Page 49 of Ophelia's Vampire

“Apparently,” he says, irritated, like he can’t quite understand what he’s doing, either. “Since my home is the temperature of a crypt, and it will take some time for the heating system to catch up, this will have to do.”

“You don’t have to—”

“You are my guest, Ophelia,” he says, not taking his eyes off his task as the first sparks catch in the tinder. “The least I could do is make the room the proper temperature for you.”

He still sounds so damn surly, and I’m at a loss for how to respond, so I do the only other thing I can think of.

I sit.

The chair is even more comfortable than it looks. As I take off my jacket, set it aside, then sink into the plush upholstery, I can barely stop myself from letting out a groan of pleasure.

The van is fine. It’s adequate. It’s home.

But this house? This room? This damned delightful chair?

It’s luxury.

Cas finishes stoking the fire, flames crackling in the hearth as the first wave of delicious warmth hits me. He steps forward,stopping right in front of me with more of that pinched irritation written all over his face.

“And because I can’t warm you up properly myself, the fire will have to do for that as well,” he murmurs, and I realize.

It’s not me he’s irritated with.

One of his hands brushes over my bare forearm, and his skin is cooler than it was when he held me in the alley outside the Raven, when he was warm and flush with…

“Your skin wasn’t this cold the last time you touched me.”

“The last time I touched you, I had just fed from you.”

His voice is a low hush in the room's darkness, and he looks down to watch himself trace a path over my arm, my wrist, the backs of my fingers where they’re settled on the armrest.

“Drinking blood makes you warm?”

I’ve never really thought about it, never thought to ask dad or Cleo, but curiosity and the breathless rush of having him so close override any reservations I might have about prying.

“Yes. Without it, well…” He touches me again, a smooth press of fingers against the tender skin on the inside of my wrist. “Without it, I may as well be a walking corpse.”

I frown. “That seems a little dramatic.”

“Does it? What would you call this?”

A touch to my face this time, a firm grasp around my cheek and jaw, a hand so large the tips of his fingers reach all the way to the nape of my neck.

“You just… run a little cool.”

The ghost of a laugh, tight and humorless. “One very diplomatic way to put it.”

We fall silent, and he doesn’t remove his hand. He strokes his thumb from my jaw to my throat, right over his bite, and the air in the room shifts. It gets thinner, warmer, harder to get a good lungful as his soft, cool touch skims over the marks again and again. He tips my chin up to meet his gaze.

“Is there anything else you need, Ophelia? Anything else I could do to make you comfortable here?”

Despite the dangerous, decadent insinuation in the question, I reel myself in. I scramble to clutch at any bit of sanity I can, make a mad grab for the protective armor of sarcasm and antagonism I always wear around him.

“Hmmm, let’s see. A foot massage, maybe? Your finest bottle of wine and some caviar might be—”

Cas drops to his knees, grabbing for my ankle.

“Stop,” I gasp, choking out a surprised laugh. “I didn’t mean that literally.”

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