Then he resumed feeding, patting my knee with his free hand.
It shouldn't have comforted me, but it did.
He'd heard the scary monster, too, and he wasn't running.
After a while, the ache deepened into pain--and the now-wordless roar of anger echoing in my head grew muffled.
I started to feel cold, as if it wasn't just blood he was taking, but all the warmth in my body.
Then his mouth moved, and he laved the wounds with his tongue.
"If you looked into a mirror," he whispered, "you would not see my marks.
He wanted you to see what he'd done." I shivered helplessly, and he lifted me to his lap.
He was warm, hot to my cold skin.
He lifted me a little and pulled a folding knife out of his pocket.
He used the knife and sliced down his wrist like you're supposed to if you want to do suicide right.
"I thought the wrist was too painful," I managed through my sluggish thoughts and vibrating jaw.
"For you," he said.
"Drink, Mercy.
And shut up." A faint smile crossed his face, then he leaned his head back so I couldn't see his expression anymore.
Maybe it should have bothered me more.
Maybe if this had been a normal night, it would have.
But useless squeamishness was beyond me.
I've hunted as a coyote for most of my life, and she never stopped to cook her food.
The taste of blood was nothing new or horrible to me, not when it was Stefan's blood--and he wasn't dying or in pain or anything.
I put my lips against his wrist and closed my mouth over the cut.
Stefan made a noise--it didn't sound like pain.
He put his free hand on my head lightly and then lifted it off as if he didn't want to coerce me even that much.
This was my choice freely made.
His blood didn't taste like rabbit or mouse.
It was more bitter--and somehow sweeter at the same time.
Mostly it was hot, sizzling hot, and I was cold.
I drank as the cut under my tongue slowly closed.
And I remembered this taste.
Like eating at McDonald's twice in a day and ordering the same meal.