I kiss Malachai like a famished woman. I devour his lips so hard it bruises, tugging his hair, tilting his head back so he can drink me in. So he never forgets the taste of me as I get drunk on that of him—sweet mint and the rusty, metallic tang of blood.
Before I can pull away to gasp for air, his arms lock around me. He hauls me down into his lap, into the warmth of his blood and body, and steals my breath all over again.
It's a mess. There's enough blood everywhere to make me anemic just looking at it, On the pristine white tiles, smeared across my skin, matted in his dark hair.
I don't care.
I'm too busy going insane over the possessive scrape of his teeth on my lower lip, the low, approving groan that rumbles from his chest directly into mine, vibrating through my very bones.
