Catherine shook her head. “It isn't like that.”
The witch opened his mouth to say something, but David smoothly cut him off. “You don't have to explain your decisions to me. Your life is your own.”
But if he's hurting you, I will rend him limb from limb.
“Thank you.” She edged closer. “May I…hug you?”
David wanted to say no. But he was tired of the witch looking at him like that, with that smug look of self-satisfaction, and he desperately wanted to hold her again. Because whatever remained of his living heart still had impressions of his love for Catherine.
“If you want,” he said wearily, spreading his arms.
And then she was pressed against him, with her arms wrapped around his chest. Her throat taunted him, mere inches away from his mouth, so he turned his head away, and ran his hands up and down her sides, stroking her back, drinking up everything he could take away from the embrace without actually drawing blood from her.
He didn't look at the witch; he didn't need to. He could sense Riordan's dislike just fine without confirming it, and he did not want Catherine to catch him at it, either. She was very proud and stubborn, and might accuse him of trying to make the witch jealous.
She might have slept with the witch—and gods knew why, since this one obviously had no respect for shape-shifters, one only needed to see it in the lack of warmth in his eyes, or his chilly reception of her—but it was him she was embracing.
Very lightly, he kissed her on the cheek. “I'm so glad you're still breathing.”
Something wet touched his face. It took him a moment to realize she was crying.
Catherine never cried. That was enough to make him suck in his breath—a habitual gesture left over from his not-so-distant life—and that was a mistake, because suddenly her scent was all around him, overpowering, tapping into his drives for hunger and sex. Two things he had never wanted confused were now cross-wired all the time.
He pushed her away, as gently as he could in his haste, and saw her stare at his fangs. He gave her a rueful smile. “I'm a fledgling. I still don't have much control.”
“Who is your Master?” the prince asked him, as if he already knew the answer. He had probably guessed. Fourth Rule breakers were rare; and few vampires were strong enough to sire new followers.
“My Master is Alec St. Clair.”
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