Page 8 of Bitten By Bloodmoon
Nyx stares at me as if he can read my mind. As if he knows the plan that’s slowly forming in my head.
I wait for him to attack me or to command me not to kill him.
Instead, with the blink of an eye, he vanishes and returns before I can even process that he’s moved.
I gasp when I see clothes on the bed and a small tray of food on the nightstand next to me. He put them there so quickly, it was as if they instantly appeared.
“Get dressed and eat something. Then you can plot my death more easily,” he says.
I frown. “Is that your mind control telling me to?”
“Does it feel like my mind control is forcing you?”
“No.”
“Well, then.”
“Alpha command?”
“No. Unlike Ambrose, I rarely use an alpha command on anyone.”
“Sure you don’t.”
He huffs. “Get dressed, eat, or don’t—it’s up to you.”
He’s gone before I can get in another word.
I scramble for the clothes, pulling the first top and pants off the pile I find and yanking them on my body as quickly as possible. I’m not going to be vulnerable again.
And then I eye the tray of food as I climb back into the sunlight-drenched bed. I’m safe in the sunlight, or as safe as I can be around a vampire that has drunk a drop of my blood and could tell me to jump out the window to my death at any moment.
There are eggs, oatmeal, waffles, and fruit. I glance at the cups—coffee, tea, orange juice.
It’s thoughtful of him to include choices in my food when I don’t get to pick where I live or who my mate is.
Nyx can’t be my mate; he can’t be. I don’t know why he can talk to me in my head like Ambrose can, but it doesn’t matter. He’s not my mate.
I pick up the cup of tea and take a long sip, letting the warmth of the liquid sink into my body like a warm hug.
The tears fall.
And fall and fall and fall.
I pull my knees up to my chest and grip the cup of tea like it’s the only thing holding me together.
Rowena’s gone. I can’t bring her back.
Ambrose is hundreds of miles away.
As much as I love him, how much do I really know him?
And Kael, my best friend, who I would have talked to about all of this, isn’t here.
My body shakes as grief overtakes me, wracking through my entire body.
When I’ve cried all the tears my body could possibly produce, I get up, use the ensuite bathroom, have my breath taken away by the bathroom’s beauty, of course, and then make a plan.
I don’t hear anyone outside my door, but I can’t tell how many people are in the house. I don’t feel any compulsion, any mind control, or a command holding me to this room. I don’t feel any magic when I place my hand against the door.
