“You can’t love me,” she interrupted quietly. Her palm was warm against his face, but not as shockingly hot as it would have been if he were a vampire. No, now human touch wasn’t severe. Her eyes sad, she stroked his cheek. “You’ve only known me for three days.”

He laughed at his own stupidity. “It feels…”

“Real,” she finished for him. After a moment’s hesitation, she took his hand and laced their fingers together. “I know. And I know it can’t be real. But I’ve always prayed for something to happen. Something to make me happy. I know I’m going to die. Maybe you’re…Maybe this is all the happiness I’m going to get.”

Her reasoning pierced his heart, but he wasn’t fool enough to believe he could really love her. The same disgusting desperation he’d seen in hundreds of frightened, cast-off girls, he recognized in her. And in himself. He opened his mouth to disagree with her, to insist she would live to find better, but her mouth crushed his and she wound her arms around his neck. He lost his balance and they fell across the bed, her hands tangling in his hair to hold his face to hers.

As if he would let her go.

He was conscious of raising his arms, but had no control over the way they curved around her back and tightened, pulling her so hard to his chest he could barely breathe. She squirmed in his grip and he loosened his hold. He didn’t want to scare her. In a crazy way, he felt if she pulled away now he would lose her forever.

Her hands splayed on his chest. Their touch burned him, but he shuddered as if she were made of ice. He moved his lips from her hungry mouth to the delicate curve of her jaw—how could he have ever thought her plain?—then to her ear. She moaned, a sound at once endearingly innocent and painfully arousing. Thrusting his fingers into the gentle waves of her hair, he gathered the softness to his face.

The feel and smell of her dredged up all the nights he’d spent in the arms of lovers, wives, wishing they would return his affection, and pretending all he desired was their bodies. They never returned his love, even when he demanded it.

Perhaps she didn’t either, but he had not asked her to say the words. He’d asked her to love him. In her kiss, Cyrus had found Mouse’s answer. She could, and did, love him. For whatever reason, she trusted and loved him.