Page 117 of Veil of Blood and Bone

I shift my weight when Helene clicks on a paranormal romance book site.

Fuck, really?

Trying not to roll my eyes does nothing. They circle on their own, getting stuck in their sockets.

Her scent tickles my nose. When I inhale, a burst of rosemary and subtle sweetness slides across my tongue—floral and bright and more potent than I expect.

She smells delicious. It’s the one thing those bullshit books have right. My gums ache, and my mouth waters, my tongue pressing against the sharpened tips of my canines.

Another continuity.

Her blood, gods, her blood is like the fucking holy grail.

Nothing else tastes as addictive, divine, intoxicating, as her.

I move closer but she’s too focused on the computer, typing away, doing her research. She’s got tabs open on Fae, too. And raven shifters although good luck finding too much about them in today’s literature. They aren’t as popular as wolves now.

Probably smell a little better though.

“Anne Rice got a lot wrong,” I finally say.

Helene jolts out of bed, the laptop flying off her lap.

“Stephanie Meyer, too. Bram Stoker was a fan boy.” I step back and we lock eyes. “But JR Ward has some nuggets of truth in her work. That’s mostly about the warrior lines, and their dedication to their mate.”

I’m scaring her. Helene’s gone white, her heart racing.

I follow my words with a wink to soften the blow. I’ve never been good at those kinds of things.

My own heart aches with an incomprehensible need. Being around her starts it beating again, as though she has the power to crush it in her hands. She does.

I swallow over the unconscious urges, pushing aside the imagery of her blood rushing down into my stomach. We can’t afford to fuck up now.

Not when the gods are working against us.

My bloodlust is nearly as mighty as the AllFather.

Helene’s throat works. “You’re a closet paranormal romance fan. Got it. A collector?”

I shrug. “I have to keep up with the latest. It’s a personal goal to own every paranormal romance known to man.”

Her lopsided grin tugs at the lowest core of me, her eyes lifting to meet mine. “What do you think about the glittering skin, really?”

I hold out my own hand to examine my flesh in the mechanical glow of the laptop screen.

The books all get it wrong about your wounds healing when you’re turned. Or maybe it’s because my maker is different. But the scars and callouses I had as a man came with me to the other side of mortality.

I turn my hand over and hold it out to her. “No sparkles here. Care to inspect?”

Watch yourself.

The warning is for me alone.

She’s backed up against the wall with her spine pressed flat and her legs crossed. Another loud gulp echoes between us before she gets herself under control. By the time our eyes lock again, color returns to her face, and damn it.

She’s adorable when she blushes.

She tenses on her bed, and I monitor her carefully, afraid to spill my secrets too soon, to give her more to fear than she already does.