Page 91 of Blood Lovers

It works. I’m deflecting, but it works. Because it stops him, and his serious declaration, and the flashing red lights that are going off in both our heads, which we are choosing to ignore. He closes his eyes for a quick blink. This is his version of me sweeping my hand through the air to clear things away. Then he continues. “And then… we’re gonna go home tomorrow.”

I deflate.

“What?”

“I just…” I don’t even know what I’m feeling right now, so there is no chance I actually have words to describe it to him. So instead, I lie. I play it off. “I know all that, Ryet. I’m just teasing you. And you’re teasing me. And—”

He places his hand on mine and he’s so hot, I almost pull away from the shock of it. “I know we’re joking, but I need you to know that I won’t hurt you.”

Oh. He couldn’t be more wrong. “And I won’t hurt you either.” And I am such a liar too.

His smile is one of relief and he lets out a breath. “OK. But we’re still eloping, right?”

I chuckle. I like him so much. “The escape is still very much on. And for the record, I’m not the kind of girl who needs dinner before sex.”

He puts the truck in gear, shaking his head at my silliness, then pulls back onto the highway. “Noted.”

An hour and a half later—just as the sky is turning the color of tropical fruit—Ryet turns onto a long blacktop driveway.

“Hey. How come there’s no snow on the ground?”

“The road is heated.”

“Wow. That is fancy.”

“Oh, you have no idea. Just wait.”

I lean forward in my seat, eager to get a glimpse of where we’ll be staying tonight. I already know it’s a spa. He admitted that much. But we are literally in the middle of nowhere. Like no cars. And once we turned off that highway where the gas station was, it was some scary shit. There were even the remnants of an avalanche, which Ryet just drove around like it was no big deal. And the twisty roads—not to mention the long drop over the cliffs on my side of the truck—were enough to make me grip my seat and hold my breath more than a few times.

When I told him, “I’m not cut out for mountain driving,” he just laughed at me.

“Trust me. When you live in places like this long enough, you don’t even have nightmares about sliding over the side of an icy cliff anymore.”

I slapped him playfully, then spent the next five minutes wondering how long, exactly, he’s been up in these mountains. How old Ryet really is. And what kind of life he had before the vampire, Paul, stole it from him just because he was beautiful—and Paul could.

“Well, here we are.”

I snap out of my introspection just in time to read the sign we’re passing. The North Star Spa and Hot Springs. And then we’re approaching the lodge. It’s all lit up with lanterns. Like, real lanterns with fire in them and everything. And there’s snow on the road here, but only in strategic places. Like piled up along the walkways and the circular driveway. Like some designer planned that and left certain spots of ground unheated for dramatic effect.

The lodge—well, now. This is a proper lodge. Everything you think of when you tell someone you’re going on a luxury mountain retreat. The logs that make up the portico are massive, maybe three feet in diameter. And there are more fires burning in large pots that line the wide alcove leading to a set of nearly equally massive doors.

There are windows in the doors, teasing me with a small peek of what’s waiting inside. Ryet stops the truck, leaves it running and drops his keys in the closest drink holder, then looks me in the eyes. “Ready?”

“Shouldn’t we wait for the valet?”

He doesn’t answer. Just smiles and gets out of the truck. The wind is still blowing, but not as bad as it was out on that pass where the gas station was. But the temperature is a whole new level of low when he opens the door.

I’m instantly freezing. But when Ryet takes my hand to help me out, all his considerable heat passes right into me.

We walk hand in hand to the doors and they open, the valets—two of them—greeting us as they hold the doors, then go outside to take care of the truck.

We don’t stop at the desk. But I watch the faces of the two women as we pass through the warm, cozy lobby where about a dozen people are sitting in large, overstuffed leather couches or lingering in front of a piano where a man in a tuxedo is playing slow, somber music. The room is dominated by the fireplace mantel—a log as massive as the ones outside holding up the portico—and the chimney made of river stones that start at the hearth and climb all the way up to the top of the cathedral ceiling.

“Don’t we have to check in?”

“Nah. I know where I’m going.”

Maybe I’m not all that worldly. I mean, I was pretty protected all growing up by a magical guild. But I’m not stupid. We don’t have to wait for the valet. Don’t have to check in. He knows where he’s going.