Page 35 of You Only Love Twice
The color drained out of her vision as if just thinking of it roused the predator within her.
Not. Now. She sucked in a sharp breath. The craving virus stoked the fires of a person's primal self. When the hunger rose, she stopped thinking. All she wanted was blood or sex. Or maybe to kill something.
She wanted his fist in her hair as he tilted her head back, revealing her throat....
Gemma clenched her fist, letting the bite of her nails against her palm distract her. What the devil had that been all about? She wasn't prey; she was the predator.
"Unfortunately, blood's a little short in supply," Obsidian countered. "Someone blew up two of the draining factories last month and poisoned the other three. We're all on rations."
It was Gemma's turn to narrow her eyes. "Did you have anything to do with that debacle and the Sons of Gilead?"
"I watched. It made a merry bonfire."
This time it was her turn to pace. "Why? Why would you do such a thing? Why try and destroy this fragile peace in London? People will die because you took away the ability to feed most of London's blue bloods. Who are you working for?"
"People already die," Obsidian replied coldly. "And it's a nice attempt, Miss Townsend, but I'm not planning on telling you a damned thing."
"I'd prefer it if you called me Gemma. Weareacquainted, after all."
"Are we?" Obsidian slid closer to the bars, not quite daring to step all the way into the light. "Sometimes I wonder if I know you at all."
Of course. He wasn't glaring at her for any particular reason—no doubt the morning sunlight hurt his eyes. If he chanced to step into it, his skin would redden and burn a little. It was the one advantage she owned over him—Obsidian might be stronger and faster, but he couldn't stomach the light of day.
His gaze met hers, and he smiled a little. "But you're not lying about your thirst, at least. Look at it itching all the way through you."
"Bite this," she breathed in pure frustration, biting her clenched fist at him. It was the sort of insult she'd heard among the Echelon, in reference to telling a blue blood he'd find no easy prey here, but a fist instead.
"My preference is something a little softer." Obsidian's eyelids drooped lazily, and she had the flushed sensation he was trying not to glance at her stockinged feet.
Never one to miss a chance, Gemma let the cloak fall open a hint. "If you want something a little softer, then you're going to have to come on this side of the bars."
His face shuttered immediately. "As fascinating as this little conversation is, Miss Townsend, I was trying to sleep. What do you want?"
"Freedom."
"You're wasting my time—and your breath." Obsidian shook his head, and then turned to go.
Gemma rushed the bars, grabbing hold of them. "No, wait!"
He paused.
Half turned his head toward her.
"I want... water to wash with. Hot water. And soap. Preferably something perfumed."
"I'm not certain you understand the predicament you're in." Rattling the bars, he gave her a pointed look. "You're on the wrong side of these. I don't have to take orders from you."
"It's been two days," she growled out. "I am tired, thirsty, and wretchedly cold. I stink."
"Blue bloods have no personal scent."
"Ifeellike I stink," she growled out. "One is not meant to be laced so tightly for so long."
"Miss Townsend."
"Hot water," she begged. "Even a small bowl of it. I would do anything for a bowl of hot water and soap."
Those dangerous eyes turned sleepy-lidded. "Anything?"
