Page 39 of White Hot Kiss

Throwing off the sheets, I stood. My nightgown clung to my damp skin. There wasn’t a single light on in the hallway outside my bedroom, but I knew the way by heart. There’d been so many nights when the craving unexpectedly hit hard, leading to dark and silent trips to the kitchen.

I padded down the steps and through the shadowy rooms in a hurry. My legs were starting to feel wobbly, my heart rate spiking. I can’t live like this.

My arm trembled as I pulled open the door to the fridge. Yellow light washed over my bare legs and the floor. I bent down, impatiently searching for the carton of orange juice among the bottles of water and milk. Annoyed and ready to kick something, I found the OJ behind the eggs.

The carton slipped from my shaking fingers, crashing to the floor and spilling sticky juice all over my toes. Tears welled up and spilled down my cheeks. I was crying over spilled orange juice, for chrissake. It had to be one of my lamest moments of all time.

Sitting next to the sticky puddle, I ignored the cold air from the fridge. God knows how long I sat there before I smacked the door shut. At once, the kitchen was pitched into darkness. I kind of liked it like that. It was just me being ridiculously stupid, and the darkness. No one could witness my hysterics.

Then I heard the soft fluttering of wings, growing louder as they moved toward the kitchen. I stiffened, my very breath halting in my throat. The air stirred around me. I looked up, seeing yellow eyes and fangs surrounded by skin the color and texture of polished granite. The nose was flat, nostrils thin slits. Parting the cascade of dark hair were two horns that curved inward.

Danika was just as striking in her true form as she was in her human.

She dropped beside me, claws tapping on the tile floor as she walked over to the kitchen island and grabbed a roll of paper towels. “Need help?”

It was strange seeing a six-foot gargoyle offer you paper towels.

Danika stared down at me, her dark gray lips curving into a tentative smile.

I hastily wiped my palms under my eyes and then took the wad of towels. “Thanks.”

Danika tucked her wings in as she crouched, cleaning up most of the mess with one swipe. “Are you feeling unwell?”

“I’m fine.” I picked up the carton. It was empty. Great.

She balled the paper towels, her fingers long and elegant, but those claws could rip through skin, muscle, even metal. “It doesn’t seem like you’re fine,” she said carefully. “Zayne told me that sometimes you...get sick.”

My head jerked up. A rush of hot betrayal swept through me. I couldn’t even form words.

Danika’s face grew pinched. “He’s just concerned about you, Layla. He cares about you deeply.”

I grabbed the soaked towels and empty carton, standing on shaky legs. “Oh.” I laughed harshly. “He does? That’s why he told you about my sickness?”

She slowly straightened. “He only said something so that I could help in case you needed anything.” She backed up, seeing the look on my face. “Layla, I don’t judge you. In fact, I think you’re incredibly strong.”

More tears, hotter than those that had already fallen, burned at the back of my throat. Why I was always eating something sweet was no secret, but only Zayne knew how badly I struggled—up until now. I couldn’t believe he’d told Danika. And asked her to keep an eye on me? Mortifying seemed like a weak word to describe how I felt.

“Layla, do you need something else? I can go to the store and get some more juice.”

I dumped the stuff in the garbage can, shoulders stiff. “I’m not going to jump on you and suck out your soul, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Danika gasped. “That’s not what I meant—not at all. It’s just that you look like you need something and I want to help.”

I whirled around. She still stood by the fridge, her wings unfurled, reaching at least four feet on either side of her. “I’m fine. You don’t have to keep an eye on me.” I turned away, but stopped at the door, drawing in a shallow breath. “Tell Zayne I said thanks.”

Before Danika could respond, I left the kitchen and went back to my room. I crawled into bed, throwing the covers over my head. Every so often, a spasm ran through my muscles and my leg would jerk. Over and over again, the words ran through my head.

I can’t live like this.

8

“Are you feeling okay today?” Stacey asked the moment she sat beside me in bio. “You look like warmed-over crap.”

I didn’t even bother looking up. “Thanks, buddy.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but it’s true. You look like you’ve been up all night crying.”

“It’s allergies.” I shifted forward so my hair blocked most of my face. “You, on the other hand, sound awfully chipper this morning.”