Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
“You should keep this on you while you’re in town,” he says, voice low, rough.
“It just stabbed me!” I hold up my finger to prove my point. A drop of blood glistens at the tip, dark as garnet in the weak light.
Declan’s hand shoots out. Strong fingers wrap around my wrist, dragging me closer. My protest dies in my throat as he lowers his head. I stare wide-eyed as he parts his lips and sucks my finger into his mouth. Warmth. Pressure. His tongue slides over the tip, soothing the sting. Sparks of heat fire from my toes to my scalp, a full-body awareness that part of me is in his mouth. This grumpy mountain of a man has been nothing but hardness and scowls, but his mouth is warm and gentle.
I can’t breathe. Who needs air, anyway? The heat of him burns through the cold fog, through my stubborn insistence that I don’t need anyone. My pulse pounds against his grip, announcing my desire. Our eyes meet and the dark intensity in his stare sends a jolt of need through me. I drop my gaze to his throat where his tattoos seem to ripple against his skin.
He releases my finger with a pop. The sting in my finger has faded. He flicks his tongue across his bottom lip, like he’s savoring the small taste of my blood.
Maybe he’s a vampire?
No. That’s insane. He would’ve chomped on my finger or something.
Another ripple along his throat draws me away from thoughts of vampires. Are his tattoos moving? Reaching for me?
That can’t be.
This place, or this man, is making me crazy.
He flexes his jaw and drops my wrist, clenching his fists at his sides like he’s holding back a truth bigger than both of us.
“You need to be more careful,” he rasps. “Don’t give the Hollow your blood.”
“Give the Hollow…what are you talking about?” This time my question isn’t dismissive of the Hollow lore. I’m too desperate for any information he’s willing to share. Anything that makes sense. I shake my hand in front of his face. “Why did you do that? How do you know my blood won’t give you…hemorrhagic fever or something?”
“It won’t.” He scrubs a hand over his jaw, rough stubble scratching against his palm. “Come upstairs with me.”
“What? No way! I’m not going somewhere private with you.” Too bad my girly parts had a whole different answer in mind.
He snorts, like being alone with me is the last thing he wants. “I could’ve done a thousand depraved things to you by now.” He holds out his hands, gesturing to the emptiness around us.
A shiver slides down my spine. Depraved? Like what?
What the…did he hex my body when he sucked on my finger? My brain seems stuck on the idea of seeing what he looks like naked.
Stop it!
I bet he’s hard lines and carved muscle all over…and big…everywhere.
I blow out a breath and try to gain control over myself. He’s right. We haven’t run into another person. Not even a stray dog trotting by. Whether I want to admit it or not, he protected me from something in the cemetery.
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he warns, jerking his head toward the brick buildings. He waits until I take a step forward, then turns and heads for one of the doors.
My pulse skips in confusion, indignation, and something hotter I refuse to acknowledge, as I follow him. He unlocks the door, holding it open.
I should run back to the inn, barricade myself in my room, and eat my feelings away in the form of the pound of maple walnut fudge I bought earlier.
Instead, my feet betray me. I march past him, head held high, deliberately not touching him as I pass to show him he has no effect on me whatsoever.
A narrow flight of stairs lays ahead of me. Since he said “upstairs” I keep right on walking without waiting for direction or an invitation. The heavy weight of Declan’s body shadows each step. At the top of the landing, I turn, colliding with his hard chest. Is the man made out of granite?
He slowly glances down, staring at my hands, braced against his abs. His lips twist with annoyance or smugness; it’s hard to tell with him.
“That way.” He lifts his hand and points in the opposite direction.
There’s only one door at the end of a long, narrow hallway. It’s painted black—of course it is—with an antique iron doorknocker dead center in the shape of a—is that a crow?
“You like crows too?” I ask, too pleased by the crow to remember that I’m annoyed with him ordering me around.
“Yes. Crows symbolize a dual nature.” He glances at the crow and strokes his fingers over the head. “Some cultures see them as omens of death. Others see them as a symbol of good fortune.”