My blood sings. My ears roar. I’m melting.
“f**k,” he mouths. He runs his tongue over the knob at the top of my spine one last time, as if to soothe the sting of his bite, and suddenly I’m cold. Shivering. When I turn, he’s standing several feet away from me, eyes pitch-black.
The roar in my ears is getting louder—because it wasn’t in my ears at all. A car is driving across the tarmac, toward our plane.
Emery.
“I’m sorry.” Lowe sounds like a rake has run through his vocal box. His fingers twitch at his side, a reflex. Like my hand lingering on the damp spot at the base of my throat.
“I . . .” My hand shifts to massage my nape. I can still feel his touch. “That was . . .”
“I’m sorry,” he repeats.
My fangs ache, itch, want like never before. I trace them with my tongue to ensure they
