Oops.
I flopped back onto the bed. My eyes caught on a rusty stain marring the sky blue of the duvet. It was blood. It must have come from Rans’ shoulder when I pushed him onto his back, though I’d seen no evidence of the wound just now when he’d walked away.
This whole thing was nuts.
I scooted up until I was resting on the bed properly, my head on one of the fluffy pillows. He expected me to rest? He really had lost his marbles. I was still tired, sure—though not with the bone-deep, all-consuming exhaustion I’d been fighting earlier. But how could anyone be expected to sleep after the past few hours? Hell, the past few days? At least my body didn’t hurt. For the first time in weeks, I just felt, well—normal.
Which... I guess irony could be pretty ironic sometimes, right? A vampire had just told me that I was part demon—right after I’d sucked his cock, mind you—and I felt normal. As pillow talk went, I felt like we both had some room for improvement.
I closed my eyes, telling myself I’d just enjoy my pain-free self on this comfortable mattress for a bit while I tried to sort everything out. I was out cold within moments.
* * *
It was still dark outside the window when I blinked awake. The atmosphere of the room had that silent, middle of the night feeling to it. My body felt pleasantly rested, even if my brain was stuck in just-woke-up mode. Was it possible to be jet-lagged when you hadn’t managed to leave the city you lived in?
I rolled out of bed, feeling vaguely bad about having slept on such nice linens with my boots on. At least I hadn’t been the one to bleed on the comforter—though an argument could be made that I’d been the one to tackle Rans to the bed, resulting in him bleeding on the comforter.
I decided to go in search of the nearest bathroom. For one thing, I needed it. And for another, I might be able to get the bloodstain out with cold water. The hall outside was dark, lit only by the wedge of light cutting through the bedroom door. All but one of the other doors in the corridor were closed. Fortunately, the open door was, in fact, the bathroom.
Like the rest of the place, it was tastefully decorated and posh as hell. White marble gleamed; black and white tile laid in a chessboard pattern led the eye to the massive claw-foot tub that dominated the airy space.
When I was done, I washed my hands and eyed the scalloped sink, trying to decide whether it would be worse getting caught trying to wash blood out of a stranger’s duvet on the sly, or leaving said bloodstain for Guthrie to find later. Though I suspected it would actually be cleaning staff who found it, since I had a hard time picturing anyone who owned a place like this doing their own laundry.
After a few moments of internal debate, I chose the coward’s option of leaving it for someone else to find. Outside, the sound of low voices reached me. I followed them, wandering through the darkened living area. Light spilled through an archway to my left. The voices grew clearer as I approached, and I paused a few steps away.
“Normally I wouldn’t ask, but...” That, in Rans’ English accent.
“Yes, you would.” A sigh. “Go on, then. It’s not like you can do any real damage to me, is it? Just try not to drain me dry. I’ve got a full day today, and you’ve already kept me up half the night.”
“I’d apologize, but we both know I wouldn’t mean it.” A pause. “You’re a good mate, Guthrie.”
“Yup. That’s me. And you owe me lunch next time you’re in town.”
A snort. “Apt, I suppose.”
“Damn straight.”
I cleared my throat and walked in as though I hadn’t just been eavesdropping. Then I froze in place, caught by the tableau before me. Guthrie was seated on a barstool at the freestanding kitchen island with his back to me. He was wearing the same dove gray button-down I vaguely remembered him wearing when Rans had half-dragged me into the apartment, but it looked noticeably less crisp now than it had then. His left sleeve was rolled up to the elbow. Rans held his arm in one hand, and his lips were pressed to Guthrie’s pulse point.
Glowing blue eyes pinned me as I crossed the threshold, gluing my feet to the floor, daring me to comment. Guthrie must have sensed my approach, because he glanced over his shoulder.
“Oh, perfect,” he said. “An audience.”
“S-sorry,” I stuttered. “I didn’t realize you were...” I floundered for an end to the sentence. “... doing that.”
I still couldn’t seem to peg Guthrie. There was an air about him—a sense of having been beaten down by some great weight until he’d just... given up. And yet, he lived in this stunning penthouse, obviously a successful businessman. A successful businessman who let fugitives crash in his home, no less, and was apparently good enough mates with a vampire to voluntarily submit to the low-rent Red Cross blood drive routine.
Rans lifted his head, still regarding me steadily. “You’re staring,” he said mildly.
I frowned. “So are you.”
He blinked, and made a production of scoring the tip of his forefinger on a fang. A couple drops of blood fell onto Guthrie’s wrist, and Rans released the light hold he’d maintained on the other man’s arm. Guthrie flexed his fingers and grabbed a napkin from the pile in the center of the kitchen island, using it to wipe away the smear of red on his arm.
His dark eyes returned to me. “Hope you’re not squeamish at the sight of blood,” he said. “Otherwise, you might want to reconsider the company you’re keeping these days.”
Of course, I was squeamish at the sight of blood. Seeing your mother gunned down at a young age will do that to you.
I
