Professor Blood (Ironwrought Book 2)

by Anna Wineheart

  The other agent reached for a tranq gun. Quinn’s gaze locked onto him. The man brought the gun up, fired three shots at Quinn’s chest.

  He breathed another second. Quinn lunged, knocking the gun away, claws swiping through the man’s neck. Blood sprayed. Quinn lifted the man by his throat, flung him across the cargo hold with a heavy thump.

  Then he strode to the door, blood dripping off his claws, power rippling off his skin.

  Brandon stared. The vampire was beautiful like that. Lethal. Calm. Brandon was a hunter, and he could appreciate a predator whose eyes flicked coolly over him, scanning him for threat. Even if he hated vampires. Because this wasn’t any other vampire; this was Quinn. He wanted Quinn, wanted the professor and the vampire and the man Quinn was.

  Quinn swiped the darts off his chest, stepping over to the doorway of the truck, his feet two inches from Brandon’s hands.

  Their eyes locked. In that moment, Brandon knew what he had to do, even if it was a risk.

  He backed away from the truck, slowly drawing out his knife. Quinn’s gaze fell on him, empty and razor-sharp.

  “I’m not attacking you,” Brandon said. Just as slowly, he raised his elbow, pressed the tip of the knife to his skin. Silver pierced his flesh. Pain hissed through his arm.

  Then he pulled the blade out, blood trickling from his elbow down his forearm. Quinn’s nostrils flared.

  For a moment, Brandon thought Quinn might not come over at all. He’d been fed Oriel’s blood—there was none left here; the rest was in a car headed to gods-knows-where. Oriel’s blood was the addictive one.

  But Quinn stepped off the truck, landing lightly on the asphalt. Then he prowled closer, his eyes fixed on Brandon, his chest heaving with each sniff.

  Are you going to drink my blood, or kill me? Brandon held his arm out despite the risk, swallowing. The vampire groaned, fangs glinting in the streetlights.

  Quinn was twenty feet away. Ten feet. Brandon stepped back until the trees shaded out the van’s glow. Then he took another ten steps, and the vampire swooped.

  Fear shot through his nerves. He’ll kill me.

  In two seconds, Quinn was in front of him, one clawed hand on his chest. Then he shoved, and Brandon slammed back against a tree, rough bark grinding into his back. Quinn’s claws pricked his chest, drawing blood. With his other hand, Quinn took Brandon’s forearm, raising it.

  Then he pressed his cool, soft lips over Brandon’s wound, and drank.

  Sparks of pleasure slid down Brandon’s arm, hummed through his body. It lit something in him, like a flickering fire or a siren’s melody, and Brandon shuddered, his breath punching from his lungs.

  It felt damn good, and he didn’t know why they hadn’t done this earlier.

  Instead of killing him, Quinn sucked lightly on the wound, his throat working, his eyes half-lidded, a low purr rumbling from his throat. Brandon breathed out his instinctive panic. He didn’t need his knife. He was going to be okay. This wasn’t the vampire that had killed his parents.

  This was Quinn, and Brandon trusted this man.

  Despite all that had happened—their arguments, Brandon’s parents, Brandon’s resentment against vampires, he’d come to realize that Quinn meant more to him than that.

  Quinn was a kind man, patient with his students. He regretted drinking from his sister, tried to drink animal blood instead. He’d spent twenty years on his research, filed off the ends of his fucking teeth, and Brandon loved him, even if Quinn hated every fiber of his own self.

  Telling the feds about Quinn had been a mistake. Pushing Quinn away had been a mistake. Brandon saw this clearly now, and he regretted endangering Quinn, regretted hurting Quinn at all.

  Slowly, he sheathed his knife. Then he reached around Quinn, tugging off the cloth band that the agents had strapped to his midriff. It thudded on the ground, harmless. Quinn gasped, his breath cool on Brandon’s skin.

  But he didn’t stay at Brandon’s elbow. He licked up Brandon’s arm, the enamel of his fangs sliding smooth over Brandon’s skin, across his shoulder, to his clavicles. Brandon’s heart thumped. But Quinn didn’t linger at his neck, either.

  He sniffed at Brandon’s throat, along his jaw, up to his mouth. Then his fangs caught Brandon’s lower lip, tearing little gashes into his skin. Blood welled up in the cuts. Quinn sucked Brandon’s lip into his damp, soft mouth, his eyelids fluttering shut.

