Chapter Seventy-Four: Carol's POV
I closed my eyes, trying to focus on breathing, but I could hear the sound of him swallowing, could feel his entire body trembling—not from weakness, but from that satisfied, almost painful pleasure.
That kiss flashed through my mind.
Simon's hands in my hair. The way he'd looked at me afterward, like I was something precious and dangerous. The heat that had pooled low in my stomach when he'd pulled me closer.
And Maurice knew all of it. Felt all of it.
He drank harder, like punishment, like desperately seeking some kind of solace.
I could feel his breath on my skin, rapid and hot, contrasting with his cold fingers.
He pulled me even closer, close enough that I could feel the rise and fall of his chest, could smell that faint cologne mixed with something more primal, more dangerous.
Ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty.
My heartbeat grew louder and louder in my ears, like drumbeats.
Blood loss was making me dizzy, but I didn't push him away.
Somehow, I felt I owed him this. Owed him this moment of satisfaction, this moment when he didn't have to pretend he wasn't a hungry, dangerous creature.
But at the same time, my mind was full of Simon.
Simon's kiss, Simon's scent, the sound of Simon's voice when he'd murmured "you're mine."
And Maurice felt it all.
Every thought. Every ember of heat. Every desire that didn't belong to him.
Suddenly, he released me abruptly.
The movement was rough, almost pushing me away. He staggered back several steps, his back to me, shoulders heaving violently.
"Enough," his voice was rough, almost unrecognizable. "I can't—I can't continue."
He turned around, and I saw his eyes were still that deep, dark red, his lips stained with my blood.
But what shocked me more was the expression on his face—that mixture of satisfaction, pain, and something almost like shame.
He grabbed gauze and tape from his drawer, movements urgent, almost roughly pressing them against my wound.
"I took too much," he said, unable to meet my eyes. "I'm sorry. I should have had more control. I should have—"
"You stopped," I said, my voice weak from blood loss. "Maurice, you stopped. That's enough."
He finally looked at me, the red in those eyes slowly fading, returning to deep blue.
His hands still trembled slightly as he wrapped the bandage, but his movements had become gentle, carefully securing the gauze, making sure it wasn't too tight.
"You know what's most ironic?" he said quietly, eyes fixed on my wrist, not my face. "I got what I needed from you. Your blood, warm, fresh, enough to steady me again. But what you gave me, your heart was thinking of him."
After saying this, he finally finished the bandage and released my hand.
"You should eat something," he said, voice returning to that professional calm, though I could hear the exhaustion underneath. "Drink water. Your body needs to recover."
"I will."
He turned away, walking to the window, his back to me. I could see his hands braced on the windowsill, head slightly bowed, saying: "Carol."
I'd already grabbed my bag to leave when I heard him call my name and stopped.
"Yes?"
He didn't turn around. Just continued staring out the window, voice soft.
"You know, vampires can taste emotions in blood. Not just sense them—actually taste them. Fear is bitter. Anger is spicy. And desire..." He paused.
"Desire is sweet. Sweet enough to be almost addictive."
My breath caught.
"Your blood," he continued, "was full of desire. But not for me. Never for me."
He finally turned to face me.
His expression was calm, but I could see something in the depths of his eyes—pain. Acceptance.
"Whatever you're running from," he said quietly, "you can't avoid it forever. That wolf is in your blood, in every heartbeat. I can taste him. And the more you try to deny it, the sweeter it becomes."
I didn't answer. I just walked out, pulling the door closed behind me with a soft click.
The next few days, I did exactly what Maurice said I couldn't do.
I avoided him.
I skipped lab sessions, claiming I had too much coursework from my other classes.
It wasn't entirely a lie—midterms were approaching and I did have papers to write, equations to memorize, readings to catch up on.
But mostly, I just couldn't face him.
Couldn't sit in that lab knowing he'd felt every thought about Simon, every pulse of confusion and desire I'd been trying so hard to suppress.
He texted me twice. The first message was straightforward: Where are you? We have samples to process.
I sent back: Sorry, dealing with some things. Will catch up soon.
The second message came the next day: Is everything alright?
Fine. Just busy.
But it wasn't fine. Nothing was fine.
I avoided my dorm room as much as possible because Emma kept giving me those knowing looks and asking questions I didn't want to answer.
"You seem distracted," she'd said, sprawled across her bed with her phone in hand. "Did something happen with you and that hot professor?"
"No," I'd said too quickly. "Nothing happened."
Which was true, technically. Nothing had happened with Maurice and me.
By the fourth day, I was just avoiding everyone like this, burying myself in textbooks and lab reports.
Then Maurice texted again: I need you to verify some test results. Important. Come to the lab when you can.
I stared at the message for a long time. Knowing I was out of excuses, knowing that no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn't avoid the lab forever.
I typed back: Okay. I'll come by this afternoon.
The walk to campus felt longer than usual.
I kept my head down, bag slung over my shoulder, trying to look like just another student heading to class.
The autumn air had turned sharp, carrying the promise of winter. Fallen leaves crunched under my feet, and I pulled my jacket tighter around myself.
I needed to stop by the campus store first—my throat had been feeling dry these days.
The store was mostly empty at this time, just a few students browsing the snack aisle and the clerk behind the register scrolling through her phone.
I grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerated section and was heading toward the checkout when I felt it.
That prickling awareness at the base of my skull that meant someone was watching me.
I'd learned to trust that instinct over the years—it had kept me safe more times than I could count.
I turned, scanning the store, and that's when I saw her.
She was standing near the magazine rack, perfectly still in a way that wasn't human.
Tall, slim, wearing a deep charcoal coat that looked expensive even from across the store.
Her hair was blonde, so pale it was almost silver, and her skin had that particular bloodless quality that I'd learned to recognize.
Vampire.
I tried to move past her, angling toward the register, but she turned her head. Our eyes met.
Everything stopped.