Shadowdance by Kristen Callihan

if discovering something foul. He held her steady. The small movement she’d taken had made her wince. Black blood bloomed along her sunken cheek.
    “Can you trust me, Chase?” He said it as softly as he could.
    Her eyes narrowed. It was clear that she did not want to talk. A shard of helplessness speared his chest. And he sounded gruffer than he wanted as he eased his bloody fingers past her parted lips. “Let me in.”
    Her little gasp and the moist touch of her mouth lit through him. “It will heal you,” he managed. His gut tightened, and he swallowed hard. “My blood.” Shit, shit, shit, what the hell was he doing?
    Shock and hesitation were clear in the gleaming depths of her eyes. But her lips parted farther, and he slipped inside. Hell’s bells, he hadn’t thought this out properly. The tentative flick of her tongue at the tip of his finger sent a lick of heat straight down to his cock. It leapt to life with a reflexive jerk, and Jack took a steadying breath.
    “Suck it.”
    Her eyes widened, and Jack grimaced. “Lick it—damn it.” Heat rose over his face. “I meant, the blood. Take the blood.”
    Thankfully she understood and, God help him, herlips closed around his two fingers, and the wet, warm flat of her tongue stroked along the base of them. He barely stayed the groan that wanted to rip free or the way his body yearned to sway closer to hers. Somehow, though, his hand had cupped the back of her head, and he held her close. He didn’t have it in him to draw away. Not yet.
    Her lashes lowered, as if looking at him was too much to bear. But the effects of his blood, fresh as it was from his body, were immediate. Healthy color bloomed along her skin, and the bruising around her temple and eyes faded. Her cheek, however, was still crushed, the bones knitting too slowly for his liking. Nor did he fancy the winces of pain she made with each small move.
    Breathing through his nose, he pulled his fingers free of the torture that was her mouth. Chase’s plump lips opened to speak, and he laid a finger on the soft bottom curve stained crimson from his blood. “It’s not enough,” he said, and then, because he was part idiot and because he couldn’t stand seeing her like this, he eased her head up to his shoulder.
    The warm puff of her breath brushed the bared skin at his shoulder. And Jack shivered. Glancing down, he saw that his wound had already knitted closed. With an impatient sound, he grew a pair of claws and tore it open once more. Pain lanced down his arm, and hot blood pumped from the wound with every hard beat of his heart, but his mind was already on the woman half in his embrace. Warm, soft, fragrant. Holding her was an alien experience with which he had no practice. He did not hold women. Nor offer them his greatest gift and secret. Yet here he was.
    She stared at him, quiet and thoughtful, and looking just a bit shocked. He knew she understood whathe wanted. Yet he found himself speaking, low and too urgently for his own good. “Take more, Chase.”
    Mary knew she’d received a hard hit, but the pain hadn’t truly registered until the fight was over. It consumed her now. Yet the moment she’d taken his blood, relief had flooded her veins. Her cheek tingled and itched as it struggled to mend. Now his solid arm was wrapped around her back, and his hand held her head to him with surprising care. He wanted her to take his blood straight from the wound. A shocking intimacy.
    Later, when the pain passed and she could think clearly, Mary could cringe at the memory. But now she stared at the rich, dark blood flowing from his shoulder and acted without thought. His body stiffened at the touch of her tongue to his flesh, and his sharp, indrawn breath had her heart speeding up.
    Mary closed her eyes and ignored everything around her. Nothing but his blood. Experience told her it ought to taste metallic and flat. Instead it held the flavor of bittersweet chocolate and fortified wine. Again came