The fangs didn’t just break the skin. They sank perfectly into the exact grooves of the scar he had left three days ago, locking into her flesh with the brutal, undisputed finality of a steel trap.
Jane didn’t scream. Her brain immediately attempted to box the sensation, categorizing the tearing of her tissue and the slide of his saliva as a simple biological transaction. She kept her hands clamped around his wrists, her thumbs sliding upward to find the torn, pulsing flesh of his neck.
The blood was hot. It coated her palms, sticky and thick.
"You’ve lost roughly four pints," Jane said. Her voice was terrifyingly flat, echoing off the freezing concrete. She pressed her fingers hard into his carotid artery to staunch the bleeding. "Your blood pressure is bottoming out. If you try to kno
