“I just came to get a couple of bags of blood for Bricker and me,” Zani announced, the words covering the sound of Pet’s fading footsteps as she left the room.
Santo grunted and picked up the glass Pet had used. Grabbing the dishrag, he stuck the glass under the water and began to clean it. The activity gave him an excuse to keep his back to his cousin. While his body was starting to calm down now that Pet had left the vicinity, he was still sporting one huge and rather painful erection. It was going to take a while for that monster to go away.
“Do you want one?” Zani asked, opening the refrigerator door.
It took Santo a second to realize that Zani was asking if he wanted a bag of blood. Nodding, he growled, “Please.”
Zani was immediately beside him, holding out a bag.
“Thanks,” Santo muttered, turning off the water with one hand and taking the bag with the other. He remained facing the sink, though, and slapped the bag to his teeth at once, preventing further conversation. At least, on his side. It didn’t, however, stop Zani from talking.
“Pet’s a cute little thing, isn’t she?” Zani commented as he retrieved a couple more bags from the refrigerator. “And she knows about us too. That’s good. At least we won’t have to constantly control or lie to her. Maybe we can even convince her to let us watch the Purdy house from her sister’s place. It would make things easier,” Zani pointed out, turning away from the refrigerator with four bags of blood cuddled in his arms. Not expecting a response, he nodded at Santo and then headed out of the room with a light “see you later.”
Santo grunted what could have been taken as a response, but his mind was turning over what Zani had said. Pet knew about immortals. Zani thought that would make things easier in regard to their job here, but Santo suddenly realized it would also make things easier for him. Actually, it was one hell of a bonus. It meant he didn’t have to explain everything like most immortals had to do with their life mates. He wouldn’t have to try to find the most delicate way to explain that while most people would call them vampires, they weren’t vampires. They weren’t dead and soulless. They were simply mortals who had an extended life thanks to a scientific breakthrough back in Atlantis before its fall.
Extremely extended, he thought wryly, considering his own age, and then shook his head. He didn’t think that meant all his worries were over. While she’d responded eagerly to his kiss and caresses, she’d also fled the room the minute Zani had appeared, rather than wait for him to leave. If she hadn’t fled . . . His mind filled with images of his turning, picking her up, and kissing her the minute Zani left the room, and then carrying her to the table, laying her out on it, and—
Santo abruptly cut off his thoughts there. His body was responding to the images in his mind, his erection returning to full throttle and aching with the need to bury itself in her wet heat. Unfortunately, Pet hadn’t stuck around for him to play out that scenario, which made him suspect she wasn’t just going to fall into his arms like a ripe plum from a tree. She was mortal and was probably a little confused and maybe even overwhelmed by the desire that had exploded between them. He would have to be patient with her. He’d also probably have to woo her, and—
Straightening abruptly, he ripped the now empty bag from his fangs and muttered, “Shared dreams.” Those were exactly what they sounded like—dreams shared between two life mates. They were apparently very helpful in winning a life mate over. They fanned the desire and encouraged intimacy before a couple was ready to claim it in reality. They were also supposed to be damned pleasurable. Which begged the question, what the hell was he doing standing here fretting when he could be in bed, enjoying the shared sex dreams life mates experienced?
Santo tossed the empty bag in the garbage and headed out of the kitchen. He’d go to bed, go to sleep, and just wait for her to join him in dreamland. Damn, shared dreams were supposed to be hot. He could hardly wait.
The sound of a door closing woke Santo. Knowing it wasn’t likely to be Marguerite and Julius, who were late risers, he sprang from bed and hurried to the door, opening it just in time to see Parker disappearing into the bathroom. Thinking Pet must be awake too, Santo slid from his room and headed downstairs to put the coffee on. He was quite sure she would need one, because he was positive she hadn’t slept at all last night. Otherwise they would have enjoyed some of those shared dreams he’d heard so much about.
Santo scowled at the lost opportunity, but suspected Pet had sat up through the night either worrying about the would-be intruder they’d scared off or fretting over the fact that she didn’t have an alarm clock and might not wake up in time to get her nephew to school this morning. That, or she wasn’t really his life mate after all.
