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“How this should work,” Ilya insists, pacing the length of the room, “is that you come to me when I say, I drink your blood, we both feel good, but now…”
At Ilya’s groan of frustration, Shane frowns from the bed, rubs the healing bite on his neck, and his voice is slow and still a little dreamy as he asks, “You’re… not having a good time?”
“No, no, you give me exactly what I need,” Ilya assures him, never more grateful that Shane can’t hear his thoughts: ever since we met, you’ve had a hold on me, even though it’s supposed to be the other way around, and I can’t bring myself to wipe your memory and walk away, even though I should, and one of the most dangerous predators on Earth is not supposed to be so afraid.