  Brandon froze, his pulse thudding. There was no way Quinn remembered this, not while he was still caught up in the haze.

  But Quinn didn’t seem to recognize him. He drew his tongue across Brandon’s lip, his expression blank, and it occurred to Brandon that it could’ve been his blood that had stopped Quinn both times.

  Except if it were merely his blood, Quinn wouldn’t be drinking it from his lip. The cut at his elbow should’ve been enough.

  It meant that Quinn remembered some of this. That Quinn wanted Brandon’s blood more than Oriel’s, somehow, and it was enough to draw him out of the haze.

  Quinn tugged on Brandon’s lip, his throat working.

  Brandon slipped his arm around Quinn’s back, gingerly at first. When Quinn didn’t move away, Brandon pulled him closer. He remembered Quinn’s smile, Quinn’s pet rocks. Quinn’s twisted sense of humor, and the way he had clung to Brandon, in need of comfort.

  Gods, Brandon couldn’t give that up.

  “I love you,” he murmured. The second it left his lips, he knew it would never change.

  He’d never thought this would happen, him and Quinn. And when Quinn recovered—if he did—Brandon hoped he’d forgive him for the information leaks. For pushing him away. If Quinn ever forgave him at all.

  He swallowed, stroking Quinn’s neck. Whatever happened between them now, he’d let Quinn decide on their future.

  Gods knew he wanted his own to be entwined with Quinn’s.

  14

  Quinn

  20 minutes ago

  Quinn snapped awake to glaring light, two men in white suits on either side of him. His body ached for blood. Fresh, glorious blood that tasted like liquor, and he had no idea how, or why.

  Faint traces of that blood lingered in this cramped space. The rest of it was... somewhere. He didn’t know where. He needed more.

  Silver flashed; one of the men had pulled a knife out. Danger, his instincts screamed.

  Quinn’s claws pushed out; his arm moved before he knew it, tearing the man’s throat open. The human’s heartbeat stuttered, and blood gushed out onto the floor, coppery, smelling like fish. The other human scrambled, pointing a gun. Pinpricks of pain pierced Quinn’s chest. Danger.

  He reached forward, tore that throat open. Then he flung the body across the cramped space, its pulse slowing.

  Where was the blood? Quinn moved, strength humming through his limbs. He swiped the darts off his chest.

  And there, at the doorway, someone else stood. No knife, no gun. Not a threat. From his heartbeat, he was human.

  The man locked eyes with him, backing away to a shadowy tree some distance away. His heart beat in a staccato: thudthudthud.

  A knife flashed. Quinn tensed. And the man dug his knife into his own arm, pulled it out so blood gushed across his skin.

  The scent of it exploded through the air between them. It smelled like salt and caramel, like heat and safety. Quinn paused, distracted. This blood smelled familiar, like something he’d wanted for a long time.

  He followed the scent, prowling closer when the man stepped away. He needed to taste his blood, needed it slicking his tongue, filling his stomach.

  Unlike the other blood, the one that tasted like liquor, this new blood made his mouth water, made his teeth ache. And the man waited for him, bleeding arm held out, precious blood dripping down his sturdy forearm, to his fingertips.

  Quinn leaped forward. He pinned the human against a tree, grabbed his arm, closed his lips around that bleeding wound.

  Warm blood coated his tongue, rich like salt flakes tucked in
to burnt sugar, heavy with iron. It flooded his mouth, its scent filling his nostrils. He swallowed eagerly, his tongue working over the cut, his lips locked against sweaty skin. The blood pooled in his stomach, and he needed more.

  But this wasn’t right. This blood tasted better coming from elsewhere. Quinn licked over the cut, sniffing along the human’s arm, trying to remember where he liked it better. He dragged his lips across the man’s shoulder, to his throat. The man’s heart thudded. But that wasn’t the right spot, either.

  He nosed further up, to the human’s jaw. Then the soft lower lip, and his instincts hissed Yes. He dragged his fangs down soft skin, drawing blood. And Quinn sucked that velvety lip into his mouth, lapping at the salty droplets, moaning when the human pulled him closer, up against the solid wall of his chest. This felt right.

  Quinn fell against him, drinking from his lip, his body humming with energy.

  Somewhere at the back of his mind, a voice whispered, Stop.

  Quinn shook his head, frowning. He didn’t want to stop.

