The Last True Vampire(54)

It was dangerous to hope at this point. Michael couldn’t allow himself any optimistic sentiment. Claire had a strong will, of that he had no doubt. Her mind was sharp; her wit, quick. That did not, however, make her a magical human creature able to survive the transition. Nor did it guarantee she could withstand the burden of the Collective. It didn’t solidify her status as his mate.

“You’re lucky I’m starving.” Michael entered the kitchen to find Claire rummaging through the refrigerator, stacking piles of food on the counter. “Otherwise, I’d have been out the door five minutes ago.”

She reached for the hanging pot rack, her fingers barely skimming the edge of a frying pan. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she rose on her tiptoes, still too short to reach. “Allow me.” Michael closed the space between them and reached up, plucking the pan from its hook. Her shoulder brushed his torso and a tremor ran the length of his body that settled low in his gut and tightened his balls. The last remnants of her blood were cycling through his system, and it wouldn’t be long before his body returned to dormancy. Which only caused him to hunger for her that much more.

She snatched the pan from his grasp, her eyes hooded as she took a tentative step away. “Thanks. I’d say it’s the least you could do, considering.”

The venom in her tone burned through him. All of them were right, though. Ronan, Alex, Claire. He’d done a foolish thing in keeping her complacent against her will. It was not the sort of behavior that would foster any trust—or affection—between them. “Sit.” She gave him an astonished look that said, You’re seriously going to order me around? Michael sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d denied himself the company of others for far too long. A century in a tomb and another century’s worth of solitude had done nothing to strengthen his social graces. “Please, Claire.” He held out a hand to indicate the tall bar stool. “Sit. I’ll cook for you.”#p#分页标题#e#

She raised a dubious brow. “No games?”

A rush of excitement chased through him as his palm found the small of her back. Michael gently urged her toward the high stool and she reluctantly let him. “No pretense. I give you my word.”

“All right.” Claire hopped up on the stool, her expression that of a wary animal ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.

In taking her, keeping her, Michael had failed her. How could he expect her to be what he needed her to be—his strength, power, and purpose—when he treated her as though she were nothing but a vase meant to rest on a shelf until he found need of it? She would never be willing to help raise them all up if he did nothing more than drag her down. Claire was as vital to the race as Michael was. Her destruction would be his. Whether she realized it or not, they were already one. Inexorably connected. And yet he knew so little about her.

“Why did you get off the bus that night?” It seemed the best place to start a conversation with her. Michael turned his attention toward the pile of food Claire had taken from the refrigerator and he sorted through it, gathering the ingredients he’d need to make the chicken piccata Alex had planned for dinner before taking his sabbatical.

“You mean three days ago, when you and Ronan found me?”

Michael cringed at the accusation in her tone. “Yes. Where were you going, and alone in such a dangerous part of the city?”

“This might surprise you, Mikhail, but in the twenty-first century a woman can be out whenever and wherever she wants. Without an escort.”

Gods, the way she said his name. He wanted to be that male again. Mikhail Aristov. Vampire. Warrior. Obliterator of his enemies. Michael Aristov was a harmless venture capitalist. A persona created to hide who and what he truly was. Michael was weak in comparison. And the Sortiari would prey on that weakness.

Her voice was as smooth and rich as cream when she said, “I was looking for you.”

Michael focused his attention on the task at hand, dredging the chicken cutlets in flour before putting them in the heated pan. But his heart soared. To hear her give words to what he’d already felt that night—the connection and need that sparked between them—was more than he could have hoped for.

“I don’t know how the priest found me,” she added. “I wasn’t even close to the diner.”

“It’s likely the Sortiari have been tracking you.” Michael didn’t want to frighten her, but it was important that she realized the scope of the Sortiari’s power. “They’ve probably known about you for as long as I have.” Or longer. A fact that burned in his gut like a hot cinder. “Diner?” Keeping the conversation light was key to putting her at ease.