Page 32 of The Reveal
“His addiction has progressed,” the vampire king tells me with what sounds like cool disinterest. How I wish I could share it—but when it comes to the addicts in my family, I’ve never been any good at distance or disinterest.
I try to push back from the wash of shame and from what lurks beneath it—that absolute terror that I’ve lost Augie forever to unspeakable circumstances and terrible choices I can’t accept.
I try to push back enough that I have access to my brain again.
Because beyond all these unwelcomefeelingsand horrifyingneeds, what I can’t figure out is what a whole entirekingwants with me. Somehow I doubt he’s brought me down here so we can stage an intervention with my brother. Out of the goodness of his unbeating heart.
I think I would have heard if he was the undead Jesus with fangs, ministering to the lost and lonely on the streets of Medford, Oregon.
He looks like nobody’s savior as he watches me, clearly entirely too aware of my reactions no matter how I try to hide them. “The problem with the kind of progression I mean is that sooner or later, there is no longer any way to afford the habit.”
Like this is another Franklin Hendry situation and we’re going to mince around, talking in euphemisms like he’s not the giant dick in this scenario.
It’s even more offensive now that it’s Augie he’s discussing instead of a mortgage payment.
“If only there was a way that the king of all the vampires could do something about the robust black market of vampire blood,” I throw out at him acidly.
Stupidly.
Not that I don’t mean it. But it’s not a smart power move by any stretch of the imagination, and I know it.
When those quicksilver eyes find mine, I swallow hard.
“I’m sorry,” I say, though I’m not. But there’s no point in antagonizing a creature so dangerous, especially not when he’s holding Augie over my head. When I don’t even know what state my brother is in, or where he is. “I’m sure you know what it’s like to want to help a family member who doesn’t want helping.”
“The last of my blood relations died so long ago that even their graves have been rendered unto dust,” he replies with a matter-of-factness that reminds me, with a kind of slap, that he really is an immortal creature who’s been around forever. Or twenty-five hundred-odd years. Six of one, half dozen of another.
“Note to self,” I retort, because apparently I am making suicidal foolhardiness my entire personality. “Stop trying to relate to the scary vampire.”
Ariel’s gaze on mine is entirely too steady. It makes me flush, everywhere. It makes me think I might cry. It makes me want to throw myself at him—and I’m not sure if I mean to fight him or fuck him, both of which would likely lead directly to my painful death.
I have no idea what’s wrong with me. What this man—this impossibly ancientvampire—is bringing out in me.
“I am finding this conversation baffling,” he tells me, and he sounds almost as if he’s musing out loud. I have never heard of a vampire whomuses. Maybe this is thatcivilizedthing Savi was talking about. Heanalyzeshis prey. How sophisticated and terrifying and ... oddly hot. “Usually when I have conversations with mortals, one of two things happens. They froth about until they exhaust themselves, too overcome to make any sense at all. Or they fling themselves upon me, swept away by my ...” His silver eyes are far too knowing. Far too bright. “... charm.”
“Do you get off on that?” I demand. I don’t even know where a question like that came from.
But I have no time to track it as everything between us ...shifts.
There’s nothing but that searing heat.
It’s so hot it makes my eyes water.
He tilts his head to one side. It feels like some kind of accelerant washing over me, and then the match strikes. It’s the way his mouth moves again, curling in one corner.
“I beg your pardon, Winter. Are you interested in how I get off?”
I can’t breathe. Once again, I can’t decide if he’s doing this to me or if I’m doing it to myself.
Or even if I care about such a pointless difference when it’s happening just the same.
“I want to know why you’re trying to come on to me while you’re also bringing up my brother’s challenges,” I manage to get out, thoughnone of my systems seem to be operating at the moment. Everything is haywire. I am lost somewhere in this conflagration. “Talk about things that aren’t hot.”
“Are you sure?” His voice isn’t that song inside me, but it’s a low, curling lick of impossible heat. And I understand immediately that he knows it. He’sdoing itdeliberately. “Because you seem overheated to me.”
“Is he dead?” I grit out.
And I hate the storm inside me. It shouldn’t be possible. I shouldn’t be this worried about Augie while simultaneously bright hot and wild with this impossible hunger.
