A Cage for Hungry Hearts [COMPLETE]

35. Winston

Watch goes by so much faster when you spend most of it making out with your boyfriend. Domare's mouth is hot and wet and perfect. He's a sloppy kisser, and I'm all about that. I memorize the shape of his teeth with my tongue, even the little ridge around his gums where his other teeth are hidden away. Every now and then, I prod at them just right and am rewarded with a sharp prick of pain, but he draws back every time it happens.

"Stop that! You'll hurt yourself."

"I could kiss somewhere else," I tease.

He flusters far more easily than I would've guessed.

"Later," he promises.

And oh, the things that does to me.

We only ever part long enough for me to do my rounds and then at the end of watch, when we have to separate long enough to go back to our room. I don't dare mention that I should be at PT when we stumble into our bedroom later. Instead, I go back to trying to merge us at the mouth, pushing him back into my bed.

"Oh fuck this mattress," he gripes, wriggling underneath me, no doubt being impaled by a spring. Even with the extra blankets, the damn thing still manages to be uncomfortable. He quickly distracts himself by latching onto my neck. He doesn't bite, but his teeth scrape delightfully against the scar he left on my shoulder. I shudder when he nips at my earlobes, all too aware that I'm straddling his hips with two items of note standing at attention between us.

It all comes to a screeching halt when pain sparks in my stomach. It rises without warning into sharp twists of agony.

"Aw, hell," I say, tucking my head against his shoulder. "Goddamn cramps."

He stills, then gently eases me onto my side. I curl into a ball, facing him.

He worries his bottom lip for a moment, then seems to decide something. "Winston, I need you to drink my blood."

"I...what? Why?"

"Please," he whispers. "Your serum is specific to my biology. I don't fully understand how it works, but Grandmère says my blood will help you."

"Oh, Grandmère says, does she? That woman who hates my guts?" I glower halfheartedly. "How much would I have to drink?"

"As much as you can stand."

My eyes slide to his neck. As usual he's wearing a sweater, the collar stretched so wide that it's hanging off his shoulder, baring skin. A few seconds ago, I would've been delighted to get my mouth on him there.

"You heal quickly, and my teeth aren't that sharp," I argue.

"So what? I can handle it."

He comes closer until we're nose-to-nose and slides his fingers over the sides of my face, thumbing the corners of my mouth. His eyes are dark and fathomless, his pupils barely discernible against his charcoal irises.

I press our foreheads together. "This is a bad idea."

"No, it's a great idea."

"Are you sure?"

"Winny, my pain tolerance is exceptional."

Testing the waters, I lick a stripe across his shoulder.

He shudders and makes a sound, that sound, something just beyond human, definitely within the realm of pleasurable. "Just go for it, you tease," he practically begs, arching against me.

Fuck. Ok. I can do this.

I hold my mouth above the juncture of his neck and shoulder, then press my teeth to the skin, taking a moment to just let myself breathe. I start to bite down, easy at first, then harder when I realize how much force it's going to take to make him bleed. Even Domare's gasp can't distract me from the coppery blood spilling into my mouth, though it's not so much the blood itself that disgusts me; it's the idea of what I'm doing that makes my stomach clench in on itself. When my mouth feels full to bursting, I swallow down a mouthful.

But I can't keep it down.

I yank away and sail for the bathroom. I barely make it to the toilet, before the blood resurges with a vengeance, followed by my latest meal, and a great deal of stomach acid.

Domare's loud sigh is hardly a comfort, but he sits on the tub and rubs circles on my back as I dry-heave pathetically. "Ok. New plan."

#

The next evening, I sit in a chair in the infirmary, a needle stuck in my arm. Domare practically has his head in my lap. Sitting on the floor, flush against my chair, he uses my thighs for a pillow. Now that I've let him close again, he takes every opportunity to cling.

"I could get in so much trouble for this," Lynn complains as she pumps his blood into my veins. She levels Domare with a frown. "You're at least being agreeable."

"They're feeding me more so I'm less likely to go batshit," he says.

When she gives him a funny look, he shrugs. "Winston's terminology. Not mine."

"At least you're more tolerable now," she grumbles and carefully removes the IV needle from my arm, then bandages it up.

"How you feeling, DeBrock?" she asks, putting her tools away.

My stomach still hurts, but not so bad that I can't walk, and I feel less draggy, for lack of a better word.

I smile softly at Domare, who squeezes my middle.

"Better?" he asks.

"A lot." I turn back to my savior. "Thank you, Lynn."

"Yes, thank you, Lynn," Domare mocks.

She sighs loudly, looking put upon. "I thought you were done with him, Winston."

"Yeah, me too," I mutter, running a hand through Domare's long hair. It's so soft and dark, no variation in color at all, since he's never stepped foot in the sun. I suddenly, fiercely want that for him. He presses his face against my thigh, nuzzling.

Lynn clears her throat loudly. "No nookie in my lab, boys."

Domare pulls his face away from my leg, his expression deadpan as he stares at her. "Does that rule only apply when you're not involved?"

She slaps a pack of cotton swabs down on a counter. "Now, there's the Domare I know and love."

His grin is sharp in more ways than one. I tug his hair to get him to stop.

"Let's go home," I say.

His amusement fades. "Home?"

"You got a better word?"

I don't have to feel his bitterness across our weak tether to know it's there. His lack of answer is just as damning. I don't have a home is written across his face.

"My stomach isn't hurting," I say, "and I'm off today. Right, Lynn?"

She grabs her pad of SIQ forms and dutifully starts filling one out for me, muttering about my ungratefulness.

"What do you want to do?" I ask Domare.

"Whatever you want to do," he says in such a heated tone that I shiver.

"Let's, uh, go back to our room?"

He smiles like he can't help it, almost shy. "Yes."