“What?”
“I don’t know what game you’re playing, but stop it. I am not special and I am not a mystery and I’m not any of the other shit you’re about to spout.” It has to be game. It’s the only thing which makes sense. Rejecting his musings is the only thing which will keep me sane. The mystery he paints is too tempting by half.
Everyone wants to be special. To be unique. Me more than most. When you’re a dhampir, especially one without a lick of magic to speak of, you can never measure up no matter what you do. Never strong enough, fast enough, just flat out never enough. Malachi acting like this is just cruel. “Don’t you think if my blood was some kind of magical booster, someone would have figured it out by now?”
His expression is painfully serious. “Have many vampires fed from you more than once?”
A fair question, but it stings all the same. “No. Of course not. I think my father had me destined as a sacrifice from the moment I was born, so he didn’t exactly pass me around to his people.” I look away. “I’ve been bit a couple times during sparring.” And a couple times outside it. “But it was rare.”
“By turned vampires.”
“Yes.”
“Then how would you know if your blood boosts a bloodline’s power?”
I open my mouth, but close it without answering. Again, a fair question. It doesn’t make it less cruel. “I am not special.”
He frowns. “Yes, Mina. You are. Even without the blood element.”
That’s about enough of that.
I shove to my feet and start for the door. I barely make it one step before Malachi sweeps me into his arms. He glares at my sound of protest. “You’ll burn your feet.”
“I just drank a bunch of your blood. I’ll heal.”
“All the same.” Except he doesn’t set me down once we’re out of the room. He just keeps moving at that dizzying pace until we arrive back at my room. Malachi pauses in the doorway and sets me on my feet. He frowns at the bed. “I’ll order new things for the room.”
That startles a laugh out of me. “Oh, you’re just now remembering maybe I don’t want to sleep in a dusty old bed? Lovely.”
He gives me a long look. “Are you angry about the fire or something else?”
It’s so, so tempting to confess what has me twisted in knots, but if I honestly believe he’s playing games with my mind, then telling him what I’m feeling is just opening a path for him to fuck with me further. I can’t risk it. “I’m tired. Goodnight, Malachi.” I shut the door in his face.
Even so, I clearly hear him through the thick wood. “I am not the enemy.”
I want to believe him. I want it so badly I can taste it like the coppery tang of blood on my tongue. But there’s one lesson my father taught me, one I cannot afford to forget. Not even with Malachi. Especially not with him.
Everyone is the enemy.
7
The rest of the week falls into an increasingly familiar pattern. I wake up, wander down to the newly shiny kitchen for a meal and coffee, and then explore the house. At some point Malachi shows up and drags me to spar and train. When I’m shaking with fatigue, he bites me. I always orgasm. I always bite him back.
But he doesn’t kiss me or offer to kiss it better again.
Even as I tell myself to be grateful, my irritability rises with each passing day. I want him and I don’t want to want him, and it was easier to live in my head when I told myself I didn’t have a choice. Malachi is effectively undermining that narrative, and I’m not in the mood to be grateful. More, I’m mad at myself. I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t want him. Desiring Malachi is just playing into my father’s plans, which is the last thing I want.
I’m so distracted by my tumultuous thoughts, I don’t realize I’m not alone in the library for a moment too long. I catch sight of the blond vampire and jump off the couch I was sitting on, but I barely make it a step before he’s on me. He digs his fingers into my hair and shoves me back onto the couch, following me down. He gets a knee between my thighs and grins at me. “What a delicious little thing you are.”
Fear clamors in my throat, but I refuse to show it to this stranger. “I don’t know who you are, but you have five seconds to get off me or I’m going to cut your fucking head off.”
“So vicious.” He says it slowly, like he’s savoring it. “I like it.”
In the flickering light of the fire, his features seem exaggerated. High cheekbones. Hollow cheeks. Freakishly pale eyes which still seem encased in shadows. His blond hair is cut into a short mohawk, and though he’s smaller than Malachi, he’s still stronger than me.