Page 28 of Forbidden Devotion
“No, I can’t drink from a dead deer.”
“I can drag it back alive? Half hour tops.” He shifted to rise again.
And Sinclair stopped him again. “No, not a live deer either.” Sinclair had a fragile look that brought out every alpha instinct Mitchel had.
Must protect. Must keep safe.
Their eyes met, and as the moments stretched and they stared at one another, Mitchel braced himself for what would be required of him.
His blood. The vampire needed his blood.
But he couldn’t feed a vampire. Even if it was Sinclair. He couldn’t. Ducking his chin, he hid his eyes. His breath shallowed as he hesitated, wrestling with old demons.
It was his fault Sinclair got hurt. The vampire wouldn’t have been here if Mitchel hadn’t asked for his help. He would have been safe. What choice did he have? He would have to allow this violation.
He rubbed his hands along his jeans, drying his sweaty palms.
Never in a million years had he thought he’d willingly open a vein for a vampire, but he’d have to endure it. “How much do you need?”
The relieved expression on Sinclair’s face helped justify the sacrifice. “Not much. A few swallows.”
“Will it hurt?” Mitchel blurted out before he could think better of it. What did it matter? He shouldn’t care.
“Only a little. Some people like it.” Sinclair’s fingers were cool on his overly heated skin, his grip softening.
Mitchel’s mouth had gone dry. A tingling fizzled in his chest he couldn’t contain, threatening to quake. A muscle ticked in his jaw as he opened his mouth and whispered, “Where?”
Sinclair’s eyes were laser-focused on the pulse point in his neck. Mitchel covered his throat with his palm, and Sinclair tore his gaze away.
“Your wrist?”
He nodded. More to himself than to Sinclair, who still wasn’t looking at him. The scent of blood hung over them like a pregnant cloud, heavy with rain. Sinclair’s blood. Soon to be joined by Mitchel’s. He shivered, shuffling forward to offer his wrist.
Sinclair rose, fitting his fangs around the delicate flesh.
Mitchel braced for pain.
CHAPTERELEVEN
Sinclair
Nose to skin,Sinclair inhaled Mitchel’s delicious earthen scent and, below that, the metallic tang of his blood. Fangs dropped into place. His mouth watered.
He wanted to bite. It took everything in his power to resist. Mitchel was rigid steel under his fingertips. Muscles tightened to the point of strain as if preparing to take a punch.
Sinclair forced his lips closed. Licked them. And turned his head. “You must relax, or I think this will hurt. It doesn’t have to.”
The tension released in fractions.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
Mitchel took a deep breath. Sinclair felt it in all the places their bodies touched. Along his side, next to his shoulder, against his hip.
“Go on. I’m not afraid.”
That would have to do. Sinclair licked the salt from the skin, which resulted in an answering shudder from Mitchel. So sensitive.
Carefully, he sank his fangs into the flesh. Blood pooled hot and thick onto his tongue. A moan sounded between them. His or Mitchel’s, he didn’t know.
