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I stared down at Verne. He was being very good. No trickle of power escaped him, and I was holding his hand, skin to skin. I’d felt how powerful he was; he could have made my skin crawl if he’d wanted to.

I squeezed his hand and moved to stand behind him. I tossed the Browning on the bed. I ran my hand along his neck, finding the big pulse with my fingertips.

I looked at Richard. You could almost see the “no” on his face—the near-warning not to do what I was thinking of. Which in a way made it all the more tempting.

Verne drew me down towards him, pulling my hand across his chest like I was hugging him. It brought my mouth down to his neck, as if he’d done this before.

He smelled warm, as if he’d been out in the sun. The scent of trees and the ground itself clung to his skin. I ran my nose just above his skin. I could smell the blood. It was as if the skin on his neck was growing thinner and thinner, until there was nothing between the smell of sweet blood but a pliable warmth, as if the skin itself almost didn’t exist.

My mouth hovered over that pulsing warmth. I was drowning in the smell of his body. The need to place my mouth over that pulsing, living thing was almost overwhelming. I didn’t trust myself to do it, or rather, didn’t trust myself not to do too much. Did Richard go through life tasting other people’s blood? Could he feel their life like something fragile and touchable?

Maybe I hesitated too long. Maybe Verne felt the power that was trying to overwhelm me. His power broke over my body in a shivering rush that made me gasp. And it was too much. Too tempting a drink to offer a starving man.

My teeth closed over that evaporating warmth. The meat of his neck filled my mouth. My tongue found his pulse, and I bit down, trying to carve that jumping, beating thing out of the flesh.

His power roared over me, and something inside of me poured back like two tidal waves crashing, churning, destroying. Far below, there was a land and a beach, and it was all washed away in the pounding, drowning depths.

I felt eyes open, and they weren’t my eyes. Jean-Claude opened his eyes all those miles away, surprised from a sleep that should have lasted hours yet. Shocked awake by his hunger, my hunger, our hunger, being fed.

Hands dragged me off of that pulsing warmth. Hands prying me away. I came to myself with Richard pulling me into the air, completely helpless. Verne still had my hand. He was holding on, trying to drag me back. His neck was bleeding. A near perfect imprint of my teeth sat in his flesh. His hand fell away as Richard pulled me off of him.

Verne’s eyes looked heavy-lidded. He drew in a large, shaking breath and laughed. The low chuckle made my body react. “God, Jesus, girl, what the hell was that?”

I didn’t fight to get back to him. I didn’t fight to finish it. I lay passive in Richard’s arms, blinking in a spill of morning light, staring at what I’d done to Verne’s neck and not understanding.

When I could talk, I asked, “What the hell was that?”

Richard cradled me in his arms like I was a child. Since I wasn’t sure I could stand, I wasn’t bitching about it. I felt distant and light and horrible.

He hugged me against him, kissing my forehead. “Us being together has strengthened the marks. Jean-Claude thought it might.”

I stared up at Richard. I was still having trouble focusing. “Are you saying that us having sex strengthened his hold on both of us?”

Richard seemed to think about that for a second or two. “It strengthened our hold on each other.”

“Put me down.”

He did what I asked. I slid to my knees, unable to stand, and pushed his hands away when he tried to help. “You knew and you didn’t tell me.”

“Would it have made a difference last night?” he asked.

I stared up at him, tears threatening, and I wanted to say yes, but I didn’t lie. “No,” I said, “no.” Last night it would have taken a hell of a lot more than the knowledge that the marks would strengthen to keep me out of Richard’s bed. Of course, last night I hadn’t understood what it meant. Last night I hadn’t just tried to eat my way