Page 101 of Nocturne

“Then I’ll stop you.” I step closer again. “I’m not a weakling Callahan. You’ve seen me fight.”

I sit on the edge of the bed, patting the space beside me. After a moment’s hesitation, he joins me, his weight causing the rusted springs to protest.

“I’ll show you how,” I say softly. “How to take what you need without causing harm.”

I extend my wrist toward him. He stares at it like it might burn him.

“It’s not just about feeding,” I explain. “It’s about control. Integration, as you said. Embracing what you are without letting it consume you.”

I say this, as if I didn’t completely lose control when I was feeding on the child murderer. He doesn’t need to know that, though.

His fingers are cool as they take my hand, lifting it up to his face. He studies my veins with the same intense focus he brings to crime scenes and witness statements.

“What do I do?” he asks, voice rough with hunger he’s trying to deny.

“Use your instincts,” I tell him. “But stay present. Don’t let the hunger think for you.”

He brings my wrist to his lips, hesitant at first. I feel his breath, warm against my skin, then the slight scrape of teeth—not yet fangs, but getting there. His eyes close as he inhales deeply, taking in my scent.

When they open again, something has changed. His pupils have expanded, turning red, all but eclipsing the blue. His incisors have lengthened, becoming the fangs he needs.

“That’s it,” I encourage. “Don’t fight it. Control it.”

He doesn’t rush, though I can sense the hunger in him building. Instead, his tongue traces the veins at my wrist, tasting the salt of my skin. The contact sends electricity down my spine, more intimate than it has any right to be. I have to bite back a moan.

When his fangs finally pierce my skin, the sting is brief and quickly replaced by a sensation like warm honey flowing through my veins. My breath catches in my throat. Feeding between vampires is different than taking human blood—it creates a feedback loop of sensation, pleasure multiplied and reflected between giver and receiver.

Callahan makes a sound low in his throat, surprised and hungry at once. His grip tightens on my arm as he draws the first mouthful of blood, his eyes meeting mine with startled intensity. He’s feeling it too—the connection forming between us, more primal than words.

I let him take three deep pulls before gently but firmly extracting my wrist. “Enough for now,” I say, my voice unsteady despite my attempt at composure. “You learn limits first.”

He looks dazed, my blood staining his lips crimson. The color has already returned to his face, the wound now completely healed. His eyes are still dark with hunger—for blood, for sex too—but there’s awareness there. He hasn’t lost himself to it.

“How do you feel?” I ask.

“Alive,” he whispers hoarsely. The word hangs between us, heavy with meaning. Then, with careful movements, he takes my wrist again, his tongue gently lapping the puncture wounds until they close under his ministrations. The gesture is meant to be practical but it sends another shiver through me.

“Your turn,” he says, rolling up his sleeve to expose his forearm.

The offer startles me. “You don’t have to?—”

“I want to.” His eyes hold mine, steady and certain. “And I want you to. If this is about connection, it should go both ways.”

I take his offered arm, feeling the strength in the corded muscles beneath my fingers. Unlike his hesitation, I know exactly what I’m doing, what I want. My fangs descend smoothly, a familiar pressure against my lips.

I don’t tease as he did. I strike precisely, my fangs sinking into the vein at his wrist with practiced accuracy. He cries out softly as his blood floods my mouth, and I nearly gasp at the taste—richer, more potent than any blood I’ve sampled before. It’s almost as if I can sense time passing, centuries, in each swallow. There’s something primordial in it, something powerful that belies his newborn status.

Callahan’s free hand comes up to cradle the back of my head, not forcing or restraining, just maintaining contact. I drink steadily, matching what he took from me, though I could easily take more. Iwantmore. His blood sings in my veins, a heady mixture of power and connection that makes my head swim.

When I withdraw, carefully sealing the wounds with my tongue as he did mine, our eyes meet with an intensity that crackles. Something fundamental has shifted between us—a trust established, a boundary crossed, a connection forged that can’t be undone.

For a moment, we simply exist in that connection, neither moving nor speaking. Then, with infinite slowness, his hand rises to my face, thumb tracing my lower lip where a drop of his blood remains. I catch the pad of his thumb between my teeth, gently, a tease and a promise.

“Lena,” he says, my name a question and an answer all at once.

I don’t respond with words. Instead, I close the distance between us, my lips finding his in a kiss that tastes of copper and need. He responds immediately, arms encircling me with carefully restrained strength, as if he’s still afraid he might break me.

I press closer, showing rather than telling him that his concern is unnecessary. My fingers tangle in his hair, drawing him deeper into the kiss as I shift onto his lap. The taste of blood—his and mine—mingles on our tongues, heightening every sensation.

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