“Make me go to sleep,” he said. “Do that eye thing. I’m feeling all wired up. I won’t go to sleep on my own.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to make you do anything.”

“I want you to. I told you, it feels nice.”

He was lying on his back, looking up at me. I leaned over him, placing my hands on the mattress on either side of his head. I tried not to think about leaning down more and brushing my lips against his. “I’m not even sure I know how to do it.”

“You know.”

He said it with such conviction, I thought he must be right. I thought of his face and his lips and the fact he was lying on his back. I thought of his exposed neck, and I thought of all the things I wanted from him and all the things I wanted to give him. It didn’t work. I stilled my mind. I thought of myself, my will, my way, and my place in the world. My vision brightened. A quick flash was all it was, but it was enough. Jules’s eyes went dreamy, and his top lip pulled up on one side, exposing a hint of an incisor.

“Everything’s fine, Jules. Relax and go to sleep, okay?”

He nodded and sighed softly. I lay down beside him; I was tired in my bones. Bone tired. If the way Jules smelled meant anything at all, I knew my body needed rest, too. It needed it badly. To my amazement, I fell into a dead, dreamless sleep almost immediately.

It was nighttime by the time I woke up. Late. Maybe nine or ten. I struggled to pry my eyes open and spent several minutes working through a strong sense of confusion about what time and day it was. I felt as though I’d been yanked straight out of another dimension.

I could hear Jules outside. He’d grilled steak. He’d already eaten and had left a big slab of sirloin on a plate for me. It was cold, but I didn’t complain. One look at him told me it wouldn’t be wise. His lips were darker than usual, and his hair was disheveled. He was wearing a checked flannel shirt that was rolled up to his elbows and an old pair of jeans. For Jules, it was a much less casual outfit than normal. He looked like he was headed out for the night. Like he was on his way somewhere special.

God, he looked hot.

He looked at me almost accusingly as I ate, and now and again, he lifted his shirt at his sternum, flapping it slightly to let some air in. He swiped the back of his hand against his top lip. He didn’t just look hot. He was hot. I could tell.

“You okay?” I asked.

“No. No, I’m not fucking okay. I’m burning. I feel like I’m on fire. Did you know?” There was no doubt about it. There was definitely an accusation in his voice. “Did you know I was still in heat?”