Free Immortal Desire by Denise Tompkins Page A

line of letting this get too personal. He rested his forehead against her neck. Breaking things off wouldn’t be easy, but “The Talk” probably needed to happen now, before either of them went too far down this road. Emotional complications aside, they couldn’t feed from one another every night without destroying both themselves and each other.
    He absently pressed his lips to her shoulder, jerking back when he realized what he’d done. Maybe somebody needed to have “The Talk” with him. What a joke. He untangled himself before rolling onto his back. If he gave her his whole spiel now it might stop her from feeding. Not happening. Though it was possible she already had. One way to find out. He rested a hand on her hip and gave a gentle shake. “Did you feed?”
    No answer.
    He shook her harder. “Bailey?”
    Nothing.
    Had she passed out? Griff rose on his elbow and leaned forward. Her eyes were closed, long lashes brushing her skin.
    “Angels’ kisses,” he whispered.
    The way her lips were parted gave her a lush, well-loved look. Except...
    His brows winged down. The slight blue tinge around her mouth rocketed his heart into his throat. “Bailey!” He scrambled to his knees and rolled her over with jerky motions.
    Her limbs moved with a fluid otherworldliness.
    “No. No, no, no.” Hauling her into his arms, he laid her out on the floor and reached for the phone. “She’s coded,” he shouted when Seth answered. “Help me.” He tossed the receiver. “Think.” But he couldn’t. Panic flooded his mind with infinite, fast-moving snapshots of her over the past three years—the kid she’d been when she applied, the woman she’d become, the stubborn jut of her chin when angered, the sultry way she moved, her lopsided smile, the way she’d looked at him in the shower. Thousands of things he might have said choked him. “Don’t you fucking die.” The hoarse command was the best he could do.
    Seth materialized at Griff’s side. “How long?”
    “A couple minutes at the most.”
    “Shit.” He tossed the bag away. “Compressions or breaths?”
    Griff just looked at him.
    “Compression or breaths!”
    “Breaths.”
    “Then do it.”
    Griff tilted her head back and hesitated.
    “Do it,” Seth snarled.
    The cold from her lips was a shock. A riot of emotion threatened to drown Griff as he tilted her head back and checked her airway. Sealed his mouth over hers. Pinched her nose and exhaled. He counted the rise and fall of each breath by rote. Then he broke away and hovered, ready to begin again.
    Seth took up swift chest compressions.
    Air brushed Griff’s lips, a result of Seth’s efforts. Nothing more. His fingers drifted down her throat to rest over her carotid artery. Each compression resulted in a faint bump against his fingertips. He closed his eyes. This wasn’t happening. Not really. Couldn’t be.
    “Get ready to breathe,” Seth ordered. “Now.”
    Griff silently willed everything he had into each exhale. Come back to me. Counting down to the last breath, he broke the connection.
    Seth numbered every hand-to-heart compression he made. “Go.”
    Again, Griff breathed. He stroked her pulse point and ignored the invisible vice tightening around his chest. It had been more than three minutes. They were running out of time.
    A small, telltale beat thrummed beneath her skin, faint and sporadic but undeniably there.
    Griff jerked back, eyes wide. “I’ve got a pulse.”
    Seth’s shoulders sagged. “We need to get her to a hospital.”
    “She’ll die.” He couldn’t look away from her.
    “Man, she just di—”
    “She hasn’t fed.”
    Seth whistled low. “How long’s she got?”
    “Not long.” Demons he knew he couldn’t quell lurked in his eyes. “Her best chance is here.”
    “Do what you can, brother.” Seth stood, brushing at his pants. “Call me and, uh, let me know if...”
    “Yeah.”
    Seth disappeared. No theatrics, no flames, no Disney dance moves. Just a wisp