Page 11 of Bite of Midnight
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Guess I’m kind of the responsible one.”
“I can see that,” he murmurs, stepping a little closer again. “Though I’m starting to think you’re not nearly as cautious as you pretend to be.”
I tilt my head, my voice barely a whisper. “And what makes you say that?”
He leans in just enough that his next words brush my skin. “Because you’re still here, sweetheart.”
Chapter 4
DAMIEN
She sways to the side in my arms. It’s tiny. Most people wouldn’t notice. I notice. Her grip on me loosens, and there’s this little unfocused blink in her eyes. Too warm. Too flushed. Her pulse kicks.
“Calla.” I’m already reaching for her.
“I’m fine,” she says, even though she is absolutely not fine. Her breathing’s too fast, her cheeks pink, a faint sheen on her collarbone where her dress dips. I can feel the heat rolling off her like she’s standing in the sun. She tries to pull out of my grasp, but her legs don’t completely cooperate.
My hand curves around her waist, steadying her before she can even think about falling. “Easy,” I murmur. “I’ve got you.”
She exhales, embarrassed. “Sorry. I just… wow. Okay. I think I need some air.”
“Then you get air.” I don’t ask. I don’t offer. I move. My hand stays at her waist as I guide her through the crowd. This time I don’t bother pretending to be subtle. Bodies shift out of my waywithout understanding why. No one touches her. No one even tries.
We reach the side hall and slip through the glass doors that lead to the balcony. I step out with her into the night, then reach back and pull the door closed behind us with a soft click. Instant quiet. Out here, it’s moonlight and stone and October cold. She drags in a breath like she’s been underwater too long.
The balcony overlooks the back gardens, dark hedges, old statues, and lanterns burning low. The air is crisp enough to bite, cutting through the flushed heat on her skin and raising goosebumps along her arms. She braces her hands on the railing and bows her head for a second. “Okay,” she whispers. “That’s better. Wow. Sorry. I didn’t mean to be dramatic.”
“You’re not being dramatic.” I move in behind her, close but not touching. “You were overheated. Too crowded. Too much noise. Your heart rate spiked.”
Her head tilts slightly. “You can tell that?”
I almost smile. “Yes.”
I watch her breathing slow, steady, rhythmic. That frantic flutter in her chest evens out into something softer, sweet. Her shoulders drop, her spine loosens. She doesn’t even know how easily she lets me take care of her. That’s the part that kills me.
Because my body is one command away from turning and putting my teeth in her throat and sealing it, sealing her, sealing us. Mine in truth. Mine in bond. Mine in blood. But she doesn’t know what I am. If I claim her too soon, I lose her. I’ve waited a thousand years for her. I won’t ruin it in ten minutes.
So I stand there and look at her instead. Her wings catch the moonlight, her curls a little messy from dancing, a few strands sticking to her neck. Her skin is warm, alive. The pulse at her throat is steady now, and I have to curl my hands into fists to stop myself from reaching out and feeling it with my mouth.
She turns her head slightly, glancing back over her shoulder. “Sorry if I killed the vibe.”
“You didn’t.” My voice comes out lower than I mean it to. “You improved it.”
That earns me a quiet laugh. “Smooth.”
“It’s not a line,” I tell her. It isn’t.
We’re alone. The glass doors block most of the sound from the ballroom. It’s just us, our breath in the cold air, and the faint crackle of music leaking through the wall. She shifts her weight, and I step closer without thinking. Her back grazes my chest. She goes still. I feel that stillness slide through both of us like a spark catching dry kindling.
“Too close?” I ask quietly.
She swallows. “No.”
My self-control is a thread. I lift one hand and trace her hair off her shoulder, slow, careful. Her skin chills where the night air hits it, then warms again where my fingers replace it. I gather her curls and sweep them to one side, baring the curve of her neck. She shivers, not from the cold. God, she’s soft.
I lower my mouth and press a kiss against the spot just beneath her ear. She sucks in a tiny breath. Her hands grip the balcony rail harder, knuckles pale.
“Damien,” she whispers, and my name in her voice does something brutal to me.
