She was thrashing in the bed and he was holding her down by the shoulders, “It’s okay,” he said gently, “It was just a dream.”
She struggled to open her eyes. Then, he was poking a needle into her arm.
“What?” Kyla wanted to struggle but she was immobile under him.
“Shh,” he hushed, pulled the needle out, and put it on a tray on the adjacent bedside table beside a selection of syringes. He stroked her hair away from her face, “You’re okay. It was just a dream.” He put pressure to the injection site and then leaned over and touched his lips to it.
“But it wasn’t,” she sobbed, “Is it?” She shrugged him away.
He let go of her, “No. It’s not.”
“You’re real. This nightmare is real.”
He said nothing, his expression gave her no clues about what he was thinking.
“What was in that needle?”
“That needle? I took a bit of blood.”
“I had some left?”
“There’s a good sign…you must be okay, listen to that sarcasm. Happy to see you’re still a firecracker.” He fiddled with several syringes on the tray.
“No thanks to you,” she muttered.
He sighed. There was silence for a moment. She closed her eyes so she didn’t have to look at his eyes, which made her very uncomfortable, like he could see through her, like he knew her secrets; it was unnerving.
She must’ve slid back into blissful unconsciousness because she thought she blinked but suddenly it was as if time had warped and her eyes opened and he was under the blankets with her, holding her and kissing her face and whispering sweetly to her about being sorry and about how she was going to be okay.
“It was the first time I wanted something, really wanted it, in so long. I just didn’t know how to take no for an answer and I lost it. I’m so sorry.” He was whispering into her hair.
He feathered soft kisses all over her face, her ears, her bare shoulders, her breasts, her belly. She struggled to open her eyes but felt so groggy. He ran his warm hands up and down her arms and across her back.
“It’s okay, sweet girl, your fever will break soon,” she heard him say as she slipped back under, feeling like she shouldn’t feel so comfortable against his warmth, feeling like she should run, run fast and far away from him. Or pierce his heart with a garlic-laced stake. Like right now. But she just slid back into a dreamless sleep against his warm body.
When she woke up he was sitting on the chair beside the bed, doing something on his smartphone. His hair flopped over his forehead and he looked very focused on what he was doing, a muscle twitching in his jaw. She eyed him with contempt. What was this guy’s game? Almost killing her, snuggling her, now watching over her in bed, keeping vigil? She could feel her mouth contorting into a snarl.
“There’s food here for you,” he spoke before he briefly glanced up, as if he’d felt her eyes on him and then looked back at his phone and kept thumbing away at his screen.
“I don’t want food. I wanna go. I really need to go. I’m supposed to be at work. They’re going to wonder where I am. I---” She sat up.
“You can’t leave.”
“So you are gonna kill me,” she said.
He shook his head, “Lay back down; you’re too weak. I’m not gonna kill ya.”
She touched the giant bandage on her throat. She wasn’t naked any longer. She was in a man’s black dress shirt but that was all. She examined her hands. No more blood on them. Where did it go? Blood before, blood in her dreams, where was it now?
“I don’t believe you,” she muttered, examining her hands by turning them over and over, “I don’t think you can stop yourself.”
“I can stop myself,” he said softly.
“If you aren’t going to kill me, why can’t I go? You can’t keep me here indefinitely.”
“Watch me.” He arched a brow at her in challenge and then shook it off, as if changing his mind about arguing, then got up and brought a tray over from the coffee table. He placed it on the night table. She spied a dish of fruit salad and a sandwich covered in plastic wrap as well as a large glass of amber liquid on the tray. Kyla couldn’t imagine swallowing food.
“Eat,” he urged.
“I can’t eat,” she spat, “There’s a big gaping fucking hole in my throat.”
“There’s not. You’re okay.” His voice and expression were soft.
“Why can’t you just let me go? You got what you wanted. Fucking and blood, more than once.”
“Wasn’t enough,” he said.
“What? I don’t understand. Please Tristan, let me go. I won’t say anything.”
His eyes widened for a fraction of a second and then he swallowed hard, folded his arms across his chest and said nothing but motioned with his chin toward the food tray.