  Stop, the voice said again. I’m not gonna be okay if you keep at it.

  He didn’t understand. Who wasn’t going to be okay?

  Quinn. Remember your sister.

  And in the depths of his memory, something stirred, like pages fluttering in a breeze. He remembered a name. Genevieve. He remembered a dead woman in his arms, drained of blood, and... and...

  Horror and disgust shot through him, searing his mind like lightning. Quinn tore his mouth away from the wound, gasping, his limbs tight. Genevieve was dead. He’d killed her, and piled earth on her face. He wanted to throw up, suddenly.

  Quinn gasped, shaking with terror. Who else had he killed?

  “Shh, it’s okay,” a voice murmured, low and calm. “I’m fine.”

  He met hazel eyes. Sharp nose. Dark hair. Brandon. Quinn followed the lines of his body, until he found the smear of blood on the inside of Brandon’s elbow. He’d been drinking Brandon’s blood. He’d been about to drain Brandon dry, and hell, Brandon would hate him now, if he didn’t already want to kill Quinn. Quinn froze, needing to flee.

  “C’mon, we need to get out of here,” Brandon murmured. He slid his fingers down Quinn’s back, catching his hand.

  “What?” Quinn stumbled when Brandon tried to lead him away. Someone shouted in the distance.

  Brandon ripped off the hem of his shirt, wadding it up against his elbow. “I’ll talk later. Can you walk?” He tugged on Quinn’s arm, and Quinn tried a few steps, finding his balance. “Good. C’mon.”

  He followed Brandon through the parking lot, trying to dredge through his memories. There was... the haze. Confusion. “What happened?”

  Brandon gritted his teeth, pulling him through the campus until they were at the edge of the physics wing, tall hedges hiding them from the road. Then he turned, one hand on his elbow, pressing his wound shut.

  Guilt whispered through Quinn’s stomach. How could he have fed from Brandon, when Brandon had told him to leave? It was still night—had the confrontation in the alley been just hours ago? What had happened between then and now?

  “We’ll stay here for a bit,” Brandon said. “But we’ll have to leave soon.”

  Quinn glanced around, but he heard only the occasional purr of a car, and the steady thumping of Brandon’s heart. “Brandon, what...?”

  “You remember my name.” Brandon’s shoulders sagged a little. His lips quirked up in a tiny smile, but his eyes were shadowed.

  Quinn gulped. Brandon was hiding something. “Yes, I remember your name. Why...?”

  “The agents drugged you with Oriel’s blood.” Brandon nodded in the direction of the labs. “Do you remember?”

  Something in his memory stirred. Quinn remembered the blood, remembered Someone tipped us off. His name is Brandon. His chest squeezed. Brandon hated him enough to tell the feds.

  “Why are you even here?” Quinn choked, suddenly afraid of meeting Brandon’s eyes. He’d almost killed Brandon, hadn’t he? He’d been drinking Brandon’s blood and he’d forgotten himself, and... “I-I understand if you’d rather turn me in. I don’t deserve to be alive. I—”

  “You deserve to be alive,” Brandon hissed, his expression falling. “Look, I’m sorry I told on you, okay? I wish I’d never done that.”

  Quinn stared at him, trying to process his words.

  Brandon breathed in deeply. “I have a contact on my phone. It’s been giving me info on vampire sightings. I told them about you.” Then he winced. “I told them about Seb and Oriel too.”

  Quinn’s stomach dropped. Oriel was supposed to be a secret, too. “You hate me enough to do all that?”

  “No—no, I don’t hate you. Look, I’m sorry.” Brandon stared at him, his eyes beseeching. “I regret all of that. I wish I hadn’t told the feds about you. I messed up big time. I’m really sorry.”

  Quinn’s thoughts churned. Brandon was a hunter. “Why would you even be sorry?”

  “Because I care about you, damn it! I don’t want to see you in trouble. Shit. I fucked up.” Brandon shoved his hand through his hair, sighing. “And the feds tried to use you to track down Oriel.”

  Quinn froze. There had been the haze. “I don’t... don’t remember how that happened.”

  “They fed you his blood. I think 5 ML.”

  “And... I’m still here?”

  “Yeah. One of the agents took off with a case. I think Oriel’s blood. He was gonna take your phone too, but I swapped it with mine. Figured you wanted to keep your contacts secret. You killed the other two agents.”

