Once he had her top half stripped, he removed his own boots and his bloodstained T-shirt. Then he climbed in the bed beside her and went to work.

Healing an open wound was a delicate line for him to walk, with the taste of blood on his tongue and the silkiness of female flesh beneath his fingers. He’d die a thousand deaths before he finished the job. Resisting her would be a monumental task.

Melisande had been the only other person he’d healed. Doctors were available for this kind of thing. For centuries, he’d lived a quiet existence, blending into the shadows of the places he lived. If he healed every wound, he’d leave himself vulnerable, and others would come to realize the truth of his existence. If they learned of his true nature, they’d hunt him down and kill him. Fear of vampires lead many to destroy them without considering they were still people beneath the undead exterior.

Nic had contemplated that death on occasion, but he wasn’t ready to give up on life such as it was. He had Torsten to keep him company and the occasional woman to warm his bed. Melisande provided sustenance when available donors were limited. What more could he want?

The woman beside him lay as still as death, her peaches and cream skin cool to his touch. He skimmed his fingers over a breast and up to the base of her throat where her pulse beat the strongest. With a deep breath, he leaned into her his lips pulling back as his teeth extended.

How easy it would be to sink into her jugular and suck the life-giving blood from her body. To make her immortal to stand beside him for eternity.