Covet (Crave)

I expect Hudson to be annoyed, but he just rolls his eyes and snarks, “Damned by faint praise.”

Apparently, Jaxon isn’t the only one who likes to misquote Hamlet…

Hudson growls, a predatory gleam replacing the softer look from before, and thrusts one of his hands in my curls, his other snaking around my back and yanking me against his hard chest. My hands slide up to tangle in his silky hair, and I think I’m going to die if he doesn’t—

Suddenly, a knock sounds on the door—loud, hard, urgent—and we break apart so fast that Hudson has to grab me again to keep me from tumbling off the side of the bed.

“What?” He looks offended. “You think because I’m a vampire, I don’t know how to make a sandwich?”

“Well…it does seem part of a skill set you have no need for.”

For long seconds, he doesn’t say anything, just kind of watches me out of eyes that are unfathomable. But eventually he answers, “I do have a half-human mate, you know. And she needs to eat human food. Besides,” he continues with a shrug, “YouTube is a thing.

I start to ask him what he’s going to do with it, but the words turn to dust in my mouth as he leans forward and slowly, carefully weaves the flowers through the windswept curls that aren’t tucked into my hat.

“How do they look?” I ask, tilting my head so he can get a better view of the flowers.

“Beautiful.” But he’s not looking at the flowers when he answers. He’s looking at me…and somehow that makes everything better and worse, all at the same time.

“What do you think Kant and Kierkegaard would say about bringing your personal issues into the classroom?” Ms. Virago’s voice slices through the already thick tension surrounding our group.

Because what this conversation really needs is her butting her nose in and making everything worse. I don’t want to make excuses to this woman, but since I can’t trust any of my partners not to screw things up, I know I need to try.

But before I can come up with anything to say, Hudson replies, “I’m pretty sure Kierkegaard would think it was subjective.” Which…come on.

Jaxon rolls his eyes, Flint ducks his head to hide his grin, and I can’t help it—I let out a snort of laughter, then slap my hand over my mouth and nose in a desperate effort to hide the evidence.

Not only do we have the teacher from hell, but somehow I’m part of the most screwed-up testosterone-filled quadrangle—rectangle—square?—in history.

And that’s before Ms. Virago announces we’re going to spend the class working on different ethical problems as part of a group project—right before she gives a viperish smile and says, “Oh, and Miss Foster, Mr. Vega, the other Mr. Vega, and Mr. Montgomery, the four of you will be doing today’s very first presentation.”

“Well, then maybe you should see me after class, too. You and Miss Foster can spend your weekend working on an extra-credit project together.”

“I would—”

A loud cracking sound fills the air, and half of Jaxon’s pen goes flying across the room. It bounces off Ms. Virago’s podium before rolling across the floor to land at her feet.

She turns her stink eye on Jaxon and Flint who, God bless him, cracks up. Just full-on starts laughing like a hyena in the middle of class.

Me: I want to go see the Bloodletter

No response. I force myself to stare at my phone until three dots appear again.

Hudson: I’m free now…

Of course he is. I mean, it’s not insulting at all that he’s so eager to break our bond that he’s willing to drop everything to do it.

Me: Saturday

Hudson: Or now

I send him the eye roll emoji.

Me: I won’t change my mind.

Me: And I’m inviting Jaxon, too

Hudson: Maybe I was too hasty about the snow angel thing…

I burst out laughing, because how can I not?

“Aww, come on, Grace. Don’t you want to know what I thought of your red prom dress? Or that bathing suit you wore to Mission Beach that one time?”

“Bathing suit?” I squeak out, my cheeks on fire as I realize which one he’s talking about. A teeny tiny little bikini. Heather had bought it on sale at a local surf shop, then dared me to wear it. Normally, I wouldn’t have taken that dare for anything, but she’d also accused me of being staid, stuck in my comfort zone, and flat-out chicken.

“You remember,” Hudson prompts. “The purple one with all the strings. It was very”—he draws a couple of tiny little triangles in the air—“geometric.”

“I’ve never told anyone about Miss Velma’s oatmeal cookies.”

His eyes meet mine. “You told me.”