Chapter Seventy-Three: Carol's POV
I walked down the dimly lit hallway toward the cold storage room. The corridor here was colder than the rest of the building, and my footsteps echoed particularly loudly in the silence.
I stared at the tightly closed door of the cold storage room, Maurice's words still echoing in my head.
The code he'd given me—4739—felt heavy in my mind as I punched the numbers into the keypad, watching them light up green before the lock clicked open with a snap.
I pulled the door open, and the cold air immediately rushed out like a wall. Goosebumps rose on my arms, and a chill ran down my spine.
I walked in and fumbled for the light switch.
The overhead bulb buzzed a few times before flickering to life. Metal shelves lined both walls, gleaming in the harsh white light.
I scanned the shelves for the blood bags Maurice had mentioned. Medical samples, he'd said. Appropriate for his needs.
But there was nothing there.
The shelves were empty except for a few labeled containers that clearly held something other than blood—tissue samples, maybe, or reagents.
I checked the thermometer on the wall to make sure I was in the right room.
The digital display showed a steady 4°C. This was definitely the cold storage Maurice had directed me to.
I stood there for a long moment, my hand still on the door handle, feeling the chill seep through my clothes.
The empty shelves stared back at me like an accusation. He'd been so certain there would be something here.
Which meant either someone had taken the last of the supply without telling him, or he'd been without blood longer than he'd wanted to admit.
When I walked back to his office, Maurice was still in the same position, his head tilted back against the chair, eyes closed.
I stood in the doorway for a moment, hesitating, the words feeling heavy in my throat. He was in pain.
"Professor." I called to him softly. His eyes snapped open immediately, those red eyes staring at me in a way that made me want to step back. "The cold storage is empty. There's nothing there."
Something flickered across his face—frustration, maybe, or annoyance at whoever had failed to restock.
He started to stand, probably planning to go check for himself, but I could see how much effort it took him.
His hand gripped the edge of the desk just a fraction harder than necessary.
"I see," he said finally, his voice steady despite everything. "Not the best timing."
I should have left then. Should have offered to call Hilda, send a message.
But I thought about all those times he'd helped me in this lab, thought about when he'd shared information about my father's death when he had no obligation to, thought about how he'd given me research opportunities when everyone else saw me as just Simon's charity case.
My fingers found the edge of my sleeve, slowly pushing it up.
Under the harsh fluorescent light, the skin on the inside of my wrist looked very pale, the veins beneath it a faint blue tracery.
This was a bad idea. I knew it was a bad idea.
But before I could talk myself out of it, my feet had already carried me forward, and I found myself walking across the room toward his desk, my heart pounding so hard in my throat I could feel it.
I stopped in front of him and slowly, deliberately extended my arm.
The gesture felt unreal, like I was watching someone else do this. Someone braver than me, who wouldn't flinch at the thought of fangs piercing skin.
Maurice went completely still.
His gaze locked onto my wrist, and I saw his pupils dilate dramatically in an instant, almost swallowing the iris.
That predator's gaze. His breathing changed—deeper, slower.
Then he jerked his face away sharply, both hands gripping the edge of the desk, knuckles white.
"No," his voice was tight, like a string pulled to its limit. "Carol, put your hand down."
But I'd seen it.
Seen the way his throat worked, the way his jaw muscles clenched, the way his entire body trembled.
He wanted my blood. Badly. He was hungry enough to be on the edge of losing control.
When he looked up at me again, I caught something in those dark eyes that looked almost like regret.
"You need it," I insisted, my arm still extended. "Maurice, you—"
"You don't understand," he interrupted me. "I haven't fed in two weeks. Two weeks. And you're standing here now, your blood—"
He drew in a sharp breath.
"I can hear your heartbeat. Smell the blood flowing under your skin. I can sense its temperature, its freshness, its—"
He stopped abruptly, squeezing his eyes shut hard.
"If I start, I'm not sure I can stop. I don't want to hurt you."
The words came out soft, but I heard the fear underneath.
I didn't lower my arm.
I thought about Simon bleeding in that forest clearing, thought about my father dying from a silver bullet all those years ago, thought about how everyone in my life seemed to get hurt while I could only stand by helplessly.
Maurice had never asked me for anything before, even when crossing those boundaries that probably should have been maintained, he'd always kept that careful professional distance.
And now, when he really needed something, I couldn't convince myself to walk away.
"You won't," I said, though my own heartbeat was accelerating. "You won't hurt me."
I didn't want to enumerate all those complex layers of debt and obligation between us, didn't want to say how he'd given me breathing room when Simon's protection felt suffocating, those research opportunities, those late-night lab sessions where I could forget pack politics and just be a student.
"How do you know?" He turned to look at me, those eyes already changed color—from deep blue to almost black, tinged with crimson at the edges.
Vampire eyes. Hungry eyes. "How could you possibly know?"
"Because you're still resisting now," I said. "Because even this hungry, you're still trying to push me away."
He stared at me for several seconds.
Since the day he'd turned me during that attack, he'd been able to feel what I felt. Read my thoughts.
His expression changed. From struggle to something more complex.
"You're thinking about him," he said, his voice carrying a strange tension. "Even now. Even standing here. You're thinking about your adoptive father, that wolf."
It wasn't a question.
Heat immediately flooded my face, that kind of full-body flush that started at my chest and crawled up my neck.
Of course he could feel it.
Of course he knew that even now, standing here offering my blood, part of my mind was still tangled up in the memory of Simon kissing me, the way his hand had cupped my face, the low sound he'd made when I'd kissed him back.
"That's not—" I started, but Maurice cut me off.
"It's fine." He said with self-mockery. "Fitting, isn't it? I'm so desperate for your blood, and your heart is elsewhere."
He took a deep breath, like making some difficult decision.
Then he stood, moving slower than usual, and when he came to stand before me, he didn't immediately touch me.
He just stood there, staring at my wrist, and I could see his throat work again.
"If I bite too hard," he said, voice quiet, "if I drink too long, you have to push me away. Hard."
"Okay."
He finally reached out to grip my wrist.
His fingers were cool, but the instant they touched my skin, I felt him shudder. Like an electric shock.
His thumb pressed gently on the inside of my wrist, finding where the pulse beat, and then he closed his eyes, as if savoring the sensation.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I'll try to be gentle."
But when he bit down, there was nothing gentle about it.
His teeth pierced my skin so fast I barely had time to react, the pain sharp and intense.
Not like the usual careful puncture—this was almost a tear.
I gasped, my other hand instinctively grabbing his shoulder, but he was already drinking.
Hard. Greedily. With desperate hunger.
I felt every pull, felt that strange tugging sensation of blood being drawn from my body more intensely than ever before.
His hand tightened, pinning my wrist in place, while his other arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer, as if afraid I might escape.
My legs started to weaken.