  Quinn looked down at his hands, finding smears of drying blood in his nails. He’d killed two people. He remembered it vaguely, horror rising up his throat.

  But Brandon had rescued his phone somehow, despite being a hunter, and Quinn’s vampire friends were safe. Seb and Oriel were still safe. Relief swept through his veins; he wanted to lean into Brandon, but dared not. “I didn’t mean to kill the agents. I mean, you hate when vampires kill people—”

  “It’s fine,” Brandon said. “They were going to experiment on you.”

  “But I killed them!” Just like he’d killed his sister, and he’d almost killed Brandon.

  “I don’t care about some damn agents.”

  “They’re human.”

  “You’re human,” Brandon hissed, his eyes flashing. “I care about you. You’re alive. That’s the most important.”

  Quinn struggled to understand. They were enemies. Brandon had sworn to kill vampires, and he’d told Quinn to leave. “I’m a vampire.”

  Brandon sighed, frustration in his eyes. “You care about other people more than you do yourself. You like to teach. You won’t even drink human blood. Honestly, you’re more human than some humans I’ve seen.”

  “But I—”

  “I love you, okay?”

  Before Quinn could process that, Brandon slipped his hand over Quinn’s nape, pulling him close. Then he kissed Quinn hard, his lips sliding over Quinn’s, his arms circling around Quinn’s body.

  Oh.

  And this was easy enough to understand, Brandon’s lips on his, Brandon’s arms around him, that same promise of heat and safety he’d offered weeks ago.

  Quinn relaxed a little, kissing him back, listening to the thrum of Brandon’s heart. Brandon... loved him. Really? But this seemed real, and Brandon wouldn’t be kissing him unless he meant it, or unless this was some cruel joke.

  Quinn gulped, pulling away. Brandon frowned, his lips gleaming damply. “You... mean it,” Quinn whispered, his chest squeezing tight. “You love me?”

  Brandon glanced down between them, at their bodies pressed close together. “Isn’t this obvious enough?”

  “It could be a joke,” Quinn said, suddenly afraid. “You’ve tried to kill me. I’m a vampire, Brandon. I can’t possibly be right for you.”

  “I don’t care that you’re a vampire,” Brandon murmured, pressing their foreheads together. “I can’t lose you. Go
ds, you were lying in that truck, Quinn. They were feeding you blood. I thought you’d died when they sent me that text. I can’t—I’m not losing you, okay?”

  His voice cracked, and Quinn’s throat tightened. He’d never seen Brandon this vulnerable before, never heard Brandon almost break down. Brandon’s arm still bled lightly, and Quinn’s stomach clenched. Just the possibility of Brandon in his arms, pale and lifeless, was enough to make Quinn tense. If he hadn’t stopped drinking, if he hadn’t listened to that voice... Quinn trembled, scared.

  “I could’ve killed you,” Quinn whispered. “I... I didn’t know I was drinking from you, Brandon. I could’ve drained you dry, and—and I can’t lose you, either.”

  Brandon’s eyes widened. He had allowed Quinn to feed from him, had taken Quinn’s phone back from the feds. He’d held Quinn through his fears, despite Quinn being a vampire, despite his own parents’ deaths. He was so brave, and Quinn... had nothing to give him in exchange.

  “I don’t deserve you,” Quinn whispered, his heart heavy. “You should be with someone else, someone better. Someone who... isn’t cursed like me.”

  “You aren’t a curse,” Brandon murmured, threading his fingers through Quinn’s hair. “I’d willingly give you my blood, okay?”

  Quinn drew a shuddering breath. “You don’t hate me?”

  “I don’t hate you,” Brandon whispered, cradling Quinn’s head, pressing their cheeks together. “I can’t. Remember that.”

  It was... new, Brandon not hating him. A relief. Brandon knew the atrocious things Quinn had done, knew that Quinn was a vampire. Yet he held Quinn close, his arms strong and comforting. Quinn had always thought Brandon would hate him, just like he hated himself. In the heat of Brandon’s embrace, Quinn realized that Brandon meant all this—his love, his protection, his acceptance.

  Gratitude soaked through his chest, followed by relief, and joy.

  “I love you,” Quinn choked, curling his fingers into Brandon’s shirt. Relief flashed through Brandon’s eyes. “I never thought—You’re a hunter. You shouldn’t be this accepting.”