Page 56 of Kentucky Nights
Only this time, his growls are deeper, uncontrollable, and carnal. He scurries away from me, falls off the bed, and catches himself on the glass wall. His shoulders rise and fall in harsh motions, his fangs shadows against the light.
“Kentucky?” I crawl across the bed to get to him. “What’s wrong?”
“Don’t!” he yells at me, his voice not his own, but riddled with the part of him who is a monster. “Don’t come any closer.”
“Is it something I did?” I gather the blankets, covering myself. “Was…I that bad?”
He cuts his pain-ridden eyes on me. “What? No. You’re fucking amazing. The best fucking feeling I’ve ever had in my entire life. I”—he rolls his head over his shoulders, and thoseclaws rake down the window, leaving five long grooves—“I want to bite you so bad. It hurts. It physically pains me.”
“Kentucky, if you need to feed, take it.” I hold out my wrist for him. “It’s here. I’m right here.”
“No, it’s more than that, Dru. It’s so much more. I can’t. Not yet.” He falls to his knees, a long string of saliva dripping from his mouth onto the floor. “My god, I can smell your blood pumping in your veins. I can hear it.”
He doubles over, and I’m off the bed to help him, but he holds out his arm to stop me again. “Don’t,” he warns, desperation shining in his rubies.
His sights lock onto the space between my legs, a rush of come mixed with blood drips down my leg, and he snarls, launching himself at me.
Kentucky throws me on the bed, blurs to the furthest end of the room, and bites into his own arm, shouting into the wound with frustration. It’s somehow enough to calm him. He slides down the wall until he is sitting on the floor. Blood drips from his arm, but he doesn’t remove his fangs.
His face seems pale. Dark circles appear under his eyes. His arm falls to his side, and dark red drips from his mouth. “I’ll never take away your choice,” he murmurs. “Never.”
Kentucky’s eyes roll to the back of his head, his body slumping over.
“Kentucky?” I whisper his name with fear. “Kentucky!” I shout, jumping from the bed to rush to his side. I grab his shoulders, shaking him in hopes he will wake up.
He doesn’t move.
His arm is slower to heal. The wound still oozes blood, a small pool collecting on the floor beneath him.
“What do I do? What do I do?” I chant, leaning down to check to see if he is still breathing, pressing two fingers against his neck.
I don’t feel anything.
“Oh my god. Kentucky!” My eyes fill with tears and panic, not knowing what to do in this situation. I place my hand under his nose, exhaling a huge breath of relief when hot air brushes by.
Why can’t I feel a heartbeat, then?
“Um. Okay, it’s okay. He is alive. Barely, but alive. What do I do? Think, Druscilla, think.” I have always spoken my issues out loud. It makes it easier to think of solutions when I can hear what the problem is. “He is unconscious. You have no idea what from. He is pale. He isn’t healing as fast. Clearly, he is sick. Maybe vampires get the flu? No, that doesn’t make sense either. He said he can’t get human diseases. Unless it is the vampire flu.” I roll my eyes at how stupid that sounds. “I bet that doesn’t even exist.”
I try shaking him awake again, but it doesn’t work. He still lies there unconscious, barely breathing, with a heart rate of three. I don’t know how that is possible.
Nearly tripping over myself when I run to the bed, I snag a few pillows, the comforter, and an extra blanket that is folded at the bottom. I place a pillow behind his head, shove the others under his legs to elevate them, cover him with the comforter, and rush to the bathroom to clean up a little.
I wish I could appreciate how beautiful the bathroom is. There’s a huge walk-in shower to the left, made with wood paneling. According to the screen on the wall, it also doubles as a sauna. To the right is another claw-foot tub, and the vanity has two sinks with antique mirrors hanging over each of them.
His closet is directly to the left when you enter the bathroom, big enough for four people. Half of it is unused while the other half has his jeans, shirts, and hats. There are a few drawers that I rummage through. I’m relieved when I find a pair of underwear, and I steal another Dead Man’s Ranch shirt off the hanger.
I don’t get dressed just yet. I need to clean up.
I roll up toilet paper and stuff it between my legs as a makeshift pad, hoping I can get the products I need soon.
When I’m done, I wash my hands and splash some cold water on my face, staring at myself in the mirror. I’m brainstorming. Maybe Kentucky is resting, and I’m overthinking. I tend to do that when I have no idea what is going on.
Patting my face with a fluffy towel, I scurry into the bedroom and sit by Kentucky’s side. I take his hand in mine, leaning my head against his shoulder, waiting.
What if all I end up doing is waiting?
I lift his arm over the blanket, staring at the wound where he bit himself. Why would he do that? That doesn’t make any sense when I offered him my wrist. The wound isn’t bleeding anymore, which means he is healing.
