Page 27 of Blood of a Huntsman

"Ah! And you didn't see fit to mention that when the others asked what you didn't excel at."

"They were having too much fun guessing to let me say my piece."

Then they fell quiet, as they had a job to do, but after their little chat, the silence was comfortable. They walked down to the southern borders before heading back to the woods. The owl was gone from her tree, no doubt to hunt for dinner.

"Look here," Catherine whispered, eyes on the ground.

He followed her gaze to find a red fox huddled around three little cubs.

The owl had been interesting. The foxes, though…

Bash looked away.

He used to like foxes. Now, they smelled like food. Bland food, but food nonetheless.

Catherine watched him with a frown.

"I'm fine. I'm in control."

She snorted. "Yeah, right. Not even close."

He couldn't protest. It wasn't the foxes, really. But their scent reminded him that he was thirsty. And now he imagined the smell of blood from yesterday. Tons of human blood flowing, seasoning the air. He could almost taste it, making him feel sick. And ravenous. And disgusting.

"You know you're making things worse, right?"

"Look, not all of us are century-old undead, born with a silver spoonful of blood between the fangs."

He'd meant to hurt her, but Catherine didn't so much as flinch.

"I'm a year old, dickhead.”

Now he was genuinely surprised. With all her accomplishments, he’d assumed she was as ancient as any of them.

A fucking year old. She was a fledgling, barely more experienced than him.

Sure, unlike him, she’d been prepared from an early age for the change, but Bash wasn’t just a regular who was ignorant of the process or what it meant. He’d studied vampires his whole life too.

That shut him up. And made him feel worse.

“And I was never anywhere near as unstable as you. You know why?" Catherine pushed.

"Because you're a Stormhale princess," he snapped.

"Because," she echoed, "I never avoided humans. I never stayed away, and sniffed the air all the while drinking blood made to imitate theirs, as if to make the temptation even more impossible to resist. You're not letting yourself get used to anything. You're stuck in the first stage, the feral thirst that's meant to last hours, not months."

Bash turned to face her, fists tightening. If she weren’t a woman, he would have snapped.

As if the fact that Miss Perfect was a new vampire didn't sting enough, now she was telling him he sucked at this because he wanted to? He'd never asked for this. If it had been up to him, he would have asked for a quick, clean beheading. But he couldn't. Because of his siblings, Jack, the rest of the huntsmen, he had to fight through this. Linger in this world for their sake. Her indifference, her contempt? He didn't mind. But she didn't get to lecture him.

"I think I hate you," he told her, taking one step closer to her. "I've never hated anyone in my entire life. But you? You have everything. Beauty, wealth, friendship. And look at what you do with it. You delight in making others feel small. Shall I crawl at your feet to please you?"

"You're already crawling. If you wanted to please me," she replied, walking forward, closing the distance between them, "you'd grow a spine and stand up."

Then his mouth was on hers, or hers on his; he had no clue who started this messy, hungry, haunting kiss. She leaped in the air and wrapped her long legs around his torso; Bash grabbed her waist and pulled her against him, desperate to feel more, taste more.

Bash had no idea how, or why, since he'd just professed to hate her, quite sincerely. Perhaps because he hated her so very much, he wanted everything. Needed to touch her, sink inside her, make her scream his name.

But right then, she pushed against his chest, unhooked her legs, and jumped back to the ground.

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