Page 34 of Blood Bound (Blood Mafia 3)

She rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”

* * *

Demi

Love ya, tiger.

He said love ya. Does that count as sayingI love you?

Love ya is so flippant, like something you tell a friend.

Needless to say we watch three episodes ofSchitt’s Creekand I can’t focus on any of the ridiculous things Alexis says or any of David’s quips.

My stomach grumbles for the fifth time and Grayson sighs.

“You need to eat,” he says, grabbing the remote and turning the T.V. off. “Perfect timing.” Grayson looks toward the door.

I tilt my head to the side, hearing the sound of purposeful footfalls. It sounds like my second favorite vampire.

Colt barges in with a bag which smells distinctly like an egg, bacon, and potato burrito.

Okay, maybe he’s my first favorite.

“You should eat, you’ll need plenty of energy.”

I push off the couch, walk over to him, toss the bag he gives to me on the counter, and wrap my arms around his neck. After kissing him, I whisper, “Thanks,” and go to open the paper bag.

Opening the small container of salsa, I carefully tip a little right on top and take a giant bite.

“Is it wrong to be turned on by that?” Grayson asks Colt, who shakes his head.

“Nope.”

I flip them off since I’m busy chewing. Colt takes the spot next to Grayson and lies against the cushion, placing his hands behind his head. There’s something obnoxiously appealing about the way he sits. It could be the biceps, or maybe the lazyI don’t give a fuckattitude that accompanies the position.

They talk about some Blood Mafia business while I eat. I run out of salsa before I can finish my burrito, so I cover the last fourth of it and toss it into the bag, seeing no point in eating the burrito now that the spicy goodness is gone.

“Demi.” Mateo’s voice crackles through the speaker.

I ignore him and fill up a glass with water. Colt and Grayson stop talking and I feel their eyes on my back. My shoulders bunch at their attention.

“Demetria, come on. Don’t be like that.”

Grayson sucks in a breath, shaking his head.

See, at least he understands that theyou’re being unreasonableattitude pisses me off.

I’m being perfectly reasonable, for the most part, and I don’t have to talk to Mateo to live under his roof.

Colt scrubs his hand over his mouth, watching me as I drink the rest of my water and furiously scrub the cup, taking my frustration out on the glass.

“Baby girl, will you talk to me?”

Clenching the cup tighter, I jam the scrubber inside and spin it back and forth. “Don’t call me that,” I say, my words coming out half growled.

The speaker crackles. “Baby girl, we need to talk.”

The glass cracks in my hand and a piece smashes into the sink, splintering into smaller pieces.

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