Hot Blooded

hands went to her breast. "Please tell me she didn't get my
grandfather's book. Damn it. I'm going to wring her stupid, lying neck!"
    "Mariann! There's a bit more going on here than your vendetta against your
ex-partner. The injuries you took were fatal. If I hadn't changed you, you would
be dead."
    "Don't be ridiculous. If I'd been that badly injured, I'd be in a hospital."
    Even when he explained, she fought belief. He had to take her through the
proof step-by-step: how she felt, how she looked, how thoroughly she had enjoyed
biting his neck. Judging it too much to absorb, he refrained from telling her
about his wolf. The omission didn't seem to help. Finally, he pricked his
forefinger and waved it beneath her nose.
    She shrieked as her fangs shot out.
    "I can't be a vampire," she wailed behind her hand. "Who's going to feed my
cat?"
    He would have laughed except she began to weep. Feeling helpless, he pulled
her against him and rubbed her back.
    "How can I run O'Faolain's?" she sobbed, her tears running down his chest.
"You can't be a pastry chef if you can't eat. That bakery is my life!"
    "You'll have a new life, I promise. You can't begin to imagine how much fun
you'll have. Please stop crying, love. I don't think I can bear it."
    "You don't understand."
    "Tell me then," he said.
    She sat back and frowned at him, clearly deciding how to explain. "When I was
eight," she said, her palms rubbing at her knees, "I baked my first dessert for
my parents. It was a caramel apple tarte tatin—a fancy apple pie, I guess you'd
say, though the presentation was tricky. I practiced for weeks with my
grandfather. I was convinced it had to be perfect. Only then would my parents
understand why I had to spend summers in Maple Notch. Only then would they
realize there wasn't any point in sending me to camp. I didn't
want
to
be like other kids."
    "And was it perfect?"
    "It seemed that way to me. Slid right out of the mold with every apple slice
standing straight. I can remember my mother's reaction like it was yesterday.
'Why, that's pretty enough for a restaurant,' she said like I'd performed a
miracle. My dad—who was a big, tough factory foreman—took a bite, set down his
fork and teared up. He said he was honored I would bake for him.
    "That's when I understood about cooking coming out of love. My parents and I
were very different people. My mom thought baking was something you did with a
mix, and only because you
had
to. When I made that dessert for them,
that was the first time I could share my heart."
    By now, the evidence of her tears was gone. Unfortunately, forgiveness had
not replaced them.
    "You did this," she said, in a frighteningly level tone. "Without my
permission. Knowing full well I'd be forced to give up everything I care about."
    He didn't want to feel defensive, didn't want to acknowledge she might be
right. Instead, he folded his arms across his chest. "Call me crazy, Mariann,
but I thought you cared about your life."
    "You had a thing for me. You said it yourself. You'd been thinking about
kissing me since we met. You… you…"
    "Changed you?"
    "You changed me because you wanted me to be your sex slave!"
    She bit her lip as if this sounded silly even to her. Bastien might not have
handled this situation as well as he could, but he knew enough not to laugh.
    "You aren't my sex slave," he said. "What happened last night happened
because you are
upyr
. All your appetites will be stronger. You'll
control them better as you go along." He laid what he hoped was a calming hand
on her upper arm.
    "Until that happens, I assure you, I'd be happy to help you out."
    Unamused, she swatted away his touch.
    "I'm going home," she said, rising to gather her discarded clothes. "I need
to think."
    A panic he tried to subdue welled in his throat. "You'll have to return by
sunrise. We're twenty meters underground here. Your house isn't shielded. It
will be years before you can risk more than a few minutes out."
    She stopped with her T-shirt half pulled down. In her expression, he could
see the truth hitting her again. "Will sunlight kill me?" she asked. "Is that
part of the stories true?"
    He turned away to hide the agitation her question stirred. When Emile spoke
of giving Mariann a choice after Bastien changed her, he hadn't thought she'd
truly want one. He'd thought he could make her happy. He'd thought she would
fall in love. He saw now how naive he'd