The man next to me at the bar scanned the room, hunger marring his expression. I watched him with casual interest, unbothered as I tried to forget through my own drinks.
There was something odd about him. Sure, this bar seemed to collect the desperate–that’s why I was here–but there was something feral in the way he took in everyone here and how he hung on the edge of his seat. He inhaled slowly, almost as if tasting the air, and his eyes flashed with a deep need.
Yet . . . I also recognized the hint of sorrow, the resignation. Pain and loss lingered beneath his haunted eyes, emotions I knew too well.
“Was she pretty?” slipped from my lips.
His gaze met mine, and he shuddered as he inhaled. His eyes flashed with a deep need.
“There isn’t one.”
I shrugged. “Are you looking?”
He tensed. “I used to.”
I knocked back my drink. Either I’ve had too much or I really am desperate.
Hesitantly, the man leaned forward, his breath cold against my neck as he inhaled. My heart raced, and I wasn’t sure if I was frozen from fear or the thrill.
I should push him away, but my body betrayed me, and I leaned into him, his lips caressing the flesh at the base of my throat.
A deep groan rumbled from his chest as he pulled back. “If I’m going to resist you, I”ll need to feed on someone else tonight. Then, I’ll buy you a drink.”
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