Santo discarded that possibility at once. The way they’d gone up in flames last night after one kiss pretty much discounted that. Still, just the idea was enough to make him grumpy as he read the instructions on the coffee tin and tried to make coffee. It wasn’t a task he’d ever attended to before. Santo hadn’t drunk anything but blood in . . . well, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an actual beverage that wasn’t blood. Before Christ was born, certainly, he thought as he gave up on finding directions and just poured half the can of ground coffee into the machine, added water, and turned it on. That task done, he stood still, wondering what Pet would like for breakfast.
“Good morning!”
Santo turned at that cheerful greeting to find Parker looking wide awake and disgustingly chipper as he entered the kitchen.
“Morning,” he growled and turned to retrieve a glass from the cupboard. Carrying it to the fridge, he asked, “Orange juice?”
“Yes, please,” Parker said brightly.
Santo grunted, retrieved the carton of OJ and poured a full glass for the boy. After returning the carton to the fridge, he carried the drink to the table. Parker immediately scooted to the same chair he’d used the night before and sat down.
“What else?” Santo asked as he set down the glass, and then thinking about what Zani and Bricker usually had for breakfast, suggested, “Cereal? Toast?”
“Toast, please,” the boy said promptly. “But I can make it myself if you like.”
“No.” Santo turned back to survey the kitchen briefly. He’d watched Bricker and his cousin make toast at least twenty times over the last month. It wasn’t hard. If you knew where the bread was kept . . . and the toaster. Grimacing, he started opening cupboard doors until he found one and then the other. Santo set up the toaster on the counter, plugged it in, popped two pieces of bread in, and then grunted with satisfaction. Easy-peasy. He could do this, he thought, and then turned to Parker. “What do you want on it?”
“Peanut butter and jelly, please,” Parker answered, and then added, “And butter of course. Or margarine I guess if you don’t have butter.”
“Right.” Santo turned away to start his search. He found the peanut butter in the cupboard, the butter on the counter in a little white dish, and grape jelly in the fridge. He then grabbed a plate and knife. Once he had everything set up next to the toaster, he retrieved another glass and poured more juice, this one for Pet when she came down. He then moved back to the toaster to wait . . . and wait.
“How long does it take?” he asked finally.
“It’ll pop up when it’s ready,” Parker assured him. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather I make it?”
“No,” Santo repeated, and then turned back to the toaster as the bread suddenly seemed to try to leap out of it. Grunting, Santo snatched both of the golden brown slices and set them on the plate. He slathered one with butter and one with peanut butter, and then hesitated about the jelly. Finally, he just smeared some on both pieces of toast, stuck them together, cut the sandwich he’d made in half and carried the plate to the table.
“Thank you,” Parker said politely, but Santo noted the way the kid eyed the toast uncertainly, before picking up one half and beginning to eat. It made him suspect he’d done something not quite right, but the boy didn’t complain, so he decided he’d ask Marguerite later what he might have done wrong.
Heading back to the toaster, he set two more slices of bread in, but didn’t press them down. He wouldn’t do that until he heard Pet coming down the stairs. He’d get her a coffee then too, he thought as he glanced at the spitting coffeepot. That way it would be warm for her.
Nodding to himself, Santo turned to lean against the counter and crossed his arms as he watched Parker eat. The boy took his time, taking small bites and chewing each one about a thousand times before swallowing and taking another bite. At least, that’s how it seemed to Santo as he watched.
He’d left the peanut butter and jam jars open, and their scents drifted to him as he waited, making his nose twitch. It was a scent he’d smelled each morning when Bricker and Zani had toast, and was usually a scent he could take or leave, or just didn’t notice. This morning it actually smelled . . . good, he realized, turning his head to glance to the peanut butter container. He stared at it silently for a minute, then picked it up and dipped his finger in to catch a small amount on the tip. Drawing it out, he then popped his finger in his mouth and sucked it off.
Santo closed his eyes with surprised pleasure. It was creamy and thick and rich and . . . The taste was like nothing he remembered from when he used to eat. Although, he supposed they hadn’t had peanut butter back then, at least not where he’d been born. Santo opened his eyes and dipped his finger in again.
“Don’t let Aunt Pet see you sticking your fingers in the food. She’ll give you heck,” Parker warned.
Santo glanced guiltily toward the kitchen door at that news, but didn’t stop eating the peanut butter. Instead, he grabbed a spoon out of the drawer to eat it with. When the peanut butter ran out, he turned to the jelly with curiosity and started on that. This was a totally different flavor, sweet and light on his tongue.