His Lover, My Mate

Forty-Three: Talk to Me

*Rush*

After he heard the fervor in which Aletha wanted to end his mother, Rush was somewhat impressed as well as alarmed. She never spoke that way before. Sure, she harbored enough hate for his mother to end this world, but so did he. And she'd never spoken of vengeance. It had started as a small spark before, but now she was acting like a full-blown Iyla, the seeker of revenge. Iyla almost killed Maddox to get her revenge on her murder and the son that was killed while she was pregnant once before.

But vengeance didn't go far with capriciousness. While Iyla was cunning with her revenge and much more well-seasoned, Aletha was new to all of this. She was a lot less experienced and a lot more impulsive. He wanted her to keep her volatile feelings inside of her and not reveal it to his mother. Especially not his mother.

But Aletha seemed to cool down. All the coldness and the murder in her were wiped from her expression as she watched him with that same flicker of emotion that he thought was startlingly surreal. He still asked himself how it was possible for her to open up to him when he remembered how much she'd despised him. All that simmering hate in her gaze, the ferocious snarls, the wrath brewing in her body, they were gone, replaced by everything that relieved him. The last thing he wanted was her hatred.

Without wasting another moment, he pulled her toward the dining room and ordered his servants to prepare an early dinner for the both of them.

"Oh and make sure the meat's rare this time," he added. "You know, the warrior type of rare, with the blood still dripping. If you cook it too much then it'll take away all the nutrients. Why serve a block of shit when you don't have to do much to serve it as gold?"

"Rush, that's gross," Aletha said, her face twisting. "I already told you, I don't like rare meat."

He smiled pleasantly. "Oh but now you need to eat it rare. Actually, that's all you're getting. You are anemic, yeah?"

"Yeah but--"

"--Which means that you are in more danger than ever since your body only demands one thing above anything else, and that is blood. If you don't take in blood and iron, well, prepare to fall into a never-ending slumber."

She seemed baffled by this. "Wait a minute, you're saying that I'll fall asleep if I don't drink blood? Like my eyes will just close and I'll start to, you know, dream?"

"Well of course. Didn't you know that?"

"That actually seems kind of cool. I wouldn't mind sleeping at all." She paused for a moment, deciding. "Actually, that's just what I need. Some good sleep. I'm feeling cranky these days. You know, with the mood swings and the crazy psychotic snappy anger? Oh and don't forget sulking. I get very sulky. And then there's the part where I can turn into a bitch and just spit out random crap--oh hell, I'm rambling, aren't I?"

Second time that had happened. The first was last night when she'd told him she was anemic. And he wanted to hear more. That dip in her voice, the feminine husk and smoothness were so pleasant to his ears. Then there was the nuance of her thinking out her mind. For a while, he didn't understand how it exactly worked with her. She was a complex puzzle, but he was beginning to know her mysteries. "Say more," he demanded. "Well, not about you being a bitch, which you aren't, by the way. Just talk to me."

She watched him with large brown eyes, somewhat pondering and somewhat surprised by his reaction. "Why don't we talk after the cook is done with what you want to eat?"

"Right." He turned back to the cook. "Well, you know exactly what I want for the meat. Remember, extra rare. Oh, I almost forgot--since our Luna likes honey, I want you to pour some of that on the meat too. Maybe then she'll be more enthusiastic about her meal."