in her throat.
Rising, he extended his hand. "Come, I'll walk you to your car."
She didn't want to go home, she wanted to stay, to spend what was left of the night in his arms, but leaving was definitely the smart thing to do.
Another moment, and she would have lost all control.
Another second, and she would have given him whatever he wanted.
Hand in hand, they walked down the stairs to the driveway.
Jason opened the car door for her, kissing her cheek before she slid behind the wheel.
She closed the door, then rolled down the window and leaned out for one last kiss.
He covered her mouth with his, drinking deeply of her innocence. "Don't come tomorrow night," he said, and before she could ask why, he turned away, taking the stairs two at a time.
From the window in the living room he watched her drive away, wondering if she had any idea of the danger she'd been in.
* * *
He sat in his favorite chair in front of the fireplace in the den, his hands clenched into tight fists as he listened to the sound track fromThe Phantom of the Opera. The haunting words of the Phantom's plaintiff cry as he pleaded for Christine's love filled the room, echoing in Jason's heart.
The Phantom's music of the night might be a ballad of love and longing, Jason thought, but his own song was a requiem of blood and death, of darkness as deep and wide as eternity, as bottomless as the bowels of hell.
The Phantom of the Opera had lived in the darkness of life, Jason mused bitterly, but he was trapped in the everlasting darkness of his soul.
He shuddered to think how close he had come to wrapping Leanne in his embrace, to quenching his unholy thirst by stealing the essence of life from a creature who was pure and innocent.
He could not see her again. He loved her too much to put her life in danger, to risk turning her into the kind of monster he had become.
There was no hope for him, but he would not defile Leanne. She was a beautiful woman, made to walk in the sun, to find love in the arms of a mortal man and bear his children.
A hoarse cry rose in his throat, a cry that became an anguished scream of denial as he imagined her in the arms of another man, a man who could take her walking on the beach, who could make love to her in the light of day, a man who didn't live in the shadows.
A man who didn't thirst for that which made him a thief of the worst kind, stealing life itself.
* * *
For the next week he tormented himself by going to the theater, watching her perform on stage, hearing the sweet magic of her voice.
He listened to the Phantom's anguish with renewed pain. Just once, he thought, just once he'd like to see Christine turn her back on Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny, and give the Phantom of the Opera the love he craved, the love only she could give.
When the show was over, he hovered in the deep shadows to make sure Leanne made it safely to her car. It was the worst kind of torture, seeing her from a distance, hungering for her touch, yearning to hear the sound of his name on her lips.
Each night he saw her gaze sweep the crowds waiting at the stage door, the hope in her eyes fading when she didn't see him.
And now he stood in the shadows again, a tall figure dressed all in black. Couples passed him by, never knowing he was there. Frustrated beyond reason, hating what he was because it kept him from the woman he loved, it took every ounce of his self-control to keep from destroying the innocent creatures who passed him by. He was torn with the need to lash out, to hurt others as he was hurting.
He watched a young couple pass by, and he wanted to sink his fangs into the man's throat, to turn the man into a monster so that the woman at his side would look at him with loathing instead of desire.
He fought down the growing lust for blood as he saw Leanne coming down the sidewalk. She was late tonight, and he wondered what, or who, had detained her at the theater. Jealousy rose in his throat, as bitter as bile, at the thought of her with another man?a mortal man.
His hands