Page 37 of Don't Bite the Boy Next Door
“Whittling?”
“These,” he puts his hand into his pocket and withdraws half a dozen wooden bullets.
“Oh.”
“Serena said this will kill your kind, silver too.”
“Yes,” I whisper, “that ought to do it. But you are our kind too now, Ryan, that’s why we need to talk. I need to tell you everything I know, help you transition to your new lifestyle.”
‘Tell you over and over and over how very sorry I am.’
“She said they might come in force,” he continues as though I haven’t spoken. “So I’ve set up a few booby traps in the yard and forest – no one is getting in here without me knowing about it.”
“Ryan..”
“Drink,” he commands, his eyes softening when he sees me comply immediately, “and stop worrying.”
“How can I not worry,” I roll my eyes and speak around the straw. “Solomon’s minions are coming to kill me, and my neighbour thinks I’m a freakish monster.”
“I always thought that,” he smirks.
“And now I’ve turned him into the same kind of monster,” my voice breaks as the tears well again.
“And that is something else altogether,” he says quietly. “But right now, we need to keep you safe until your friends come.”
“And then?” I know my voice carries my hope, my longing that he will forgive me, stay with me. But he doesn’t give me any indication that either of those things will occur.
“Tell me about Solomon,” he says, indicating I should drink.
“No,” I whisper, setting the bag aside and lacing my fingers together tightly, “I can’t.”
“That bad?” he murmurs, placing one large, warm hand over mine and stilling their twisting.
“Yes,” my voice is barely a whisper.
“One day then,” he says, rising and looking down at me. “I’ve fed Orson, and your rabbits and cats. Is there anything else around here that needs attention?”
‘Me.’
“Ugh, the chickens; and the cow needs milking,” I grimace apologetically.
“I don’t suppose I want to know why a vampire keeps a milking cow,” he shakes his head.
“For the cats,” I shrug.
He studies my eyes for a long minute, before lifting the tray, now full of empty blood bags.
“Of course, the cats. Tess,” he shakes his head and sighs, leaving the room.
I’m still wondering what he means more than an hour later, as I begin to fall asleep again. But just as my jumbled thoughts begin to slow down, I jerk with a start, as an ear-splitting scream punctuates the night.
Struggling to a sitting position, I slide my legs over the side of the bed, my hands firmly gripping my neck to support it, and painfully move as fast as I can out of my room, and downstairs.
The scream sounded like a woman, and immediately I recognise the swearing accompanying it, and Ryan’s deep commands.
‘Oh, God, Valerie is going to murder him.’
“Valerie,” I screech, as loud as my wounded vocal cords will allow, “don’t kill him. Don’t kill him!”
