Page 60 of The Blood we Crave: Part Two

“You’ve never—I was your first?”

“I don’t like touching other people, Lyra. You think fucking them would somehow be different?”

It feels overwhelming knowing I own these pieces of Thatcher. Pride swells in my chest.

Even like this, he’s so much taller than me. I’m able to tuck myself into his body and feel surrounded. I knot my hands in the front of his shirt, holding him possessively.

“Knowing all these hands have done, what they will continue to do—” He squeezes me as if to remind me. “—you aren’t afraid of them?”

I should be. It would be normal to be afraid.

“I can’t change for you, Lyra. This thing between us won’t change who I am.”

I can feel his heartbeat beneath my hands. I can feel that he is just as much human as he’s a killer. And humans, even this one who was designed for havoc, deserves love.

“No matter the cruelty your hands are capable of, they will always be the one place I feel safe. How could I fear fingers that were made to touch me?”

He watches me as if he’s trying to decide if I’m lying or if I’m telling the truth. Whatever he determines has him lowering his mouth dangerously close to my own. A whisper of a kiss. So very close, but as fate would have it, my stomach lets out an animalistic growl.

I expect this to shatter the vulnerable mood passing between us, but it does the opposite.

It creates a memory. A core memory that I will never forget.

Thatcher laughs.

And it is not cold or sour.

No, it’s rich and filled with passion.

Like ripples in a still pond after a stone has been thrown across it, it radiates outward, pulls at the edges of his eyes, and quickly becomes my favorite sound. I don’t even realize it’s made me smile until he pecks my forehead with his lips, the remnants of his laughter tickling my skin.

“Eat,” he murmurs, “before your stomach eats itself.”

DANSE MACABRE

SIXTEEN

Lyra

This fitted gown was a much better idea three macarons ago.

But I wholeheartedly believe no dress is pretty enough to pass up sweets. It was stunning when Briar fastened the last button at the nape of my neck and would be just as beautiful with my bloated stomach.

Red lights dust across the velvet material, the taut fabric practically sewn into my skin. Regardless of how tight, I hadn’t been able to say no to the long-sleeve gown, not when the color reminded me so much of the blue-purple iridescence of the Pavon emperor butterfly.

“I need a cigarette,” Alistair groans, finally returning from his parents’ grasp. I watch him lean against a pillar, a drink pressed to his lips.

I’d half expected him to show up wearing his leather jacket, but he’d swapped it for a black dinner coat. Probably the same one most of the guests here are sporting, but Alistair carries a different vibe.

No matter how badly his parents want to refine the notorious outcast son, he would always seep corruption. They needed an heir to take over all the land they own in Ponderosa Springs, someone to pass their legacy to now that the eldest Caldwell had fallen from grace.

But Alistair had owned the title of black sheep for far too long, and no amount of well-fitted suits would change his mind. He’d always be the spare. The shadow. Just to spite them.

“Not a fan of Valentine’s Day?” I offer.

“Of course I am. Love it. Where else would I spend my Saturday, if not at another extravagant dance with Hollow Heights finest?” His voice drips sarcasm.“This just gives my father more opportunity to rub elbows with me in public.”

The Saint Lover’s Masquerade Ball is the school’s way of being nice. A celebration of all we’ve overcome in such a short period. A time to rejoice in the bonds and relationships we’d made at Hollow Heights.

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