and you're not,' Kisten added, and my pulse quickened. His voice was now coming from where Ivy sat. 'She sees a deep platonic relationship, and you know that even if you start one, you'll eventually delude yourself into believing it's deeper. She'll be your friend when what you want is a lover. And one night in a moment of blood passion, you're going to make a mistake in a very concrete way and she'll be gone.'
'Shut up!' she shouted, and I heard a slap, perhaps of a hand meeting someone's grip.
Kisten laughed gently, ending it with a sigh of understanding. 'I got it right that time.'
His liquid voice, gray with truth, sent a shiver through me. Back up, I told myself. Back up and go play with the cat. I could hear my heartbeat in the silence. From the disc player, the song ended.
'Are you going to share blood with her again?'
It was a gentle, hesitant inquiry, and Ivy took a noisy breath. 'I can't.'
'Mind if I do?'
Oh God. This time I did move, pulling the canvas bag tight to me. Kisten already had my body. If we shared blood, it would be too much for Ivy's pride. Something would break.
'Bastard,' Ivy said, pulling my retreat to a halt.
'You know how I feel about her,' he said. 'I'm not going to walk away because of your asinine hang-ups about blood.'
My lips parted at his bitter accusation, and Ivy's breath hissed. 'Hang-ups?' she said vehemently. 'Mixing sex with bloodletting is the only way I can keep from losing control with someone I love, Kisten! I thought I was better, but obviously I'm not!'
It had been bitter and accusing, but Kisten's voice was harsh with his own frustration. 'I don't understand, Ivy,' he said, and I heard him move away from her. 'I never did. Blood is blood. Love is love. You aren't a whore if you take someone's blood when you don't like them, and you aren't a whore for wanting someone you don't like to take your blood.'
'This is where I am, Kisten,' she said. 'I'm not touching her, and neither are you.'
My pulse pounded, and I heard in his heavy exhalation the sound of an old argument that had no answer. 'Rachel's worth fighting for,' he said softly. 'If she asks me, I won't say no.'
I closed my eyes, seeing where this was heading.
'And because you're a man,' Ivy said bitterly, 'she won't have a problem when the blood turns to sex, will she.'
'Probably not.' It was confident, and my eyes opened.
'Damn you,' she whispered, sounding broken. 'I hate you.'
Kisten was silent, and then I heard the soft sound of a kiss. 'You love me.'
Mouth dry, I stood in the hallway, afraid to move in the silence the last sound track had left.
'Ivy?' Kisten coaxed. 'I won't lure her from you, but I won't sit by and pretend I'm a stone either. Just talk to her. She knows where your feelings are, and she still has the room next to yours, not an apartment across the city. Maybe…'
My eyes closed in the swirl of conflicting feelings. The image of me sharing a room with Ivy flitted through my mind, shocking me. Of me slipping between those silken sheets and sliding up to her back, smelling her hair, feeling her turn over and seeing her easy smile four inches from mine. I knew how her eyes would be lidded and heavy with sleep, the soft sound of welcome she would make. What in hell was I doing?
'She's rash,' Kisten said, 'impulsive, and the most caring person I have ever met. She told me what happened, but she doesn't think anything less of you, or herself, even when it went wrong.'
'Shut up,' Ivy whispered, pain and self-reproach in her voice.
'You opened the door,' he accused, making her come to grips with what we had done. 'And if you don't walk her through it, she'll find someone who will. I don't have to ask your permission. And unless you tell me right now that someday you're going to try to find a blood balance with her, I will if she asks me.'
I shivered, jerking when a soft brush on my leg made me jump. It was Rex, but I was little more to her than something to brush up against as she headed to the living room, following the sound of Ivy's distress.
'I can't!' Ivy exclaimed, and I jumped. 'Piscary…' She took a gasping breath. 'Piscary will step in and he'll make me hurt her, maybe kill her.'
'That's an excuse,' he hammered on her. 'The truth is that you're scared.'
I stood in the hallway and trembled, feeling the tension rise in the unseen room. But Kisten's voice was gentle now that he'd gotten her to admit her feelings. 'You should tell her that,' he continued softly.
Ivy sniffed, half in sorrow, half in bitter amusement. 'I just did. She's in the hall.'
I sucked in my breath and jerked upright.
'Shit,' Kisten said, his voice panicked. 'Rachel?'
Pulling up my shoulders, I raised my chin and went into the kitchen. Kisten scuffed to a halt in the hall, and tension slammed into me. His lanky build, wide shoulders, and my favorite red silk shirt took up the archway. He had on boots, and they looked good peeping from under his jeans. His bracelet felt heavy on me, and I twisted it, wondering if I should take it off.
'Rachel, I didn't know you were there,' he said, his face creased. 'I'm sorry. You aren't a toy that I have to ask Ivy's permission to play with.'
I kept my back to him, shoulders stiff while I opened the canvas sack and took things out. Leaving the cheese, mushrooms, and the pineapple where they were, I strode to the pantry, hanging my grocery bag up on the hook I'd nailed in yesterday. Images of Ivy's comfortable room, of Kisten's face, his body, the way he felt under my fingers, the way he made me feel, all flashed through me. Pace stilted, I went to the stove and took the lid off the sauce. Steam billowed up, the rising scent of tomato making the wisps of my hair drift. I stirred without seeing as he came up behind me. 'Rachel?'
My breath came out, and I held the next one. I was so confused.
Softly—almost not there—Kisten put a hand on my shoulder. Tension slipped from me, and sensing it, he leaned until his body pressed against my back. His arms went around me, imprisoning me, and my motions to stir the pot stilled. 'She knew the moment I came in,' I said.
'Probably,' he whispered into my ear.
I wondered where Ivy was—if she had stayed in the living room or fled the church entirely, shamed that she had needs and fears like the rest of us. Kisten took the spoon from me, setting it between the burners before turning me around. I pulled my eyes to his, not surprised to see them narrow with concern. The glow from the overhead light shimmered on his day-old stubble, and I touched it because I could. His arms were about my waist, and he gave a tug, settling me closer into him. 'What she can't say to your face, she'll say when she knows you're listening,' he said. 'It's a bad habit she picked up in therapy.'
I had already figured that one out, and bobbed my head. 'This is a mess,' I said, miserable as I looked over his shoulder to the dark hallway. 'I never should have—'
My words cut off when Kisten pulled me closer. Arms about his waist and my head against his chest, I breathed deeply the scent of leather and silk, relaxing into him. 'Yes,' he whispered. 'You should have.' He pushed me back until I could see his eyes. 'I won't ask,' he said earnestly. 'If it happens, it happens. I like things the way they are.' His expression grew sly. 'I'd like it better if things changed, but when change is too quick, the strong break.'
My eyes on the archway, I stood and held him, not wanting to let go. I could hear Ivy in the living room, trying to find a way to make a graceful entrance. The warmth of his body was soothing, and I held my breath against the thought of his teeth sinking into me. I knew exactly how good it would feel. What was I going to do about that?
Kisten's head came up an instant before the peal of the front doorbell echoed through the church. 'I got it!' Ivy shouted, and Kisten and I pulled apart before her boots made a soft brush down the hall. The light flicked on in the hallway, and I heard the beginnings of a low conversation. The mushrooms needed cutting, and Kisten joined me as I washed my hands. We jostled for space at the sink, bumping hips as he pushed me into a better mood.
'Cut them at an angle,' he admonished when I reached for the cutting board. He had his hands in the flour bag, then clapped them once over the sink before putting himself at the center island counter and the ball of dough he had set to rise under a piece of linen.
'It makes a difference?' Still melancholy, I moved my stuff to the opposite side of the counter so I could
