Bloodsinger

I wake to moonlight falling in checkered patterns across my face. Glade is still sleeping by my side, his face peaceful. When I see his dark beauty, my chest relaxes and I can breathe again. He's still here. Thank God.

I snuggle closer to him, wrap my arms around his waist. His skin is cool and firm. It smells like must and desert sand, only cold. I love his scent.

My eyes begin to drift closed as our bloodsong echoes in my ears, the singing metal soft. Before I can drift back into a peaceful slumber, I remember what day it is and snap back into wakefulness. A ghost of anger stirs in my chest, but I push it down and bury my face into the muscled curve of Glade's neck, my lips less than a centimeter away from his skin. My breath blows his scent back to me and I relax again.

There's no reason for me to be angry or jumpy. No reason at all. It's just another day. There's nothing special about it. Nope, nothing at all. Just don't think about it and he won't-

“Won't what?” Glade asks, his voice a low, sexy growl. His foreign burr prickles along my skin and makes my pulse race. Our song grows more frenzied when his fangs flick from their sheathes.

Don't think about it, I tell myself sternly. I stare at Glade's shoulder in an effort to distract myself, but my eyes quickly begin to wander and trace the familiar planes of his sculpted chest. I raise my hand and trace the dark line of hair on his navel, my fingers dipping below the waistband of his boxers. Usually he doesn't wear anything to bed, but we were both so exhausted last morning that we fell into bed without getting the rest of our clothes off.

He lets me tickle my fingers along his stomach for a moment, his eyes dark and hungry, fangs pricking his sumptuous lips.

Glade moves fast, fast enough to blur his movements, and flips me onto my back. Before I know it, he's straddling me, his fingers working their way down my jeans. And for the record, I don't wear underwear. Ever.

I squirm underneath him as he unbuttons my jeans and slides the fly down slowly. He leans over me and breathes against my neck and I shiver without meaning to. The shivers increase to fine tremors as his long fingers tickle sensitive places. My breathing speeds and hitches when his fangs slide over my skin, saliva trickling over my shoulder.

Oh God. He's never done this before. This could be bad.

It's fun to tease you, he mind-whispers as he eases the jeans off my legs. I enjoy watching you squirm.

I arch my body beneath his and wrap my arms around his neck, pull him down gently but forcefully. I lick across his lower lip and taste the cold salt of dried sweat. His skin is cool under my hands.

“Kiss me,” I murmur against his mouth. His fangs sting my lips.

“Make love to me,” I murmur, my kisses trailing down his neck. Distantly, I can feel the blazing spots of heat they leave on his skin, like miniature suns, so pleasurable it's almost painful.

“Bite me,” I order. “Bleed me for my life.”

“I love you, little lion,” he whispers in my ear. He scratches his fangs down my neck and chest, leaving raised red lines. He nips at my stomach gently, licks the skin languorously as small drops of blood well to the surface. He laps at the blood until the bite heals over and then trails his fangs lower on my body.

I draw in a shuddering breath.

BAM!

My body bucks and writhes under Glade's still frame; my vision is edged in white and gold. I'm vaguely aware of his fangs piercing the inside of my thigh again and I register the goofy smile on my face before another wave of exquisitely blissful orgasm washes over me. The blood is sweet as it runs down his throat. I can taste his satisfaction on my tongue, feel him inside my body.

I score lines down his back and thighs, but they heal as soon as I mark him. The bite in my thigh still bleeds freely, but the precious liquid is ignored as our bodies dance together. I can feel another orgasm around the corner.

Floating. Free falling. Living in a world of bliss and safety, golden edged love. Everything is perfect. And then, suddenly - “Glade!”

A terrible shriek sounds in my head, sends a headache throbbing behind my eyes. I clap my hands over my ears and curl into a ball to try and blot the sound out. Car tires squeal. Red flashes across my vision as blood fills my nose and mouth. Hot tears streak down my cheeks.

“GLADE!” the woman screams again. In the background I hear a man shouting in rage.

And then, just as suddenly as it came, the noise is gone, and I'm left with a throbbing hole in my heart, blood trickling from my nostrils, and a migraine the size of Texas.

Glade is standing by the bed, a hand over his cold, unbeating heart, pink tinged tears falling down his cheeks. The fire that I see dancing in his eyes looks like shadow of rage. His fangs are straining forward as his bloodlust rises.

“Glade,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. He comes and sits beside me and rubs my back soothingly as he looks into my eyes.

“All of the blood vessels in your eyes have burst,” he says. “Does it hurt?”

I shake my head no. “Glade, did you hear it?”

“Hear what?”

“The woman who was screaming for you.”

He shakes his head. “You started to bleed and screamed yourself hoarse,” he said. “What happened?”

I stare at him, shocked, my heart thudding along painfully in my chest, my breathing ragged and shallow.

“Glade,” I whisper, as something dawns on me. I sit up suddenly and grab hold of his shoulders. “Glade, I think...” I lick my lips. “I think Dhruven is dead.”