Chapter 7 The Source

The minutes stretch into eternity while I wait for him to come back.

I try counting my breaths to distract myself from the pain. I make it to twelve before another cramp hits and I lose track. The ceiling above me has a crack running through it, and I trace the line with my eyes, following it from one corner to the other and back again.

Anything to keep from screaming.

My body is at war with itself. One moment I’m freezing, shivering so hard my teeth rattle. The next I’m burning, kicking off the sheets and pressing my fevered skin against the cool silk pillowcase. The hunger nibbles away at my insides, hollowing me out from the center.

I think about the blood he gave me before. How good it tasted. How much I wanted more even as the rational part of my brain recoiled in horror.

What kind of monster craves blood?

The kind you’re becoming, a voice whispers in my head. The kind you already are.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to remember who I was before this. Thelma Wright. Twenty-eight year old senior account manager at a marketing firm. I liked Thai food and true crime podcasts and running in the park on Sunday mornings.

That woman feels like a stranger now.

The door opens, and Thad walks in with a glass in his hand. I nearly weep with relief.

“Drink,” he orders as he crosses the room in three long strides.

I push myself up against the headboard. My arms shake with the effort, but I manage to stay upright long enough to take the glass from him. The liquid inside is dark red, almost black. I don’t let myself think about what it is. I just bring it to my lips and swallow.

The first mouthful hits my stomach, and I wait for the relief to come.

It doesn’t.

I drink faster, tipping the glass back, letting the blood slide down my throat. Copper and salt coat my tongue, and my body screams for more. But the fever isn’t receding. If anything, it’s getting worse.

I drain the glass and look up at Thad. “It’s not working.”

“I know.”

“What do you mean, you know?” I shove the empty glass at him, and he catches it before it falls. “You said blood would help. You said—”

“I said you need to feed.” He sets the glass on the nightstand and looks down at me. “That was feeding. But you’re still in transition. Your body needs something stronger.”

“Stronger than blood?”

“Blood from the source.”

I stare at him. The fever is making it hard to think, hard to focus on anything except the burning in my veins and the emptiness clawing at my insides. “I don’t understand.”

Thad pulls at his collar, and I watch him undo the top button of his shirt. Then the second. My brain is too foggy to understand what he’s doing until he tilts his head to the side and exposes his throat.

I scramble backward on the bed, putting distance between us. “No! No, I can’t—I’m not going to—”

“You will. Or you’ll burn from the inside out. The bagged blood isn’t enough during transition. You need it from the vein.”

“Then find someone else.”

“There is no one else.” He sits on the edge of the mattress, and the bed dips under his weight. “I’m the one who has to do this. That’s how it works.”

I want to ask why, to demand an explanation, a reason, anything that makes sense. But another wave of pain barrels through my body, and I double over, gasping.

When I open my eyes, Thad is closer. His throat is inches from my face, and I can see his pulse beating beneath the skin.

And God help me, my mouth waters.

“I can’t,” I whisper, even as my body leans toward him. “I don’t want to be this.”

“I know. But you already are.”

The hunger roars up inside me, and I stop fighting it.

I grab his shoulders and yank him toward me. My lips find his throat, and I can feel the blood pumping just beneath the surface on the tip of my tongue. Hot and rich and everything I need.

I bite down.

Thad’s hands find my waist, holding me steady as I drink. The blood that fills my mouth is nothing like what was in the glass. This is alive. It tastes like power and darkness and delicious sin.

The fever retreats. The pain fades. Every cell in my body sings with relief as I swallow mouthful after mouthful.

But that’s not all I feel.

Heat pools low in my belly—a different kind of heat. Thad’s fingers dig into my hips, and I hear him exhale against my hair. The sound makes want pulsate between my legs, and before I even realize it, my panties are soaking wet.

This isn’t just feeding. This is something else. Something dangerous.

I pull back, gasping. Blood smears my lips, and I wipe it away with the back of my hand. Thad is staring at me with those grey eyes, and for the first time since I met him, he doesn’t look composed. He looks wrecked. His chest rises and falls in little bursts, and his pupils are massive.

“What was that?” I breathe.

He doesn’t answer. He just sits there with one hand still on my hip, looking at me like I’ve broken something inside him.

“Thad.”

“The bond,” he explains, his voice strained. “When you feed from your maker, it creates a connection. I should have warned you.”

“My maker?” The word catches in my throat. “What does that mean?”

But he’s already pulling away, standing up, putting distance between us. He buttons his shirt with fingers that aren’t quite steady, and I watch the column of his throat disappear beneath the fabric.

“You need to rest,” he prompts. “The fever will stay down now. Sleep.”

“You can’t just—”

“Sleep, Thelma.”

He’s at the door before I can argue. I should be angry. I should demand answers. But my body is heavy with satisfaction, and my eyelids are drooping, and all I can think about is how good his blood tasted. How right it felt to drink from him.

How much I want to do it again.