Page 177 of White Wolf

His shivering woke Sasha, who sat up as best he could behind him, his hand settling on Nikita’s shoulder. “Nik? What’s wrong?”

“N-n-nothing.”

Sasha twisted around, so his chest was against Nikita’s back, his hand landing warm on the side of Nikita’s face. Nikita tried to pull away, but ended up curling into a tighter ball instead. “You’re freezing! Nik.” He hugged him from behind, tucked his very warm face into Nikita’s neck, trying to share his considerable body heat. “Why are you so cold?”

“S-s-so-sorry.” It was almost impossible to talk, his jaw quivering violently as chills racked him. He wanted to reach up and pat the top of Sasha’s head, reassure him, but he lacked the strength.

“No, no, don’t be sorry,” Sasha crooned, that soothing voice he’d used on his wolves.

Thought of them, their limp, bloodied bodies in the snow, backs broken and eyes glassy, hurt Nikita physically. He shut his eyes. Don’t think of them, don’t think of them…nor of his friends…oh God…

“Here.” Sasha slid over him, graceful as ever, and lay so they faced one another, gathering Nikita into his arms and bundling him in under his chin, wrapping him up. “You shouldn’t be this cold,” he said, thoughtful. “And you just ate. Hmm…” His fingers dipped into Nikita’s collar, hot against the cold back of his neck. “Blood,” he said, like he was deciding something. “You haven’t had any blood since Rasputin.”

Nikita groaned. He knew what he was now, and what he needed to survive, but the idea repulsed him. “I d-d-don’t wa-wa-want–”

“I know, but you have to,” Sasha said, gently chiding. “You’re a vampire, Nik, and vampires have to drink blood.”

Yeah, but what if I don’t?he wondered.

“That’s how it works,” Sasha said. And then, as if reading his mind, “It’s your body. It’s natural. It doesn’t make you bad. You’re not like him.”

But hewaslike him; he’d beenmadeby him. “I won’t,” he said through clenched teeth. “I won’t be a monster.”

But that was the funny part, because he’d already been one, hadn’t he? A Chekist, busting up floorboards and families, killing people in the name of a cause he hated. What was a little more blood, huh? What difference would that make? But he had to draw a line somewhere.

“No, no, no.” Sasha held his face with gentle hands, touched their foreheads together. “Not a monster. Never. You’re my friend. My brother. I love you and I won’t watch you die, not when I could help.” His thumbs swept careful circles across Nikita’s frigid cheeks.

“H-h-help? B-bu-but–”

“I have lots of blood,” Sasha whispered, like a secret. “I’m strong. Drink some from me. We can be animals together.”

Nikita recoiled. Tried to. He was weak as a kitten, and all he could do was shut his eyes and gasp, trying to shove the idea away. The worst part, the part that brought tears to his eyes, was the way a hunger as strong as lust reared up in his belly in response to the suggestion. He felt his fangs descend, the tips sharp enough to cut into his tongue – and oh, that was bad, because the taste of his own blood sent a low buzz through his body, a shaking that rivaled the chills chasing across his skin.

“You won’t take too much,” Sasha said, confident, still stroking his neck with warm fingertips. “I trust you.”

“You sh-sh-shouldn’t.”

“Come on, it’s alright, come here.”

Too weak to resist, Nikita went when Sasha cupped his head and brought his face into his own throat, close enough to feel the softness of Sasha’s skin against his nose. He smelled of sweat, and dirt, the musk of wolves, himself…and of blood.

“Drink,” Sasha said, and it was a command. Then, softer, desperate, “Please. You’re all I’ve got. I can’t lose you.”

Nikita would always remember the quiet sound of his fangs puncturing skin, that first heady taste.

You’re all I’ve got. I can’t lose you.It was for Sasha, then. He stole from him in order to stay alive, so they could stay together. That was what he told himself when he felt the worst about it. If he slipped into a bloodless coma, and Sasha was alone…no, he couldn’t leave him alone.

They were codependent. He didn’t care.

But he didn’t tell them that. Some thingscouldn’tbe said.

“We spent the fifties in Los Angeles,” he said. “Until it wasn’t safe. Came here in ’60.” He shrugged. “It’s easier to hide here.”

Across the table, Trina – it was her, it really was, and she had his cheekbones and blue eyes, and Katya’s way of sitting ramrod straight, both hands around her glass, oh Jesus – nodded and said, “Nobody looks twice at anybody in New York.”

“Right.”

Trina’s partner – surly and scarred-up like a fighter, deeply afraid under his show of male dominance – said, voice skeptical, “What’ve you been doing here?” Like maybe he expected Nikita to admit to murdering someone.

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