Page 52 of Thorns from the Fall

I know I should just go back to the penthouse, but it feels like a waste. Especially as this demon sits beside me and tells me how hot I am. Even sad girls like to feel sexy.

And as he adjusts his collar and gestures toward his neck, I think he’s done a spectacular job of it. What he’s offering feels like a boon, and I can’t help but partake in it.

The moment his blood hits my tongue, I think that I’ve made a mistake. But then the high hits me, and I nearly groan with pleasure. This is exactly what I needed. As I lave at the demon’s neck and drink from his flesh, the taste is a familiar danger—and I don’t care. The club is busy. Bodies writhe on the dance floor beneath red lighting, sensuous and endless, heedless of their surroundings. Some vampires sit on black leather furniture around the perimeter of the room while loud, bass-house music makes the speakers tremble.

I allow myself to float away as my head lolls against the seat. I don’t know how long I relax there as the demon recovers beside me. He draws intricate designs with his fingertip on my thigh. Soft, diaphanous curtains twirl in a gentle breeze nearby, giving an illusion of privacy. But around the room, couples engage in acts that I can’t stare at for too long without being considered a voyeur.

The room is full of vampires with senses far more receptive than any living being; sweat and blood and arousal scents the air, and it mixes into a heady elixir—one that leads to an escape that can’t come soon enough. Perhaps being born of a vampire and a hunter is the reason I’ve always craved places like this. Drinking lowers inhibitions and dancing is a form of foreplay: a sneak peek into the way a body might grind upon another in a darkened room. Finding the rhythm with another person is a way to test compatibility.

Sex is the ultimate sensory experience, and no one can feel it more fully than a vampire or a hunter. In an environment like this, it’s easy to get lost in it.

With Roman in control of the coven, I’m not surprised to see familiar vampires here, back to their old haunts. But if theyrecognize me, they say nothing. There are other vampires too, uncommitted to the Chicago coven, and maybe I pass as one of them.

I’m thinking too much, and I’d rather not be. The demon must read my mind because he stops his gentle stroking and leans over me. Light brown hair falls into his face, and I wish it was a buzz cut.

“I’ll be ready for you again in a minute,” he says, dipping low into my line of sight. I don’t move, looking at him through slitted eyes, and I hope he doesn’t plan on leaving before I can drink from him again. This shit is far better than weed.

“How about I get you ready instead?” he asks, and an unholy smirk pleads with me to acquiesce. Before I can respond, he’s sliding his hand beneath my skirt and up my inner thigh. His skin is soft and smooth, and I wonder if maybe this host is an investment banker or something. His fingertips brush over my center, and I stifle a noise in my throat. Then he’s ripping my tights, and I’m too relaxed to protest. Without encouragement, he slides his hand beneath the delicate mesh and an exploratory finger presses against my slit. I can’t help but lift my hips.

As he caresses and teases, I feel hopeless when it’s Roman I think of. When my eyes close and he rubs a finger over my clit, it’s Roman’s large thumb circling that sensitive area, and I imagine his rough beard scratching my thighs.

“Are you ready?” I ask, breathless, needing more of the demon’s blood. He wouldn’t be allowed in Last Drop, with his tainted product, and I’m glad Sanguivita doesn’t seem to care. The neon red martini glass made the bar easy for me to find, even though the obnoxiously expensive rideshare driver couldn’t find the address. He referred to the area as the Viagra Triangle, voice dripping with disdain, but with it being a holiday, I hadn’t noticed any predatory silver foxes. Instead, I’d seen countless drunk girls stumbling down the street, entirely underdressed forthe weather. None of them had paid me any attention, and it hadn’t been hard to find my location. This place is right next door to another bar called The Crossroads, and a wall has been torn down between the two, so I assume they’re co-owned.

The demon parts my legs, pushing them wider with his knee, before he moves to sit closer. Without halting his devious fingers, he dips forward, baring his neck to me again. If there’s one thing I can count on, it’s losing myself in a high.

So I bite.

The taste is euphoria and ignorance, and I’ve never craved anything more. His touch becomes nuisance more than anything because when I drink from him, there’s no pretending it’s Roman anymore. Even if that’s the last thing I ought to be doing anyway. This man tastes like citrus, and it’s almost unpleasant.

I haul him closer, stalling the motion of his arm between us, and draw deeply from his neck.

And then I push him away as I gulp down the precious liquid.

“What the fuck?”

“Once I get fingerfucked in the back of the bar, I’ll feel like I have to leave, and I’m not ready for that yet.”

I adjust my skirt before sinking into the cushions, and the velvet fabric rubs luxuriously across my overheated skin. The room spins, and it’s all I can do to dig my fingertips into the couch so I don’t fly away.

I don’t feel a fucking thing.

I’m numb, and it’s bliss.

Although, something begins to niggle at the back of my mind, and it feels an awful lot like guilt. Not the same shame I feel about what happened to Hale. That’s consuming and gloomy. Until tonight, when Hale had texted me to meet up, I thought I’d die from it. But in those few hours, my mind had reforged the connections and allowed me to pretend nothing has changed.

This guilt is new and fresh, and the moment I recognize it for what it is, I do my best to dismiss it. Remy’s face pushes itself to the forefront of my mind. After learning about Kayla’s death, I’ve been unable to stop thinking about him.

Like Roman, he takes after their mother, but his features are softer. I’m not sure if it’s the lack of facial hair, or perhaps my intimate knowledge of his brother, but Remy has always seemed cold to me. Stern and uninviting, his face is all keen angles and haunting shadows.

I wonder if it’s because of the depression or if it’s because of the demon blood.

The only other time I encountered demon blood, Roman feared I’d end up like his brother, which is likely the cause of that bothersome prodding in my mind. But it’s an absurd notion. Roman doesn’t give a fuck if I drink demon blood. Roman doesn’t care about me at all, and would probably find peace in karmic retribution. But I don’t see myself becoming addicted to it like Remy was.

I don’t think I’d have the time.

A new song comes on, with the sound of a woman’s moan interjected between each beat. The thumping bass makes me decide to move my body once more. There’s something about letting the music guide my limbs that I’ve always found soothing. Considering my thoughts are running rampant despite the demon blood, I know I have to do something.

When I stand, I worry I’ve made a mistake. Each of my joints feels too loose, and my vision refuses to focus. I’m terribly thirsty all of a sudden. I’m in a fog, and as I glide toward the bar, I feel like I’m walking on one of those conveyor belt things at the airport. One foot in front of the other, and I’m at the bar far faster than makes sense.

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