“So that’s it, then?” I took a deep breath, my chest tight and achy. “You’re my sire?” My tears were so sudden I didn’t have time to hold them back.

Unfortunately, Nathan, not having been privy to the inner dialogue preceding them, misinterpreted my hysterical sobs. He swore and stood, and before I could stop him, he charged out of the room.

I threw back the covers and followed him, grateful for the length of the T-shirt. The hardwood floor of the hallway was cold, so I tried to tiptoe across. After two weeks of barely moving them, my legs had a hard time keeping up. I tripped over my own feet and crashed into the wall.

Nathan was at my side in two seconds, his face filled with anger and annoyance. “I told you to stay in bed!”

He scooped me up, cradling me roughly against his chest. He dropped me onto the bed a little less gently than I’d expect someone to treat a person who’d been practically dissected, then headed for the door again.

“Wait a goddamned minute!” I didn’t sound as stern as I’d intended, partly because my face was buried in the pillow. I pushed up on my elbows to glare at him. “You’re not going to do this, Nathan. You’re just not!”

He met my furious expression with one of his own. “Do what?”

“Walk out!” I struggled to climb to my knees without exposing too much of myself. “You can’t just go, ‘Oh, by the way, I’m your sire, and hey, lucky you, I’m all dark and moody and too wrapped up in my own stuff to worry about your feelings!’ It’s not fair!”

“Life isn’t fair, sweetheart. I’m real sorry if it hurts your feelings, but I don’t want to stand here and listen to you work through your issues.” He took a step toward the door.

“You don’t even know what my issues are!” Regardless of the fact I knew he’d just put me right back, I got out of bed and followed him.

“Oh, I think I can guess,” he said as he stormed into the kitchen and yanked open the refrigerator.

“Can you?” I watched him for a moment as he tried to remove the cap from a beer bottle. After he made several unsuccessful attempts to twist it off, I angrily snatched the bottle from him. “Well you’re one up on me, then. Because I have absolutely no idea what your problem is.”

I searched the silverware drawer. “Where the hell is your bottle opener?”

“Right here,” he said, transforming his face. He yanked the bottle from me and punctured the bottle top with one of his fangs, wrenching it off and spitting the metal into the sink as his features returned to normal.

“I can’t believe I’m tied to you on a cellular level now.”

The comment only served to irk him more. “I’m sorry I’m not more cultured. I’ll watch PBS. And cut people open for fun. Will that be better? Will you be less embarrassed to be my fledgling then?”