Midnight Cocktail

Midnight Cocktail - Chapter 4

I like to think that the reason she didn't die is because my own saliva is so pure and strong, but that's just my ancient, selfish, dark queen of the fucking night ego talking. I know that. There's absolutely no need for anyone to remind me.

"Fuck's sake, Lana. Ditch the ancient, selfish, dark queen of the fucking night ego routine and pass me that flask."

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Conrad Stoica, more commonly known as Romanian Dave. Arms dealer, smuggler, mercenary, formerly a Caribbean buccaneer, even more formerly a general in the Order of the Dragon under Vlad III, where he became reviled as The Bloody Scourge of the Ottoman Empire. Basically, Romanian Dave impaled a bunch of people on stakes and Vlad took the rap, or the credit, depending on your point of view.

"Here," I said.

He snatched the flask and twisted off the lid.

"She was going to die because you're a selfish bitch."

I hate him so much because I know he is always right. There is nothing more infuriating than that.

I watched as he pried her lips apart with his fingers and trickled thick, dark liquid from the flask into her mouth.

"She's not going to die," I said, needing to say anything just to contradict him.

He let his breath out in a gust of acquiescence. "You should have called me sooner."

My level of hatred for hearing him being right about everything had clearly reached some kind of critical mass, because that one hardly registered.

On the bed, Cherry coughed.

I screamed with relief and threw my arms around Romanian Dave in an impulsive hug of pure joy and gratitude.

That cough was the first sound that Cherry had made for five days.

The first sign of life.

"Thank you," I said. "So much."

He disentangled himself from my arms and ran his hand through his hair while averting his gaze. He does that when he is faced with emotional women. He's not a touchy-feely kind of guy. Missile launchers, illegal imports, the hostile takeover of a continent; those are his comfort zones.

He also knows everything there is to know about turning humans and bringing recently turned vamps out of comas.

Thank fuck.

"When did you bite her?" he asked.

"Sixteen days ago."

Cherry coughed again, moaned softly in her sleep.

Romanian Dave lifted the side of the duvet and looked at the naked nineteen-year-old virgin vampire who was lying on her back on the bed. Virgin in every sense of the word.

"Where did you bite her?"

"On the ass."

He rolled her onto her side and pulled the dressing away from the bite area. I had replaced the plasters and bandage at least once a day since the first night.

There was hardly any visible scarring, just two tiny dots that were slightly paler than the rest of her ass.

"Fine," he said, rolling Cherry onto her back again.

He covered her with the duvet and studied me, shaking his head.

"What?" I said.

I hadn't been surprised by his lack of reaction when he examined her. Most guys, vamp or human, would have passed some kind of appreciative neanderthal comment regarding her physical attributes. Many would have probably tried to jump on and fuck her, or at least cop a quick feel.