You think I haven’t thought about what it might be like to return to my rooms at the end of the night and find you there—to find you in my bed, to have your body and your laugh and your mind? To look across a room and know that you were mine—that I’d claimed you. Me.” He drummed a finger against his chest. “Me. Ethan Sullivan. Not the head of Cadogan House, not the four-hundred-year-old vampire, not the child of Balthasar or the Novitiate of Peter Cadogan. Me. Just me. Just you and me.”
