Page 37 of Donovan
I flinched. His eyes were on me, sharp and knowing, too knowing. He had caught me staring at the slender column of his throat.
I opened my mouth to deny it, to push him away, but before I could form the words, he moved. Slow. Deliberate.
He reached for the collar of his shirt, fingers hooking beneath the fabric, and pulled it aside, baring his throat to me.
"Why don’t you drink from me?" Donovan asked.
For a second, I stared at him stumped. A sharp, searing need shot through me, curling tight in my gut, making my head spin. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.
The hunger inside me roared, an insatiable, clawing thing that rattled inside my ribcage, demanding, frantic, so loud it drowned out every shred of rational thought.
No. How dare he? How dare he offer himself so freely, so recklessly, as if I wasn’t barely holding on by a thread? Didn’t he understand that I could lose control at any second?
That one wrong move, one moment of weakness, could mean the difference between me taking just enough and taking everything?
Didn’t he get it?
Didn’t he see the way my hands were shaking, the way my fangs ached, the way every muscle in my body was strung so tight I felt like I could snap apart at the seams?
And yet, he wasn’t afraid. Not the way he should have been. His heart pounded strong and steady, but not with fear, not really. His scent was warm, calm, sure.
Like he trusted me and that confused the hell out of me.
There had to be something wrong with Donovan.
Some kind of wiring issue, some missing piece of self-preservation that made him look at me, at what I was now, and not run.
Because if he was smart, if he valued his own life the way he should, he’d be terrified. He’d be miles away from me.
But instead, he was here, standing too close, breathing too evenly, staring at me like he could see right through me. Like he wasn’t just offering himself to me, like he wanted this.
I jerked back, shoving myself away from him so fast my vision blurred for a moment.
"You don’t know what you’re asking." My voice was rough, unsteady. I barely recognized it.
Donovan didn’t flinch. Didn’t waver. His pulse remained steady, but his eyes serious.
"I do." His voice was quiet but firm. "I trusted you then and I trust you now.”
I let out a harsh laugh, bitter and sharp.
"You shouldn’t."
Donovan was still watching me, his expression unreadable.
"You don’t want to hurt me," he said simply.
I laughed again, this time lower, more broken. "That doesn’t mean I won’t."
Silence stretched between us. The tension was thick, pressing down on me like a weight I couldn’t shake.
I could still see it, the line of his throat, the quick, steady rhythm of his pulse. I could still hear it, the rush of his blood beneath his skin, calling to me, tempting me, testing my control. I wanted it so badly.
The craving burned through me, hot and relentless, coiling in my gut like a living thing, whispering dark promises in the back of my mind.
I could taste it already, his blood, warm and rich, sliding over my tongue, filling the hollow, aching void inside me. It would feel so good.
Gritting my teeth, I forced my hands into fists at my sides.
