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“I fucking love your scent.”
“My smell. Do I smell like . . . ?” “Mine.” It’s a rumble in his throat. “You smell like you’re mine, Misery.”
“You think, but you don’t know. You don’t know anything about what it’s like to find your other half,” he continues, voice low and sharp. “I would take anything she chose to give me—the tiniest fraction or her entire world. I would take her for a single night knowing that I’ll lose her by morning, and I would hold on to her and never let go. I would take her healthy, or sick, or tired, or angry, or strong, and it would be my fucking privilege. I would take her problems, her gifts, her moods, her passions, her jokes, her body—I would take every last thing, if she chose to give it to me.”
She told him Vampyres do not dream. And yet, once her midday rest is over and the evening approaches, her sleep becomes fitful, agitated. His touch seems to comfort her, and the thought fills him with pride and purpose.
“Of all the good things I’ve felt in my fucking life, you are the best.”
He feels like the entire world is in the palm of his hand. She seems happy, too. And mystified by her own happiness, as though the feeling is something new and foreign. It has him wondering whether he could make this work. She’s not Were, and her lack of familiarity could be a blessing. She wouldn’t need to know the full truth, which in turn would ensure her freedom.
There is very little he wouldn’t do, very few people he wouldn’t kill, just to ensure her well-being.
He shakes his head, eyes burning into mine. “You’re not a problem, Misery. You’re a privilege.”
“Mate. My mate,” he
“Misery. I want to live inside you.”
