by Alice Bello
Chapter 18
IT WAS THE TASTE that woke her: sweet and rich and… to freaking die for. It gushed over Lucy’s tongue and down her throat in greedy draughts. Better than ice cream, better than chocolate, better than a caramel mocha latte made with whole milk—even better than the cake her grandmother had baked special for her birthday.
As if the scrumptious liquid was a magical cure-all for everything that had ever gone wrong in your life, or had ever laid a finger on you, Lucy felt the panacea rush through her veins, warm and pulsating with life, making every molecule in her body sing with joy, all her pain vanishing as her heart thrummed in her chest.
Strong arms held her, cradled her as she drank from—her lips were latched tight to flesh—someone’s wrist.
“That’s enough,” a man’s voice Lucy knew she should recognize said. “Any more and she might…” He didn’t finish. He pulled his wrist from her grasp, eliciting a whimper from Lucy’s lips. He gathered her up in his strong arms and moved them both effortlessly through the ruins of the room, through the gaping hole in the wall, and out into the cool night.
