"What's wrong," Ethan said, "is that your grandfather's office is trying to pin the Jennifer Porter murder on my House."
"The Chicago Police Department is trying to pin the murder on your House," I corrected. "From everything I've heard, my grandfather and everyone else in his office think you're innocent. But you know there was a Cadogan medal at the crime scene. Assuming the forensics unit didn't plant that evidence, that medal came from your House. Cadogan is involved, regardless of what my grandfather does, and whether you like it or not."
"No one from my House would do this."
"Maybe not the murder," I agreed. "But unless you hand those medals out as party favors, someone from your House has a part in it. At the very least, someone let in the person who did take it."
I didn't expect his reaction.
I expected another rant, an outburst about the loyalty of Cadogan vamps. I didn't expect his silence. I didn't expect him to walk to the love seat and sit down, elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together. I didn't expect him to run his hands through his hair, then rest his head in his hands.
But that was what he did. And the move, the posture, was so humble, so tired, and so very, very human, that I had the sudden, surprising urge to reach out, to touch his shoulder, to comfort him.
It was a moment of weakness, of yet another breach in the defenses I'd tried to erect against Ethan Sullivan.
And that, of all the goddamn times, was when the hunger rose.
I nearly lost my breath from the sudden race of fire through my limbs, and had to grip the back of the love seat to stay upright. My stomach clenched, pain radiating in waves through my abdomen. I went light-headed, and as I touched my tongue to the tip of an eyetooth, I could feel the sharp bite of fang.
I swallowed instinctively.
I needed blood. Now.
"Ethan." Luc said his name, and I heard rustling behind me.
A hand gripped my arm, and I snapped my head to look. Ethan stood next to me, green eyes wide. "First Hunger," he announced.
But the words meant nothing.
I looked down at his long fingers on my arm, and felt the warm rush of fire again. I curled my toes against it, reveled in the heat of it.
This meant something. The feeling, the need, the thirst. I looked up at Ethan, dragging my gaze past the triangle of skin that showed through the top, unfastened button of his shirt, then the column of his neck, the strong line of his jaw, and the sensuous curves of his lips.
I wanted blood, and I wanted it from him.
"Ethan," I whispered in a voice so husky I barely recognized it.
Ethan's lips parted, and I saw the flash of silver in his eyes. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by smoky green. I edged closer to his body, wet my lips, and then, without a single thought as to the consequences or what the act admitted, pressed them to his throat. He smelled so good - clean, soapy, everything male and masculine. He tasted so good - of power and man. The ends of his hair brushed my cheek as I kissed the long line of his neck.
"Ethan," I whispered again, his name an invitation.
A promise.
He went statue-still as I pressed a kiss to the skin just below his ear. I could hear blood singing in the veins that lay millimeters below the press of my teeth. Then he sighed, and the sound echoed through my head, an acknowledgment of shared passion, of mutual desire.
The others around us began to talk. I didn't want talk. I wanted action. Heat. Motion. I scraped my teeth against his neck - not breaking skin, just enough to hint at what I wanted. Of the direction I would take. His pulse raced, and I fought not to bite in too quickly, not to rush the pleasure of it.
But through the burn of arousal, something cold, unwanted pricked. I shook my head and pushed it back.
"Liege, you can't feed her the first time. She needs human or Novitiate blood. You've got too much power for a first feeding. She's strong enough as it is."
Ethan growled but didn't move. He stayed exactly where he was, beneath my lips, a silent submission. Pleased, I slid my hands around his waist.
"Get her off him, Lucas!"
I felt the cold touch again - a drop of chilled water against my heated skin. Irritating. Unwelcome. It was my conscience, I realized, begging me to wake up, to shoulder through the hunger. But superego warred with deep-seated instinct and latent attraction.
Id won.
I growled and flicked the tip of my tongue against his ear, ignoring my own warnings. "Ethan."
"Luc, you'll have to - I haven't - " He groaned earthily - and God, what a sound, thick enough to touch - as I trailed a line of kisses down his neck. "I haven't fed in two days.
Merit, you have to stop." Given that he was leaning into my body when he said it, his words lacked conviction.
A hand grasped my arm. Ever so slowly, I turned my head to find coral-painted nails digging into my biceps. The touch was enough to distract me, to make me realize, my lips still against Ethan's neck, that I was acting out the Canon. Despite his protests, I'd pushed on and was preparing to bite him. I was preparing to rip down his clothes and take him on the floor.
I was preparing, in every conceivable fashion, to service my lord.
That insight did it, pushed me through the hunger with an ice-cold hand, pushed me through the desire to the other side - back to the land of rational thought and good choices.
Gathering all the strength I had, I inhaled and pushed myself away from him and from her, needing space to regain control of my body. I hunched over, hands on my knees, gasping for breath. The hunger left me sweating even in my thin T-shirt and jeans, goose bumps prickling my arms as my body cooled again. I could still feel the hunger, a caged tiger prowling through my body, eager for sustenance, waiting to rise again. I knew any control I displayed was temporary. Illusory.
But in some deep, new core of me, I reveled in that knowledge. The tiger paced and was thrilled to be merely biding her time. She would have her chance.
She would drink.
Luc asked, "Blood?"
"Kitchen," Ethan hoarsely answered. "They delivered bagged. Amber, go with him. Give us a minute."
"Lot of control for seventy-two hours," Luc observed. "She reined it back in."
"If I wanted observations, I'd ask for them." His voice was firm, obviously troubled. "Go into the kitchen and ready the blood, please."
When we were alone, when I'd slowed my breathing, I stood straight again and dared to meet his eyes. I waited for a sarcastic response, but he merely looked back at me, his expression carefully blank.
"It's fine," he said, his tone clipped. "To be expected."