowed me whole and savored every bite.

HELLO, OFFICER

TWENTY-SEVEN

Thatcher

I felt their spines stiffen when I walked in.

The silvery sound of the bell above the door announced my arrival, and the patrons of the local cafe all turned their attention to me.

At first, it was just to be a little nosey, curious about who the new customer was entering the Viva Coffee on the corner of Main Street. It wasn’t until they realized who it was that their brief glances became blatant stares.

Their fear was evident.

They physically shrank away as I walked further into the restored industrial-looking cafe. Shoulders hunched to hide their faces, and my favorite, the father who clutched his wife a little closer to his side.

I haven’t even been arrested, yet I’ve been guilty in the court of public opinion since I was nine.

Lyra’s emotion 101 class may have changed how I view those close to me, but it doesn’t take away how good it feels to scare the townspeople. They had exiled me, turned their back on me as a child. I want them to fear me as an adult. I want them to be afraid of crossing me.

They don’t deserve my newfound growth Lyra had planted and was watering cautiously.

It was them who initially made the Hollow Boys into villains. We just decided instead of trying to change their minds, we’d play the part they designed for us. We gave them anarchy; we terrorized them; we actively rebelled. I think, if anything, we had taught the citizens of Ponderosa Springs one very important lesson.

Do not create monsters you aren’t equipped to handle.

Two fingers press the sleeve of my suit upward, just enough to reveal my watch. My guest is late. Correction—she wants me to think she’s late. My date this evening is here somewhere, along with the six other undercover officers I’d already spotted.

I relax into the back of the chair, lifting the small white cup to my lips and taking a pull from my expresso. The rich, bitter flavor drowns my tongue as I stare out of the wall of windows to my left, the rain battering against the glass.

Another ten or so minutes go by before I hear the click of her booted heel, something inherently feminine to remind the men in her field that this isn’t a boys’ world anymore.

She brushes past me, the chair scraping the floor as she pulls it from the round table before gracefully sitting down. I set my coffee down, crossing one leg over my knee and leaning back into the metal seat.

“Thatcher Pierson.” She’s smug, overly confident that this is about to go her way.

“Odette Marshall,”I reply, keeping my face passive.

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