Page 91 of Even Vampires Bleed
I turn my head in his direction, and I’m faced with a hopeful expression.
If I can feed him, maybe he’ll forget about my lunatic ways.
What are you thinking, Cassiopé? Did you already forget how you can’t stay close now that you drank from him?I berate myself.
Still, I can’t say I don’t. If he’s a shitty cook, we still need to eat.
I’m starting to think that I could eat him instead. But unless I’m talking about his blood, it won’t nourish me, and that’s definitely not what I have in mind.
“Yeah, I’m not a great cook, but I can do a few things,” I tell him, and I don’t think I’ve seen his face with so much happiness over something so small.
“What have you been eating so far?” I ask right after.
There is genuine shame now showing on his face.
“Pasta and whatever meat we have in the cooler,” he answers me, and I’m at least relieved to know he knows how to cook pasta.
“I’ll take a look at what we have and see what I can come up with,” I tell him when we arrive in the kitchen part of the main room.
It’s at this moment that I realize what I’ve been doing all this time.
Because now that I need my two hands, it becomes really obvious to me that one of mine is still in his.
And that he hasn’t released me, either.
I’m confused.
Have we been holding hands the whole way back?
Why didn’t I realize that earlier? I’m supposed to stay away—now even more than before.
But why did he not say anything, either?
I drop his hand like it burned me, and yes, I know that makes me look suspicious, but I’m not ready to deal with that.
Instead, I shuffle through the things left in the cooler. To be honest, there isn’t much in it because we’re halfway through the week already, and we were dropped with only what is necessary for a week.
The cooler is half empty, but I don’t blame Léandre for it. With how much I remember taking of his blood, it was to be expected. He needed to build his strength again.
Weirdly—or not—he left all the vegetables untouched.
Don’t worry… I’m not a huge fan, either.
I leave the zucchini and eggplants and take out the beef and tomatoes.
Léandre is eying me with curiosity, not knowing what I am about to prepare.
There is a bag on the side that contains dry food, and I make an inventory of what’s inside, too, before picking some garlic and onions.
And then I turn to the oven-slash-whatever is that metal plate on top of it—cooking plate?
This looks rustic, and I have no idea how any of it works.
“Oven or hob?” Léandre asks at my bemused face.
I’m glad he asked because I was ready to try all the settings and just hope one would work with what I have in mind.
“Which one is easier?” I ask instead.
