Blood Rights

‘No, you took your clothes off in the holding cell. Not sure if that happened before or after you kicked the door down.’

She pressed her forehead to her knees and fought the shame burning her eyes. ‘Leave me alone.’

‘No.’

‘Get out.’ She yelled the words into the sheet.

‘Not until we talk.’

‘I’m done talking.’ She sniffed, hating her own weakness.

‘You haven’t begun to talk, Chrysabelle.’

She looked up. ‘How do you know that name?’

‘You corrected me when I called you Anna yesterday.’

Self-pity turned to anger. ‘Did everyone get a good look at my signum yesterday too? I’m sure that gave you a nice thrill, hmm? Watching the blood-drunk comarré stumble around half-naked?’ She clenched her jaw against the rage. She wanted to hit something. Anything. Him. ‘You’re a monster.’

‘Yes, I am.’ He leaned back. ‘And yet you’re in my bed, broken foot tended, fever free, and clearheaded enough to vent all over me.’ He kicked his feet up on the edge of the mattress. ‘Go ahead, I think I can manage not to walk into the sun from the guilt.’

‘You think this is funny?’ She tugged the sheet free, knocking his legs off the bed, and wrapped it around herself. ‘I’m leaving.’

‘Suit yourself.’ He grabbed the corner of the sheet and yanked it off her, spinning her on her good foot. ‘But the sheet is mine. It stays.’

His eyes didn’t keep to her face this time. ‘Not sure which one of us has more marks. I like yours a hell of a lot more than mine.’ Tossing the sheet to the foot of the bed, he got up, walked back to the small table, and picked up a book. He kept his back to her while he paged through it. ‘You can get back in bed and rest, or I’ll carry you to another room and you can rest there, but you’re not leaving and we both know it.’

Carry her? ‘I am leaving.’ Although her foot had begun to throb harder.

‘To go where?’

‘Back to my au—my friend’s house.’

‘If someone’s after you, would you take that danger back to your friend?’ He waited and when she didn’t answer, continued. ‘You obviously came here for a reason. What is it?’

She tried to see into his thick head. ‘Why do you want to help me all of a sudden?’

He flipped a page. ‘Didn’t say I would help. But I will listen. After what you did for Fi, I’ll do that much.’

‘I want my clothes.’ She paused. ‘After I did what for Fi?’

‘You tore your shirt down the middle, but your pants are still—’

‘After I did what for Fi?’

‘Your blood. She’s been solid ever since. Without working at it either.’

‘You … you put my blood into her?’ She collapsed onto the bed, no longer caring if she was half-naked. He’d taken her blood, then given it away like it was his to give. That was not supposed to happen. Did that even count? ‘My blood. You put my blood into a ghost?’

‘She was corporeal at the time.’ He turned around. ‘It seemed like the best solution for both of you.’ He scowled. ‘Plus I owed Fi.’

She shook her head, disbelief clogging her throat. ‘That was my blood. Mine to give or not. You had no right to do what you did.’

He took a step toward her. ‘So we should have let you die? Because that’s the direction you were headed in.’ Then another step. ‘Or are you just disappointed because I didn’t personally suck it out of you? Maybe I should have given in to you in the gym and done what you were begging me to do.’

‘Stop.’ She bent her head and wished she could hide. Wished she’d never come to this horrid city. Wished Algernon was still alive. ‘No.’

‘We did what we thought best. None of us are comarré experts, and you haven’t exactly given us much to go on.’

She studied the leafy tendrils of signum curling up her thighs. Loathing the way they tied her to so much power and responsibility. She didn’t want it. Not anymore. Not ever again. ‘I want my clothes.’

‘Here.’ A flutter of movement, and a black T-shirt landed in her lap. It was oddly cool and redolent with his scent. She glanced up. He was bare-chested. The names written on him seemed as much a part of the shadows as he was, moving and flickering with the candlelight. Pulling her gaze from him was difficult, but she knew what it meant to be stared at. Neither did she want to give him the satisfaction of thinking she found anything about him interesting. Because she didn’t, despite the fact that she’d never seen a naked male torso before his.

‘I don’t wear black.’ She bent down to hide herself and pulled the shirt on anyway.

‘Some of us have no choice.’ Book under his arm, he returned to the chair and settled in. He put the book on his lap and held out his hand. ‘Give me one of those pillows.’

She tossed one to him, then pointed at the bruise on his cheek. ‘Did I do that?’

‘No, but it amuses me that you think you could have. You have a rather lofty opinion of yourself, don’t you, comarré?’ He arranged the pillow at the bottom of the bed, then patted it. ‘Foot.’

She kept her mouth shut and frowned. He read her curious look correctly. ‘It’s supposed to be elevated.’