Out for Blood
Page 74
“Now, that’s a dangerous smile,” Quinn murmured, his voice tickling my ear. His arms wrapped around my waist and pulled me back against his chest. I leaned into him, my smile turning even more wicked.
“What are we doing out here?” I asked. I’d gotten a text to meet him out by the pond.
“Same thing I’m always doing: trying to get a proper date out of you.”
“Who knew you were so traditional?” I turned, teasing.
“Who knew you were such a rebel?” He slid his arm lightly over my bandage and clasped my hand. The stitches from his bite would come out tomorrow. There’d be a scar, but I didn’t mind so much. He tugged me through the field, tall grass brushing against my knees.
He led me into a copse of birch saplings. He’d spread a blanket on the ground and lit candles in glass jam jars. He even hung a few lanterns from the branches and they hovered like fireflies. It was beautiful.
“We’re having a picnic,” he announced.
“But you don’t eat.”
He shrugged. “But you do.”
We sat down and he handed me a thermos of hot chocolate. There were baskets of chocolate chip cookies, a cherry-chocolate cake, sugar-dusted strawberries, and a tower of macaroons.
I grinned. “Finally, real food.”
I ate until the sugar buzzed through my veins. Quinn lounged beside me, the candles pouring honey light over his pale cheekbones. He licked chocolate frosting off my finger, grinning darkly. He was everything my grandfather feared: reckless, wild, predatory.
And he was mine.
“What are we doing out here?” I asked. I’d gotten a text to meet him out by the pond.
“Same thing I’m always doing: trying to get a proper date out of you.”
“Who knew you were so traditional?” I turned, teasing.
“Who knew you were such a rebel?” He slid his arm lightly over my bandage and clasped my hand. The stitches from his bite would come out tomorrow. There’d be a scar, but I didn’t mind so much. He tugged me through the field, tall grass brushing against my knees.
He led me into a copse of birch saplings. He’d spread a blanket on the ground and lit candles in glass jam jars. He even hung a few lanterns from the branches and they hovered like fireflies. It was beautiful.
“We’re having a picnic,” he announced.
“But you don’t eat.”
He shrugged. “But you do.”
We sat down and he handed me a thermos of hot chocolate. There were baskets of chocolate chip cookies, a cherry-chocolate cake, sugar-dusted strawberries, and a tower of macaroons.
I grinned. “Finally, real food.”
I ate until the sugar buzzed through my veins. Quinn lounged beside me, the candles pouring honey light over his pale cheekbones. He licked chocolate frosting off my finger, grinning darkly. He was everything my grandfather feared: reckless, wild, predatory.
And he was mine.
