He met her eyes and had to silently agree with her. No, she was not safe from him. He could maybe stave off the hunger he felt for her blood by feeding more than he normally did, but how could he suppress the desire that was growing inside his belly? Could he really watch over her without giving into the temptation to touch her, kiss her, press his body against hers? Or would the fire that she had ignited with her kiss get out of control and demand he take her and strip her naked? And once she was naked and panting beneath him, would he find the strength to resist biting her? He doubted it.
How could he even have such thoughts, knowing what she’d been through? The last thing she probably wanted was a man lusting after her, let alone touching her.
Unable to rebut her statement, he looked away. He was glad that he was saved from answering when Blake reentered the room and pressed a bottle of blood into his hand.
“Thanks.”
Oliver didn’t waste a second unscrewing the top and putting the bottle to his lips. It was awful: lifeless, bland, and cold. But it wasn’t the temperature that bothered him: it was the fact that he couldn’t sink his fangs into human flesh as he drank. It was different and didn’t give him the same thrill he felt when hunting a human and feeding from him. It left him with a feeling of emptiness. But he swallowed the blood nevertheless. His body would be sated, and just like he’d told her, he wouldn’t lust after Ursula’s blood for many hours. It didn’t mean his mind would be sated—that part of him still hungered for the hunt, to feel the thrill of sinking his fangs into a living, breathing mortal.
From under his half closed eyelids, he noticed her watching him. She showed no disgust at his action. Maybe she had been desensitized by what she’d seen in captivity, or maybe she had learned to hide her feelings well.
When he set the empty bottle down, he addressed her again, “Maybe you want to rest. I’ll show you to the guest room.”
“The guest room is a mess,” Blake claimed. “It’s full with boxes of Rose’s clothes while the closet in the master is being redone.”
Oliver glanced back at Blake. “I forgot. My room then.”
“I’m not sleeping in your—”
He raised his hand to stop her. “I won’t be using it. Besides, it has an en-suite bathroom with a tub, in case you want to . . . ” He allowed his voice to trail off. Imagining her in his bathtub, surrounded by hot water and foam suddenly robbed him of his ability to speak.
“Does it have a lock?”
“The bathroom does, the door to my room doesn’t. But I promise you, nobody will walk in there while you’re in it.”
She hesitated for a short moment. “Fine.”
12
No lock on the bedroom door: at least it meant they couldn’t lock her in. And since the bathroom locked, she could even get a few minutes of privacy.
Ursula sighed with relief.
“I’ll show you to my room,” Oliver offered.
Blake instantly cut in, a pointed look directed at him. “We both will.”
She refrained from rolling her eyes at their show of excess testosterone.
Oliver’s room was on the third floor of the massive mansion. A large oak staircase led to the upper floors. Ursula made note of her surroundings. When Oliver opened the door to his room and stepped inside, she followed him. Blake entered behind her.
For an Edwardian, the room was large. And a little messy.
Oliver rushed to snatch a pair of boxer briefs from the floor and hid it behind his back. “Sorry,” he apologized softly. He motioned to one corner of the room. “That’s the bathroom. Fresh towels are in the closet, and if you want to change your shirt, there are plenty of T-shirts in there if you want to borrow one.”
She looked down at her top and noticed the blood stains on it. But did she really want to wear one of his T-shirts? Why was he trying to be so nice to her? To give her a false sense of security? She swore not to fall for it.
Nodding, she looked around. She slowly walked to the window and peered outside. There was no fire escape in front of the window. She turned slowly.
“It’s a nice room. Is it just the two of you living here?”
If they thought she was making polite conversation, they would be mistaken. All she wanted to know was whether somebody else could show up at the house later, messing up her plans.
Oliver smiled. “Our parents own the house, Quinn and Rose. But they’re on their honeymoon in England.”
England? Far enough away for them not to return suddenly. But something else in his answer didn’t make sense. “Honeymoon?” If they had two adult sons, why were they just now going on their honeymoon?