“You said he wasn’t your boyfriend,” he teased.
“Things change. But really, Brian, I should be down here alone. He won’t hurt me, but he doesn’t know you. And you’re a guy.”
“I am? When did that happen?”
“Ha ha. I’m serious. He’s a guy, you’re a guy . . . it could be problem. He won’t be in his right mind, not at first. And I’m the only one of us he knows. It has to be me.”
“I could stay,” Kerry said as the elevator doors opened. “I’m not a guy.”
“Thanks,” she said, and hoped the other woman heard the deeper meaning in the words. “But, no. It’s better if there aren’t any strangers here. I’m going to go in there and close the door.”
“How’re you going to open it by yourself?”
Layla smiled. “I won’t be by myself when the door opens,” she reminded Kerry.
She chuckled. “Oh, right. Duh.”
“Okay, see you all on the flip side. Casales out.”
She stood and stretched, then walked over to the vault, where Xavier and Chuy slept in motionless silence beneath the tents which they’d had to be moved in. It was undoubtedly the most primitive daylight protection that either one of them had ever been forced into. She didn’t know the name of Xavier’s Sire, but she knew he’d been a Catalan aristocrat. And Xavier was Chuy’s Sire, so as a vampire, he’d lived the same way Xavier did.
Closing the door on her well-meaning friends, she climbed onto the bed and unzipped Xavier’s tent, the heavy metal teeth scraping her fingertips due to her awkward position. She sat in the opening, close enough to see him, to know that he still breathed, that his heart still beat. That he was alive. Because contrary to popular superstition, vampires were not dead. They’d never been dead. To the edge of death, yes. But not dead. As a matter of fact, from a vampire point of view, they were the new and advanced version of humanity. Their blood carried something that they were unwilling to talk about, that gave them enhanced strength and senses, power—for some of them—that could only be explained as magic, and virtual immortality. And Layla didn’t see anything wrong with that, not as long as they consented to the change.
The chime went off on her watch, set as she’d advised Riv, for 2045. 8:45 p.m. Local sunset was at 9:10.
Twisting, she checked to make sure the door was shut. She felt almost guilty, she realized, because she was going to let Xavier sink fang and drink her blood. And she knew, although hopefully the others didn’t completely understand, what would follow. “Fuck that,” she decided, and crawling forward, did her best to reposition him so that he’d be a bit more comfortable. Although Xavier was so damn big, and it wasn’t like moving a sleeping person. His arms and legs didn’t want to stay where she put them, and moving his entire body was beyond her strength. She wondered idly if vampire bodies had a greater density than a regular human’s. “Makes you think,” she muttered, and finally gave up trying. The tent was designed for one person, but this wouldn’t be the first time she’d shared one with a lover. So she lay down next to him, and maneuvered until they were face to face.
And then, suddenly, his eyes opened. And the next thing she knew, a big male body was crushing her into a too-soft mattress.
Chapter Fifteen
XAVIER WOKE, AWARE and awake in an instant. And didn’t know where the fuck he was or who . . . No, he realized. He knew who was next to him. Layla. And he was starving.
He rolled, or tried to, but they were in some kind of tube. Reaching up, he tore away the flimsy fabric above him, switched their positions until he was half on top of her, with one muscled leg thrown over her lower body, trapping her as he lowered his head to sniff at the delicious scent of hot blood that flowed beneath every inch of her bare skin. Her eyes were wide with shock, but relaxed in a heartbeat, her hands cupping the back of his head, her body arching beneath him.
He licked her cheek, her neck, then burrowed his nose into the warm crevice beneath her jaw, while her soft moan fluttered over his cheek. Fangs slid from his gums without conscious thought, his body following instinct until he found what he needed. He was drained from a battle, from a struggle to survive, his power lower than it had been in years. Her blood was what he needed, what he craved. He whispered her name. “Layla.”
He heard a soft inhalation that he might have called a sob from another woman, and then her voice. “How’d you know it was me?”
Bracing his arms on either side of her body, he looked down at her, making no attempt to conceal his fangs. This was who he was. “I would know your scent anywhere,” he growled, his voice roughened by a hunger he was straining to control. “I would know the scent of your blood in a dark room filled with people, in a stadium of thousands,” he told her, the gleam of his eyes highlighting the smooth curves of her face. “I know your mind, your soul. My body recognizes all of you.”
“Is that good?” she asked, searching his face for answers.
He dipped his head and kissed her, forcing himself to go slowly, to gentle her mouth into sweet acceptance. “It is if you want it to be.”
Her arms tightened around his neck, pulling him down and holding him closely. “I was so afraid,” she whispered.
He lifted his head enough to give her a puzzled look, surprised that she’d admit to that, to caring that much about him. “Why?” he asked, waiting to see if she’d back away from the vulnerability of the truth.
She studied his expression for a long moment, as he waited for her gaze to shutter, to glance away. His heart tightened painfully when that didn’t happen, when she said, “I thought we were too late. That you were already dead.”
“If I’d died, cariño, you would have known.” His lips curved into a crooked, deprecating smile. “All of Spain, and beyond, would have known,” he admitted. “But only your heart would have known.”
He claimed her mouth again, letting his hunger, his need, flavor the kiss as he lowered his body to hers, letting her feel his weight, his intent in the hard muscles of his arms and chest, the rigid length of his cock against her thigh. Without warning, he dipped his mouth to her neck again, his fangs grazing her soft skin, skimming over the thudding pulse of her carotid artery and coming to rest against the swollen vein beneath her ear.
Scraping his fingers through her hair, he pulled her head back to bare the smooth length of her neck. “I can hear the rush of your blood,” he whispered, licking the curve of her ear. “I want you.”