Gifts of the Blood by Vicki Keire Read Free Book Online Page A

breakfast. I waited another minute, just to see if the explosion was going to be delayed, but he just stood there, watching me serenely with those blue-green eyes of his.
    “Ok, then,” I continued doubtfully. “So, earlier today, instead of drawing my art assignment, I drew you.”
    Still no explosion, only expectant waiting.
    “In a storm of darkness and these huge planes of light and some really creepy symbols like bloody talons and a broken knife and a smashed heart.” I thought back, trying to remember. “Oh, and you were angry. Thermo-nuclear angry. You looked ready to fight. Or maybe defend. Or both.”
    That got a reaction, but not the one I was expecting. I blinked, and suddenly he was in my face. I mean, one second he was over by my door, and the next, he was right in front of me. I didn’t see him move. His warm hands gripped me around the waist, their heat and texture against my bare skin enough to chase away any thoughts not of him and us and now . My injured side, scraped against concrete when I struggled against him, flared with pulsing heat where my raw skin met his. His touch was surface-soft but I could sense the bruising strength underneath, like granite wrapped in velvet. I was breakable, and in that instant we both knew it. His hold on me was so precise and careful the rest of him seemed a mere extension of the contact between us. Taut with the effort of holding me without hurting, his eyes locked on mine as the universe narrowed to his voice alone.
    “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Soft and layered like whispered echoes through mist, his words wrapped around me like a warm cocoon. “I wasn’t supposed to get involved.” His entire face twisted in confusion, and I saw, again, a being cast half in shadow, half in light. “When I touched you… it was without thought, or preparation. I hurt you through my carelessness. There will be… repercussions.” I saw the desperation of an unreleased apology in his eyes; it lurked there like an unfamiliar and unwelcome weight. He studied me, warmth pulsing from his hands at my sides. Then he let me go. The warmth, the welcome quiet in my mind- all of it vanished when he released his careful hold. A single soft brush of fingertips up my exposed side ended with my bandaged hand cradled between his cupped palms.
    Everyday reality came crashing back in: Logan speaking in a low voice in the other room over medium-loud music, traffic on the street, Abigail twining herself through my legs and Ethan’s, purring and butting her head against us. I stumbled backwards at the change in atmosphere. My head spun more from the abrupt lack of contact with him rather than the sudden swarm of a normal evening at home. My sides still felt warm where his hands held me; the rest of me was cold. I stumbled, felt myself falling0, heard Abigail meowing in dismay. I twisted, trying not to land on my bandaged arm or my brother’s cat.
    Fingers like fired clay slid over my forearm while a heavy warm palm settled, briefly, against the small of my back, steadying me. By the time I finished blinking, I found myself several feet away on the edge of my bed. Ethan sat next to me, leaving half a foot between us. He stared steadily at me in the soft glow of my tiny beaded lamp, still the only light in the room besides moonlight. The dizzying speed with which I’d been moved hit me suddenly and I doubled over, my good arm wrapped tightly across my churning stomach. Abigail jumped up between us, nudging Ethan impatiently and purring. I groaned.
    “I’m sorry,” he apologized again. “I didn’t want you to fall. You’re wobbly, for a human.” Abigail purred her agreement as he rubbed under her chin. I spared her a sharp glare. Traitor.
    “You’re inhumanly fast,” I snapped back without thinking. My head spun; Abigail purred louder and louder, twining herself around Ethan as if he had catnip stashed somewhere on his person. Two phrases replayed themselves in my head as my