14
CLAIRE
His eyes are closed, but even if he tried to force them open, he’d barely be able to see me — one of his eyes is caked shut with dried blood. About as useful as his hands, tied tightly above his head. His toes barely scrape the bottom of the bathtub where I’ve strung him up.
I shove at his ribs, and he swings, back and forth, back and forth.
This appears to wake him. One dilated pupil fixes on me in the wan light from the candle. It might be romantic in another circumstance — if he didn’t smell so much like s**t.
“Let me go,” he says. “I swear I won’t tell anyone.”
I almost laugh. What is it with humans, thinking they can talk their way out of any scenario? And trying to convince a vampire, no less. It’s like a cow trying to moo its way out of the slaughterhouse.
“Shut up,
