Free Crave the Darkness by Amanda Bonilla Page A

palm and blood was dripping onto the expensive hallway carpet. I released my grip and let the dagger slide back into the sheath before I forced myself to look up again. Over Miss Perfect’s shoulder, I saw him walk out of the kitchen.
    Tyler.
    Shit, what had my life become? Some cliché, melodramatic Lifetime movie?
    Air. I needed air.
Where is all of the fucking air?
My lungs stalled in my chest, my surroundings blurred out of focus as my eyes drank in every godlike detail of Tyler’s face. I would have wept at the sight of him if I’d had anything left to cry. But everything in me dried up; my blood turned to dust, my tears evaporated, and every soft part of me compressed into stone. Even my lips had gone numb. Was it possible to get hypothermia of the soul?
    Tyler stopped dead in his tracks, several feet and one gorgeous supermodel vixen separating us. The mask of emotion on his face was more than my brain could comprehend, because I knew it was a lie. His beautiful hazel eyes burned right through me, his brows drawn in what could only be described as pain. He looked like he wanted to say something, but was at a loss for words.
Yeah, join the club.
At the heart of it all, though, was a tenderness so intense I had to avert my eyes. There was no way he could look at me with that kind of longing while another woman stood between us. He didn’t have the right to do that. It just didn’t work that way.
    I had to get out of there. Now. As involuntary as breathing, my skin melded with the light. Thank god for it too, because it was the only sensation I could feel. Back through the city, I pushed myself as fast as possible, no longer a passing breeze, but a vengeful wind. A tornado. Hurricane Darian. No wonder Tyler sent Marcus instead of coming himself. Guess that explained his lack of phone calls—or any communication, for that matter—too. Why bother? There was nothing left to say, was there? A picture’s worth a thousand words, and I’d just hit the visual jackpot. No need to make a bad situation worse with apologies and awkward explanations. I got the message loud and clear: whatever it was we’d had was over.

Chapter 7
     
    I walked through Xander’s front door as my solid self. With an assassin’s quiet steps, I made my way to my room, knowing if I ran in to any curious Shaedes with nosy questions I might just crack. I eased open my door, worried that even the slightest creak of the hinges would give me away. Just as carefully, I eased the door shut behind me and allowed for a deep breath. My lungs ached from the effort, my body rejecting the comfort of oxygen. I hadn’t taken a decent breath since leaving Tyler’s penthouse.
    “I’m surprised they don’t have an ankle bracelet on you. You know, the kind that human prisoners wear.”
    Holy shit!
Anya’s voice gave me a full-body shock, effectively sealing off the smooth intake of air I’d been trying to enjoy. Why did everyone in this house have to be so far up my ass? “Anya,” I said, fighting for composure. “What in the
hell
are you doing in my room? Don’t you have leather booties to craft or something?”
    “You look like shit.”
    At least she wasn’t crying anymore. Her observation seemed pretty apathetic, actually. It’s not like I expected her to be . . . I don’t know . . . concerned for me or anything. After seeing her cry the day before, I guess I thought she’d be a tad more off-kilter. A little less like herself. I had nothing to go by, though. I didn’t have much experience with pregnant human women, let alone pregnant Shaedes.
    “If I look like shit, it’s because I have your fnanass to worry about,” I said, turning away so she wouldn’t have a clear view of my face. “What the hell do you want?”
    “You missed dinner.”
    No shit.
“Is that why you’re sitting in here waiting for me? To let me know I’d missed another
meal
?”
    “I have to go out tomorrow,” Anya said. “I’m not allowed to leave the