Page 73 of Blood Owed (Blood Mafia 1)
Mateo shrugs. “Something like that.”
Mateo
Demi’s eyes are wide with panic. She doesn’t want to be tied to me, and I can’t say I blame her. I’m an asshole.
It doesn’t stop me from trying to tie her to me though. She’s a Hunter, likely the last one alive, and I want her all to myself. I want her on my side.
For the power? Yes.
Because she’s gorgeous, psychotic, and a breath of fresh air in my otherwise boring undead life? Gods yes.
This woman is more than any human could handle. Once she turns a quarter century old, she’ll be full strength, and she’ll want to do nothing but kill and hunt down my kind.
I’m hoping making her mine will change her inherent nature.
Whenever I thought of eternally binding my soul to another’s, I pictured Torana. I never thought I’d offer such a sacred bond to a Hunter. Nothing could have prepared me for Demi.
Her gaze hardens, and her lips press into that stubbornly firm line.
“What’s the harm? Two more times and you’ll know the truth.”
“Fine, let’s get them over with.”
I shake my head, and she sneers at me.
“No, soon, but not tonight. You’re not ready.”
She tilts her head and groans in frustration. “Can I go home now? My dinner was ruined and I’m starving, and unlike vampires, blood doesn’t fill up humans... or whatever I am.”
“I can order food for you.”
“No,” she says sternly. “I want to go to my apartment and eat in peace, no bitchy vampires allowed.”
Her jaw is set and those brown eyes are full of fire, daring me to push her. I want to, but I’ve already pushed her tonight. Since I actually like her, I don’t want to be too much of an asshole and lose her.
“All right. I’m taking you home.”
She starts to protest but quiets when I unleash my power upon her. I see the fight stirring within her; the Hunter lurks beneath the surface. Does she sense her strength yet?
“Fine,” she concedes. “I’ll let you take me home.”
I let out a low chuckle. She’s acting as though she had a choice.
Chapter Twenty
Demi
A little while after Mateo escorted me back to my apartment, a knock sounds at my door. I yank it open and beam at the server who’s carried my food upstairs. She’s carrying a tray holding two plates. I step aside and let her in so she can set the food down. When she lifts the lids off the plates, I salivate at the sight of the pasta and fresh breadsticks.
“God, I think I love you.”
The woman glances over her shoulder and makes a funny face. I realize I sound insane and quickly try to make up for it.
“Not you, the food. I love the food.”
She straightens, smiles politely and leaves. I frown; she didn’t say a word to me. A waft of fresh bread finds its way over to me, and I forget about the strange interaction and carry the tray to the couch.
I’m halfway through my pasta when the speaker crackles.
