Page 92 of Never Invite a Vampire to Dinner

“Why not?”

This time he looks at me.

“Because if I asked you,” he says, “you would never again be certain that you would have offered.”

The wind goes out of me. Of course. He would rather want something for five days in silence than let me spend one evening wondering whether the price of loving him was blood.

“Julian,” I say, “I wrote it down.”

He blinks. “You what?”

“This afternoon. On the back of a prep list. Nine words, and then seven different ones, and then I crossed them all out and did the walnut order.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “I have been working on this since Thursday. I asked if you were busy tonight for this. I came up your hill with an actual sentence prepared, and you put me in a boat before I could say it.”

Something shifts in his face.

“You had a sentence.”

“I had several. One was medical. One sounded like I was offering you a snack.”

“I would like to hear that one.”

“You will never hear that one as long as you live, and you are going to live a very long time.” I hold his gaze. “This is my idea. I thought of it. I want it. You didn’t ask, you didn’t hint, and if you had, I’d have known.”

“I do not hint.”

“You edit.”

“That’s a different verb.”

“See? This is why I wrote it down.”

He laughs. Not much, and not steadily, but enough that the tension in his shoulders eases.

“Say it again,” he says.

I take a breath. “I want you to feed from me.”

Julian closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them, there is less distance in his face than there was a moment ago, and the faint red glow has appeared in his eyes.

“Then we will do it properly,” he says. “There are terms.”

“Of course there are terms.” He gives me a look, and I wave my hand. “No, I’m delighted. Give me the terms. Is there paperwork? On cream card stock?”

“You are enjoying yourself.”

“I’m nervous and I’m enjoying myself. I’m very talented that way.”

He gives me another look, then holds up one finger. “First. I will take very little, less than you will think is worth the trouble. I’m not hungry, but this isn’t about that.”

“What is it, then?”

His gaze rests on me for a beat too long. “Second. If you say stop, I stop. Immediately. I have four hundred years of practice at stopping.”

“Okay.”

“Third. You may be dizzy afterwards. Briefly. I brought sugar for that, and you are going to eat the cookies and not argue.”

The realization hits me all at once. “You planned this.”