Book 4: Two Hundred Years

Michael

Three hours later, in the dead middle of the night, I stand in the doorway leading into the cozy guest room I brought Faye into what must have been weeks ago. I guess that much time has passed since then. It feels like seconds, honestly. I feel like I haven’t had a chance to catch my breath since the moment she barreled into my life. 

Now, she’s lying still and prone in the bed covered in at least six quilts–all thick and stuffed with goose down. A normal, warm-blooded person would be sweating profusely, but she’s ice cold. 

I grip the doorframe, steadying myself as rage burns through my system. I’ve always leaned more toward my shifter side, but right now, the only thing I want to do is bite someone. I want to sink my fangs deep into someone’s, anyone’s, neck and rip out their throat. 

I’m not sure how I manage to tear myself away from Faye’s room, but I do, leaving the door open in the event she miraculously wakes up.