Jonathan sat up, tensed, watching me to make sure he didn’t have to fight me off. He didn’t have to; which, in retrospect, was probably a good thing for him. He didn’t look very strong in that moment. He looked pale, his veins pressing out dark and prominent against his glossy skin. My teeth had scraped against his skin when he had ripped me away, so there was a gash in his arm where I would have expected two neat puncture wounds, leaking a small stream of scarlet blood down to his wrist—wasting it. His breathing was coming in heavy, his chest heaving with every inhale and exhale, his heart still pounding, even now—pounding with exhilaration—I was sure of it. When he became convinced that I wasn’t going to attack him, his head fell back against the bedframe, his eyes fluttering shut and hi
