The Last True Vampire(57)

His secondary fangs punched down in his gums and a growl built in his chest. “You lied. Gave me a false name the first night we met.”

“No kidding!” Claire spat. “Because I was hustling you. I lied to you, but I wasn’t lying to myself. Which is what you do every single day. You lie to yourself about who you really are and there’s no way I can trust you—at all—as long as you continue to do that.”

How could he explain to her the pain he felt? The guilt? The responsibility that wearing that name weighed him down with? It was a mantle he’d cast off for a reason, and she insisted on draping it over him again and again without thought.

“Ronan says—”

“I don’t give a fuck-all what Ronan says!” Michael railed, the words scorching a path up his throat. “He oversteps just as you do.” He stalked toward her but Claire stood her ground, her chin raised defiantly. “You don’t know the pain you cause me every single time you speak that name.” Pain, yes. But pleasure, too. A pleasure so intense it cut through him like a well-honed blade and burned him with a heat that rivaled the Sortiari’s cleansing fire. He didn’t want her to call him Mikhail because it only made him want her more. Crave her with an intensity that he didn’t understand and couldn’t stop. Unless they could find proof that Claire was indeed a Vessel, she could never be anything more to him than a blood source. And that fact made him want to shout his ire at the gods and cut a bloody swath that left nothing but destruction in his path. Anything to dull the heartache and inexplicable sense of loss he felt each and every time she spoke his name.

“No, I suppose I don’t know the pain I cause you.” Claire fixed him with a caustic glare as her jaw took a stubborn set. “Because you haven’t told me anything about you! I’ve been a prisoner in this house for almost a week with no explanation besides that it’s for my own protection. I’ve stayed. Even after you rejected me. And it’s not even because I didn’t have a choice, but because every instinct in my body is screaming at me to trust you. How can I, though, when you keep so much from me? Trust isn’t a one-way street, Mikhail. If you want my trust, you have to give me yours. So until you decide to pull your heavy-handed, stubborn head out of your ass, don’t talk to me. And since you don’t seem to respond to anything other than anger, I’m giving you an ultimatum. You’ve got exactly twenty-four hours to give me a good reason why I should stay here with you. If you can’t, then I’m out of here. For good.”#p#分页标题#e#

“Rejected you?” Gods, it took a sheer act of will to keep himself from her. “What are you talking about?”

“That night!” Her jaw clenched tight and she let out a strained breath. “You want my trust? I let you bite me, Mikhail! Practically handed myself over to you on a silver platter like some fancy dinner special! And what did you do? You pulled away, acted as though I’d done something wrong. I trusted you, Mikhail. And you didn’t trust me back.” She laughed without emotion. “Hell, you didn’t even want me.”

She turned and headed toward the foyer. Michael felt her slipping away like water through a sieve. “Claire, do not leave this house.” He stalked after her, his fists balled at his sides. He couldn’t explain his irrational fear any more than he could control it. He had no reason to believe that the Sortiari—or anyone besides Ronan, for that matter—knew where she was, and his property was well protected. But his gut clenched at the thought of her stepping out the door and into the night.

“Go to hell, Mikhail,” she spat as she jerked open the front door. “You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore.”

The door slammed behind her with a finality that Michael felt in his very bone marrow. If she left now, he’d have no chance of finding her. Not a drop of her blood remained in his body. Ronan had warned him, but he’d chosen not to heed the male’s warnings. In treating Claire as though she were nothing more than a possession—a fancy dinner special—Michael had pushed her away. He was a foolish, stubborn ass and if he didn’t open up to her, let her in, he’d lose her and any hope of rebuilding his race. Forever.

He had little experience with tender emotions such as patience, understanding, or even love. Centuries of soullessness and apathy had done him well in battle, and though he’d cared for Ilya, their relationship had little to do with tender emotions and more with raw lust. The pain he’d felt when he lost her reflected the destruction of his race more than her specifically. And over the past century, his rarely beating heart had hardened to stone. Michael Aristov had no need of emotions.