Page 2 of Cassian

But this guy was looking at him like he was—like he was some sort of snack. And Cass was sitting there, stupidly saying nothing. He tried to come out with something passable. “Just roommate stuff.”

“Ah.” The man sipped his cocktail. “An irritant?”

“No!”

Cass’s denial came out more strongly than he intended, but the man just gave him that same subdued smile. “Sloppy, perhaps?”

Cass shook his head. “Nuh-uh.”

“Loud banging headboards till the wee hours?”

Cass coughed as he tried to sip his manhattan. That one wasn’t exactly inaccurate. “A crush,” he admitted sheepishly, once he got his windpipe back under control. Because fuck it, they were only in this town for two nights—he was never gonna see this guy again. Who cared if he knew Cass was head over heels for an unattainable roommate, one he would never meet?

Another, “Ah,” this one full of understanding. “Yes.” The man nodded. “I vaguely recall such things.”

“You can’t be that old,” Cass teased. The guy was probably late thirties at most. But maybe people grew out of their hopeless crushes when they left their twenties. Wouldn’t that be great?

“Older than you might think.” The man’s eyes flashed in amusement, and then he was waving the bartender over for another round. “Well, we’ll just have to distract you from your thoughts, won’t we?”

And distract he did. He was actually pretty good at it, asking Cass question after question without revealing anything about himself. He also kept buying the drinks, which was generous of him, especially when Cass started turning into an embarrassingly maudlin drunk. “Just wish I was special, ya know? But ’m boring. Boooooring. And a guy.”

“What’s wrong with your gender?”

“Blake likes girls.”

“Ah. I see.” The man—Cass was pretty sure he’d given a name at some point, maybe Anton? Or Arthur?—leaned closer. He was honestly pretty close already, having scooted his barstool nearer to Cass at some point during their tipsy discussion. He had a strange scent about him up close, almost like old pennies. “What if youcouldbe special, Cass? What if you could be…quite unique.”

Cass smiled dopily, his head feeling heavy from the numerous manhattans. “That’d be cool.”

And then Maybe-Arthur was holding his hand, tugging lightly. “Come with me.”

Cass was just tipsy enough to say yes. This was the whole reason he’d come out: to try to find someone else to hook up with, to try to get over his stupid crush, to try to finally shed his ever-stubborn virginity, even. So what if this guy wasn’t Blake? So what if Blake was never, ever going to want him?Thisguy maybe wanted him. And it would be nice to be kissed, to be touched. And he’d said he thought Cass was pretty. He looked at him like he was not just a snack but a whole meal.

They shuffled—or Cass shuffled, his companion seemingly able to walk just fine—and Cass was vaguely surprised when, instead of to a cab, the guy directed him to the alley outside the bar. Maybe-Arthur leaned in, that old-penny scent lingering again. Was he going to kiss Cass? His eyes were the wrong color, brown instead of green. But who cared, right? Blake was probably doing the same with some ski harlot.

But the guy leaned into Cass’s ear instead. “Now, I don’t like my dinner quite so soaked in alcohol,” he whispered. “But you really are an adorable creature. I think I’ll make an exception.”

And then he was kissing Cass’s neck, which was sort of okay. But the soft kiss didn’t last long, quickly followed by a sudden, sharp sting. And then Cass was gasping through a weird flood of arousal, something that had been missing this whole interaction because the guy wasn’tBlake.

And Maybe-Arthur wasn’t taking his mouth off Cass’s neck. If anything, he was latched on. And he was…swallowing?

He’s drinking me, Cass thought, wondering if he was going insane.He’s drinking my blood.

By the time Cass fought through the haze of alcohol and surprise enough to think to struggle, his limbs were too heavy to lift.

Oh God. He was dying, right? This was what dying felt like.

His eyes fell closed, and he coughed when something warm and wet was pressed to his lips, too tired to stop himself from swallowing whatever it was. Wasn’t his life supposed to be flashing before his eyes right about now? Shouldn’t he be thinking of his grandfather, who would be expecting him on Monday?

But all he could really think wasI never texted Blake back.

“My, that was quite fast.”

Cass blinked heavy eyes, trying his best to focus. Whatever room he was in—his hotel room, he had to assume—felt very, very bright, and whatever cooling or heating system they had going on was loud as all hell. Or maybe that was just the hangover talking.

But that voice didn’t sound like Blake. That sounded like—who did that sound like?

“It can take days, the transformation. Some part of you must have been quite eager to return to this mortal realm, hm?”

---