A Cage for Hungry Hearts [COMPLETE]

40. Domare

I wake to the plastic scent of my ugly beige shower curtain, the floral soap concoction leaking from its bottle on the rim of my bathtub, and the chlorine-treated water dripping from the sink faucet. But those aren't important. Bitter yet dear, another smell sits thick in my nose.

Winston huddles next to the bathtub, radiating stress, his forearm propped on the rim as he considers me with a pinched frown. When I sit up, he shoves me back down so hard that I hit my head on the wall.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"Clare," he says flatly.

Rubbing the back of my head, annoyed to find my hair slightly damp, I frown at him. "Clare, what?"

"You almost killed her!"

I inhale sharply. "I-what?"

"Domare, you were eating her! If Hazel hadn't stopped you, you would've killed her!"

No.

No, it can't be.

I stare at the loofa dangling from a hook near my feet, not quite believing my ears. It's only then that I notice the dried blood on my clothes. Even on dark fabric, the crusty patches stand out, as does the scent of nosfa blood. Her scent, like frost on grass, wafts from my being. I lick my lips experimentally and taste it, taste her.

I slide down deeper into the tub. "The last thing I remember is..."

Mother. I went for my daily visit since I begged her to save Winston. Now my dear cousin is nearly dead at my hands?

I hold them up, gazing at pale, blood-stained palms, long skinny fingers, and chipping black fingernails crusted with blood. I curl them into fists, clenching so hard my knuckles ache.

I squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them again, blood has spilled down my cheeks. Winston's fingertips are quick to wipe the tears away, and I can't hide my surprise.

I snag one of his hands with my own and give him a long look. "You're still here?"

He glances away guiltily but squeezes my fingers. "You really don't remember it?"

"I rarely do. This is how it always happens."

"Then how can I blame you?"

I bodily pull him into the tub on top of me. Instead of trying to get away, he snuggles close, pressing his face to my neck and—oh, he's crying, too.

"What is wrong with me?" he gasps wetly, grasping two handfuls of my hair. "I'm such an idiot. I shouldn't accept any of this! Clare is my friend!"

Whispering platitudes, I hold Winston by the waist, press my nose behind his ear and gently stick my teeth into his neck, clinging to the surface of him with my fangs.

In my arms, he goes statue-still.

"What are you doing?" he gasps.

I retreat, licking his blood from my lips. "It's supposed to be calming."

"Well, it's not. It's..." He shifts his hips, and I understand.

This sucks. Pun not intended.

With the worst timing imaginable, Grandmère bursts into the bathroom, takes one look at us cuddled up in the bathtub, and honest-to-Vlad snarls.

"Domare Christopher Grayson! What have you done?"

Fuck.