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As the door eased shut, his knees wobbled, and he looked at the pool of blood in the center of the shower.

Over in the corner of the locker room, there was a hose that was used for the daily cleaning of the facilities. John forced his feet to go across to where the thing was mounted on the wall. Uncoiling it, he turned the water on, pulled the head over into the shower, then twisted the nozzle open. He swept the spray back and forth, back and forth, moving inch by inch, chasing the blood away toward the drain, where it was swallowed with a gurgle.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

The tile went from red to pink to white. But it didn’t clean up the mess. Not in the fucking slightest.

Chapter Thirteen

Phury felt hands on his skin, small, light- fingered hands, and they were traveling down his belly. They were headed for the juncture of his thighs, and thank God for that. His arousal was swollen and hot and hungry God for that. His arousal was swollen and hot and hungry for release, and the closer the hands got to it, the more his hips pushed up and retreated back, his ass clenching and releasing as it gave in to the thrusting he was dying to do.

His cock wept—he could feel the wetness on his stomach. Or maybe he’d already come once?

Oh, those hands, just tickling across his skin. That special feathery touch made his arousal strain even harder, as if it could reach out and get in the way if it tried hard enough.

Small hands, heading for his—

Phury woke up on a body jerk that sent his pillow popping off the bed.

“Shit.”

Underneath the roll of blankets, his cock throbbed, and not with the usual ambient need that was a male’s evening wake-up call. No . . . this was specific. His body wanted something very specific from one particular female.

Cormia.

She’s right next door, he pointed out to himself.

And what a prize you are, the wizard shot back. Why don’t you go to her, mate. I’m sure she’ll be just thrilled to see you after the way you let her leave last night. Not a word to her. Not even an acknowledgment of her gratitude to you.

Not able to argue with that, Phury looked to the chaise.

It was the first time he had ever fed a female.

As he felt for her bite mark on his neck, he noted that it was gone, healed away.

One of life’s great milestones had been met . . . and it saddened him. Not that he regretted it was with her. Not at all. But he wished he had told her that she was his first at the time.

Pushing his hair out of his eyes, he looked at the clock. Midnight. Midnight? Man, he’d been asleep for about eight hours, clearly because of the feeding. He didn’t feel refreshed, though. His stomach was rolling and his head was pounding.

As he reached for the wake-up blunt he’d prepared before he’d crashed, he stopped short. His hand was shaking so badly, he doubted he could pick the thing up, and he stared at his palm, willing it to still, making no impression whatsoever.

It took him three tries to get the hand-rolled off the bedside table, and he watched his fumbles from a distance, as if it were someone else’s hand, someone else’s blunt. Once the twist of leaves and paper was between his lips, he struggled to get his lighter in position and work the flint wheel.

Two tokes in and the shaking stopped. The headache evaporated. His stomach calmed.

Unfortunately, another rattling went off across the room and all three came back: The Primale medallion went into its dance routine on the bureau again.

He left the thing where it was and worked his way through the blunt, thinking about Cormia. He doubted she would have told him she needed to feed. What had happened during the daylight hours in this room had been a spur-of-the -moment combustion generated by her bloodlust, and he couldn’t take it as evidence that she wanted him sexually. She hadn’t turned away from the sex last night, true, but that was very different from her wanting him, wasn’t it. Need was not the same as choice. She’d needed his blood. He’d needed her body.

The Chosen needed both of them to get with