The Vampire Always Bites Twice | Wattys 2022 Grand Prize Winner

48

Isla, In the Afterglow

"Isla. Isla."

Greg's sweet voice trembled as he shook me awake. Rude. I had, post round two of our delirious sexcapades, only just drifted off into the coziest couch sleep of my life. My body was exhausted and satiated and the absolute best kind of sore, but damn, girl, now I was the one who I needed a nap.

I groaned and heaved my eyes open one at time.

He knelt beside the couch. Eyes wide. My blood smeared most of his face. Lips to cheeks to brows to disheveled hair and the tip of his nose. Streaks of it decorated his neck. He curled a hand around mine and released the littlest of sighs when I squeezed him back.

"You dozed off," he swallowed. "I had to be sure I didn't—forget it. Sorry to wake you."

His obvious anxiousness put a stiff ache in my neck. The multitude of little – and big – love bites he'd given me throbbed gently. Enough to notice, like an aging bruise, but nothing close to excruciating. Trust me, I'd been a lot closer to death than artery play with Greg had ever brought me. This was a tickle by comparison. Still, was flattering he worried.

"You're cute," I mumbled. "Little deaths don't count as murder."

His gaze softened. But those lips of his, talented as they may be, struggled to form a relieved smile. "Oui, Madame."

She appeared for the briefest of moments. Just over Greg's shoulder. Quick as a hidden frame in a movie. A slack jawed ghost in a white nightgown, golden hair tumbling in waves over her shoulders. Thin. Pale. Bloodstained. Flickering into existence and out again before I barely had time to register her at all.

Huh. Maybe Greg wasn't always so sweet. Wonder how if she was a former lover. A conquest he literally fucked to death. Hm, wonder if Greg had many former lovers haunting him across the city. Something to ask Phoebe about later. That was a red flag, right? Haunted by dead lovers? Haunted period. Solidly crimson. Red as the blood that painted him well south of his face. It covered his still naked chest. Vermilion strokes ventured into the waistband of the boxer briefs he somehow acquired. Dried splashes of me coating his thighs and arms and strong hands.

And not a single part of me cared. Snuggled into Greg's crappy sofa in his chilly office, post best sex ever of all time, turned out to be a heck of a great comfort. Red flags be damned. I had plenty of my own I wasn't ready to let fly in front of him just yet, so who was I to judge a couple of dead hookups?

Greg noticed my roaming gaze. "I have a shower. If you want."

I adjusted slightly, stretching my back. A cake of dried blood crackled across my skin. Yikes. "Hot shower sounds fantastic."

As I sat up, he jerked forward, as if to catch me before I fell. While a touch of dizziness and fatigue tickled me, I wasn't in any danger of fainting, and managed to stand perfectly fine on my own, thanks very much. Not that I, you know, rejected his hand. Held it quite firmly actually.

Greg's brows furrowed. "You've got some strong veins on you."

"You sound like the Red Cross. They will absolutely not stop calling me for donations."

Lies. I was solidly banned from ever donating blood or organs. No, you know what, not lies, let's say teases. That sounds cuter than lies. Lies were for my probation officer, my parents, and online dating.

Greg handed me a thick, fleece lined bathrobe. I accepted more out of the chill in the office than from modesty. We were well beyond that. Though I had to hand it to him, he was much better at keeping his eyes from wandering too far from my face than I was (those undies looked soft as heck). It seemed after sating his thirst and riding out the high, my vamp returned to his usual gentlemanly self. Pity.