Page 7 of Bite of Midnight
“Okay, mysterious,” she teases. “You sound like you’re a hundred years old.”
My pulse slows. “Something like that.”
She laughs softly, assuming I’m joking, and I let her. The sound winds through me, bright, alive, irresistible.
Then the band shifts into a slower rhythm, something haunting and old. She glances toward the dance floor where couples sway in flickering gold light. “They’re good,” she says. “I love this song.”
I follow her gaze. The sight of her surrounded by others fills me with an ache so sharp it almost feels like hunger. I could dance with her right now, hold her close enough to hear every breath, every heartbeat, every whisper of blood under her skin.
But I can’t trust myself. Not yet.
So I force a small smile. “Maybe later.”
Her eyes meet mine again, curious, searching. “You ever dance?”
“Once,” I say softly. “A very long time ago.”
She tilts her head, studying me like I’m a puzzle she wants to solve. The silence stretches, and I feel her pulse pick up again. My body reacts instinctively; my senses sharpen, my hearing narrowing until all I can hear isher.
I can smell her heartbeat. Taste it.
I clench my jaw, forcing air into lungs I don’t need.
“Damien?” she says gently.
Her voice pulls me back from the edge. I blink and realize I’ve been staring too long.
“Forgive me,” I murmur. “You just… do that to me.”
“Do what?”
“Make the world go quiet.”
She blushes, her hand drifting toward her throat as if she feels the weight of my gaze there.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re intense?” she whispers.
I huff out a quiet laugh. “Once or twice.”
She smiles, still holding my eyes. “I like it.”
The words hit me like lightning. My restraint splinters for a heartbeat; my vision sharpens, colors deepen, and I feel my fangs ache beneath the surface. The hunger claws up, ancient and demanding.
No.Not her. Not like this.
I look away, focusing on the flames of the candles until the ache eases.
“You okay?” she asks, brow creasing slightly.
“I will be,” I say, voice rough.
She reaches across the small table, her fingertips brushing the back of my hand. The contact is feather-light, but the effect is catastrophic. The bond roars to life again, molten and alive, flooding through me like fire under skin.
I inhale sharply, every muscle tensing. She feels it too, I see the goosebumps rise along her arms, the confusion flicker in her eyes.
“Damien,” she whispers, “what was that?”
“Fate,” I say before I can stop myself.
