“What are you talking about?”
He glanced up at her. “It’s exquisitely strong.”
“Is it now?” she tossed back. “Does it smell like kung pao chicken?”
He laughed—a deep, rich sound that played about Sara’s skin like a lover’s kiss.
“Listen,” she said with a frustrated sigh, walking over to the window. He was so near she could scent the warm blood spice of his skin. How, she wasn’t exactly sure, but her mouth ached, watered . . . “I’m not going to be that girl.”
“What girl is that?” he interrupted casually, following her every movement with his dark cherry gaze.
“Going after some other woman’s man. Acting like a jealous asshole. That’s not my style.”
Again, his mouth twitched with humor. “What is your style, Sara?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know; for starters, maybe going after someone who’s unattached ...”
He nodded. “Very wise.”
“. . . someone with a good soul, a good heart.”
“Well,” he said, reaching for her hand, drawing her to him. “That won’t do, as I believe I have neither.”
A flush of heat moved up Sara’s neck, sent her pulse racing as he pulled her closer, crushing her against his hard chest. His touch was electric; every time, a shock of sweet electricity went straight to her nerve endings and all she wanted to do was yank off her robe and feel his hands on her skin. But she attempted to remain sane. “My point is,” she uttered, gazing up at him, at his striking, fearsome face, “the whole true-mate thing—it seems inborn and unbreakable, and deeply a part of your culture. And, well”—she lifted one yielding brow—“she’s lovely.”
Alexander cupped her chin and forced her eyes to his. “Listen to me, Sara, for this is truth. Bronwyn is not for me.”
Between her legs, a muscle long forgotten began to tremble, to clench. “She thinks she—”
“No.” His eyes were like two garnets, blazing with heat.
She shook her head. “It’s really none of my business.”
“Sara.” He brushed his thumb over her lower lip and she felt his cock stir hard and thick against her belly. “Please”—his voice was low and pained—“before I press you back against this window and take the meal that I desire . . . sit now. Eat.”
His words, a delicious threat, made Sara’s heart pound, and for a moment she didn’t move. She was starving, yes, but not for the food on the table. She wanted to remain where she was, protected and safe, the hard muscled planes of his chest pressed against her breasts and the strange and delicious, spicy blood scent of him filling her nostrils.
And she wanted him to take from her, whatever it was that would satiate his hunger . . .
“Come,” he uttered, husky and slow as he broke their connection and led her over to the table, releasing her into a chair. He took the one opposite and began opening containers of food and piling her plate three inches thick as though she were a lumberjack who hadn’t eaten in days.
Sara watched him, waiting for his eyes to meet hers and give her some clue as to how he was feeling. Was it the same as she was? Nervous and vulnerable, yet desperate to know how his naked skin would feel against hers.
But though his jaw pulsed and clenched, he remained focused on the task of getting her fed. He poured some wine, then grabbed a pair of chopsticks and ripped off the paper with a little too much force. His thick knuckles were white as his hands gripped the wooden chopsticks just as they’d gripped her waist only moments before, and with one crack, a lone chopstick jumped from his grasp and went flying across the room, hitting the wall with a dull click.
“Fucking human utensils ...” Alexander muttered before pitching the other wooden stick after it.
Sara bit her lip, trying to hold back laughter. “Uh, Alexander?”
He cursed again, his eyes narrowed on the wall. “What?”
“If you don’t mind, I think I’ll just use a fork.”
His gaze lifted then and she saw the beginnings of mirth in his eyes. She couldn’t help herself, she laughed, and in moments the ire in his expression died and he joined her, chuckling low and easy.
Fork in hand, Sara dug into the mound of food. After the first bite, she nodded enthusiastically. “This is good, very good. Spicy.”
“You like heat on your tongue, do you?”
“It can be intense sometimes,” she returned playfully, “but yes, I do. What about you? Like your blood spicy?”
His gaze moved over her face, then dropped to her neck. “I think I would enjoy it very much.”
Sara’s body responded instantly, heat and pressure building between her thighs. She crossed her legs, but that only made the sensation worse. She wondered what the night would bring if she could barely contain her desire through dinner. She forced a bit of chicken down her dry throat, then said, “Bronwyn said that your kind doesn’t crave human blood.”
Alexander sat back in his chair, crossed his arms over his splendid chest. “Our kind craves every kind of blood.”
Sara frowned. “Then why would she say ...”
“In the credenti, the Eternal Breed is expected to resist what is not pure.”
“And human blood is—”
“Unclean, impure, powerless.”
“Wow. I suddenly feel the need to shower.”
Alexander laughed, an enchanting rumble of thunder that moved seductively down her neck and back. She shivered.
“What about you?” she asked, watching his expression carefully. “Do you think human blood is . . . dirty?”
“No, but then again, I like all things dirty.”
She laughed softly. “Have you ever had human blood?”
“I left the credenti a hundred years ago. To survive, I took food wherever and whenever I could get it.”
“What about now?”
“I believe I am more discriminating now.”
“So does that mean you haven’t drunk blood from a human lately?”
He arched one dark eyebrow. “What’s lately?”
She rolled her eyes, said impatiently, “Alexander.”
Grinning, he nodded toward her plate. “So that kung pao’s pretty good, eh?”
She cocked her head, playing along. “Best I’ve ever had. Sure you don’t want a bite?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“What surface I get to eat it off of.”
Cheeky bastard. She eyed him. “Would you take blood from me? If I offered it?”
His eyes darkened, the brands on his cheeks too. “No.”
Her heart seized with his vehement tone. “Why not?”
He shook his head. “It’s not a good idea.”
“Because of my unclean blood?”
“No. Hell, no. I don’t believe in any of that horse-shit.”
“Then why? Are you afraid it would turn me?”
He gave no answer, but his gaze dropped to her neck.
Her meal completely forgotten, Sara pressed him for answers she wasn’t sure she desperately needed to have. “Would you be afraid to turn me into what you are?”
He shook his head. “Not possible.”
“But you said Tom was—”
He cut her off. “That’s different. He’s not a vampire. A human can never become a vampire. Vampires are born, not made. However, if a human drinks the blood of a vampire they can change into an Imiti.”
“What’s that?” Sara asked.
“Something that resembles a vampire—something that has lost all of its humanity—something corrupt. Not something to be loved.”
A slow, unsettling reality came over Sara in that moment. The desire, the need, the pull—it was all there between them, unstoppable and undeniable. And yet it meant nothing more than an acknowledged understanding. Desire, yes. Love and a future together, no. She put down her fork. “So this . . . you and me ...”
His gaze held hers. “Impossible.”
Her appetite died right there and her body went cold and numb. The impossibility of her and him was barely a shock and yet she felt bereft at hearing him concede to it. Angry as well. She’d let herself think there might be a way, a place for them to exist, to know each other better between two worlds. She pushed away from the table, stood and went over to the door.