“That’s why you spend so much time on the ocean,” she said. “Can’t back off any farther than that. If you could go to the moon you probably would.”

“My job is on the ocean. I like my job. If living there helps me manage, why not? You don’t understand what I deal with. You think you do, but you don’t.”

“Because every time I try to get closer, you push me away. You think you’re the only one in the world with a problem? There’s nothing wrong with you.”

He laughed without humor and jabbed a finger toward his mouth where the fangs were. “Everything is wrong with me. You want to learn how far you should trust desire, spend fifty years trying not to see every passing person as a well-cooked meal. Hells, you don’t even have to see—you smell them. There’s nothing natural about this. I was dying, and I was given a choice. I chose to live. Not live—survive. And even that went sour. Life skews. It’s skewed us both.”

“Which is why you’ve spent five decades on a rampage, tearing people’s throats out.”

“Of course not. I have a condition. I manage it.”

“Can you extend me the common fucking courtesy of understanding that I’m trying to manage, too?”

“You don’t care about me. You need people like me. I’ve seen it before. For you I’m a hit, that’s all. A fang.”

“No.” She stepped toward him. “I like you.” Say it fast, like tearing off a bandage or a scab. “I want you. Maybe you’re afraid of what that means. I know I am. But I’ve known enough need to tell the difference between that and this. And I’ve known enough suckers to tell hunger from attraction. If you want to say I’m wrong, fine. But I’m not.”

He shook his head. “If things were different, maybe. If I didn’t have my problem, if you didn’t have yours. But now, I can’t trust you.”

“You can,” she said. “You do. But you’re scared. Of me, because I screwed you over last year when I was out of my head. But under that, you’re scared of yourself.”

“If I lose control, people die.”

“We can be careful. And if all else fails, I can kick your ass.”

This close to a human being, Cat would have felt the warmth. He could feel hers, she knew. He could hear her heartbeat. He was an inch taller than her, which didn’t matter except when they were this close. She reached for him.

He took the pen from her and stepped away. He unspooled the scroll atop a crate of dried papaya and read it through once more as Cat watched—bandage peeled back, scab ripped free, blood flowing, stunned by the speed of his retreat.