I nipped at her jaw again, dragging my tongue along the nick from my knife so I could taste the tang of her blood, and felt the scratches she’d left on my throat burn in response.

She turned her head toward mine to break the contact. “I don’t want this,” she said in a fragile voice.

But my vita was not weak. She was strong. She was passionate. She did want this. She wanted me. And she needed to remember that.

Something dark and acrid coated my tongue as another ugly thought forced its way through the chaos in my mind. Was she remembering my brother’s hands on her? Was...