Outside, streetlights fought with the darkness. It wasn’t raining. It was foggy, a wet cotton-wool fog, and the Hefty bags of trash stacked on the sidewalk were just like they always were. The trucks came around twice a week, but the amount of trash never seemed to go down. It was filthy here, and cold. I wouldn’t have minded if I could get out and see some things—I’d’ve loved to go to the Met, or even just walked around downtown and seen stuff.

But August said no. And he was gone every night.

I sighed, resting my forehead on the cold glass. Every time he left I wasn’t sure he’d come back.

Story of my life.

I finally slid off the bed and plodded out into the living room. At least I could clean things up while he was gone. So that if—when—he came back, he’d see I wasn’t any trouble. I was pulling my own weight.

Besides, it was something to do until Dad came back.

If . . . when he came back.

It was early afternoon by the time I switched the computer off. I stretched, yawned, padded for the bed and dropped down. That woke Graves up, where my clicking at keys and sometimes swearing under my breath hadn’t.

“Huh?” He half-sat up, and I took the chance to rescue one of the pillows from under his head. “Whaaa?”

“Nothing. Go back to sleep.” I squiggled around, getting comfortable. “I just finished, that’s all.”

“Okay.” He settled back down again, and I lay there for a few seconds feeling him move around before I opened my eyes and found him almost nose-to-nose with me. His silver skull-and-crossbones earring glinted at me. His irises were oddly luminescent, and a shadow of stubble spread over his jaw.

Weird. He kind of was getting hairy, but it was just a five o’clock shadow. I had the sudden urge to touch his jawline, a feeling so intense my fingers itched. The skin underneath, on the curve where his throat made a hollow before his collarbone and shoulder, looked so fragile. His lips were slightly parted, and we looked at each other for a long few seconds before he moved back slightly. “Sorry,” he half-whispered. “I haven’t brushed my teeth.”

“It’s okay.” I stayed where I was. He was still inside the personal-space boundary, the one that even friends don’t cross. “Look . . .” But I ran out of words and courage at the same time.

How did I get to be such a wuss?

“What?” He didn’t look irritated, just curious. And was he blushing?

He was. High flags of color stood out on his cheeks. The blush spread down his neck, and he went still all at once, like a dog sensing something dangerous or interesting about to happen.

If I could draw him just like this, in charcoal maybe on good paper, catching the way the light slid over his high cheekbones and touched his mouth, I would tear the picture out and keep it in my bag. The one that I keep for emergencies.

I grabbed every last failing scrap of courage I had left and leaned forward. The last time I’d tried to do this, I’d ended up plastering a kiss on his cheek. But since then, he’d admitted to being interested. Sort of.

I was about to find out.

Our mouths met. He was absolutely still, and a flash of hot embarrassment went through me. Oh, crap. He didn’t mean it.

But then he moved, too. His arms came around me, and we sort of melted together. I’m no prude, really, I’ve had my share of kissing behind bleachers or awkward snatched moments of makeout in halls or band rooms, so I’m not completely hopeless. It was pretty quickly apparent Graves was a novice.

He learned quick, though. Some people just get kissing; others never will. He got it. There was none of the loose-mouth sloppy spit stuff some guys do, none of the mashing that happens when a guy thinks girls like to have their lips crushed against their teeth. Which, you know, jeez. Let a girl breathe, huh?

His arms tightened, and I was kind of worrying what to do about my arm, the one trapped under my pillow. But then he really got the hang of it and leaned even further in, his tongue doing some really interesting things I’d never even thought of, and I was feeling . . . was I? Yes.

I was feeling safe. Not the kind of safe where you know there are still bad things howling outside the door waiting to get in. No, it was the kind of safe where you sink down in your bed at the end of the day and know you can go to sleep and everything is going to be the same tomorrow.

He felt like home. Not like a scary roller-coaster ride, like Christophe.

Don’t think about that, Dru. I did my best to shove Christophe out of my head. The thought went quietly.

I got my arm around him and tightened up, but just at that moment he broke away. I ended up with my face in his throat, so close I could smell a healthy boy who needed his daily shower and was just about to get right on that. It was a nice smell, and I filled my lungs with it.

But right under it was another aroma, just as delicious. A copper tang, with a hint of wildness and moonlit nights. It was the fluid in his veins, and my teeth tingled a little. The smell of his blood tickled that place at the back of my throat. The place normal people don’t have.

The place where the red thirst lives.

No. Jesus Christ. I didn’t want to even think about what would happen if he found out I was growing fangs with my face so near his neck. Was that why he’d all of a sudden gone still again? Could he smell the bloodhunger on me?

Would Christophe smell it?

“Dru,” Graves whispered.

I found out I’d snaked my leg between his and curled us up together like kudzu tangling on a fence. There was definitely something happening below his belt, and confusion swamped me. Did he not like me? Could he help it? What was with him, anyway?

I stayed where I was, breathing deep and fast, hoping the tingle in my teeth and the dryness in my throat would go away. It was like that old dream of walking down the school halls and finding out you’re naked.

“Dru?” He sounded like he had something caught in his throat. “Look, I’m sorry. I just . . .”

I would wriggle away, I told myself. In just a second. A hot flush suffused me, like the cloudiness in water when you drop the macaroni in. My teeth went back to normal; I swallowed several times.

“I like you too much,” Graves said into my hair. He wasn’t letting go of me. As a matter of fact, his arms tensed, and I ended up with my face all the way in his throat. Thank God I had a hold of myself now. I could still smell the blood in him, but it wasn’t overpowering. “I mean, nobody else’s ever been even close to interested in me, all right? I, uh. I just mean I, if you’re, you know, not wanting to do this . . .”

The relief crashing through me made me hug him, hard. So hard he lost his breath, so hard my bruises and aches came back. It felt like we were back in Dad’s truck in the Dakotas, clinging to each other for dear life. Both of us shipwrecked and holding on to whatever we could.

He was the only thing that hadn’t whirled away when everything started spinning. He was the only thing nailed down, and I was not letting go. Not ever, not if I could help it.

“I like you,” I muttered against his pulse, moving my lips carefully so my teeth didn’t get any funny ideas. “I like you a lot, Graves.” You’re all I’ve got, now. When it gets right down to it. “I, you know, I just really like you.”

Then I could have kicked myself. Way to go, Dru. “I like you” is all you can say?

“Things are messed up.” His breath was a warm spot in my hair. “You know. I don’t want to, well, pressure you.”