Reluctance

She ran home, miraculously arriving without incident. In her private bathroom, grateful no one else had arrived yet, she grabbed a washcloth and scrubbed her face.

  This was followed with a teeth scrubbing that would make any dentist proud, and still she didn't feel clean. She wondered what Jace would think when she showed him what he could become with her help—if he helped her in return. She lay on her bed once again, closing her eyes against the world, even if sleep would never come.

  And yet, Jace's face wasn't the one she saw when she closed her eyes. It was the face of a certain delicious-smelling, blond boy who should have left her alone.

  * * * * *

  Cam knew he should have left Dahlia alone. But he couldn't seem to help himself. So, here he was, waiting for her on the top step outside the hospital in the early morning. He knew she was scheduled—he'd checked. He couldn't even say just what it was that compelled him. She was not at all the type of girl he usually dated. But the first time he'd seen her, he'd seen past the frizzy hair, past the frumpy clothes. He'd seen a beautiful girl, a beautifully charming, clumsy girl.

  Dahlia stumbled out of the high SUV driven by her father as he stopped to let her out in front of the hospital. She nearly dropped her university books as she hurried up the sidewalk, not bothering to watch where she walked.

  "Hey," he said as she came even with him.

  She did drop her books then as her eyes met his. She stared at him for a long moment, then squatted down to gather her books. Cam followed and helped her gather them into an untidy pile.

  "Sorry about that," he said.

  "About what?" she asked. "You didn't drop them."

  Cam smiled. "No, but I scared you, maybe?"

  She gave him a funny look. "Hardly. I don't frighten that easily."

  "Hmm," he responded noncommittally.

  As she walked into the building, he followed, holding the doors open for her.

  She didn't seem pleased with his gesture and hurried away. He easily caught up.

  "Listen, I was wondering—"

  "Why are you talking to me?" she interrupted, stopping abruptly in place, causing the people behind to bump into them. He reached out to balance her as she stumbled.

  "I don't know, I . . . don't you want me to?" Cam was confused by her utter rejection of him.

  "No, it's not that . . . it's just . . . . I'm not really the kind of girl you normally talk to."

  "And you know this after only knowing me for one day?"

  "I know your type," she said, walking again.

  Cam followed. "What is my type?" he asked, offended.

  "You know—you're cute and popular. You probably played sports in high school, and never sit at home on the weekends. The girls you date would be popular as well, pretty and put together. Not plain, not clumsy, not mon—" She clamped her lips together tightly and walked faster.

  "You're not plain," Cam said, hurrying after her.

  She rolled her eyes. He followed her to the break room door, where she stopped.

  She couldn't just keep running around, dragging her heavy books.

  "Dahlia," he said, when she ignored his presence. She looked up at him, unwilling, but unable to resist his tone. "You're not plain." She shook her head; he leaned closer. "You're not plain."

  She turned away, hand on the door handle, unable to speak over the strange feelings invading her being. He leaned casually against the wall next to her and said,

  "You think I'm cute, huh?"

  She laughed before she could stop herself and looked up to see him grinning at her.

  "Out of everything I said, that's what you got?"

  He shrugged. "It seemed like a good point."

  She laughed again, and his heart lurched at the sound.

  "There's something wrong with you," she said.

  "Possibly," he concurred. "Sit with me at lunch?"

  She stared at him, mouth slightly agape.

  "Why?" she finally said.

  "Because I enjoy being insulted every two minutes, and you manage to fill that quota nicely," he said teasingly. She blushed—or would have blushed had she been able to.

  "Sorry," she said, genuinely apologetic. One thing that was important to her was avoiding the nastiness her family reveled in.

  "I know how you can make it up to me," he cajoled.

  "Fine," she relented. "I'll sit with you. Be prepared for a boring hour, though. I'm not exactly a good conversationalist."

  "You're doing okay, now," Cam said.

  Dahlia looked at him, disbelieving.

  "Maybe you don't give yourself enough credit," he said.

  He walked away, leaving Dahlia to stare after him, stunned.

  * * * * *

  "So, Professor Jordan totally screwed up the equation, the one he'd marked wrong on all our papers, though we had gotten it right. But the best thing was when, of all people, Tim Foley corrected him." Dahlia grinned.

  " Tim Foley? " Cam laughed. "Are you serious? He's the biggest pothead at the school. I'm not even sure how he graduated, let alone got into college."

  "I know. That's why it was so brilliant."

  Dahlia had been sitting with Cam at lunch every day for the past two weeks when their break times coordinated. After they sat together that first day, it seemed silly to refuse to sit with him again—and, as an added benefit, he insisted on carrying her tray, preventing her from any embarrassing tray launches. As it turned out, he was pretty easy to talk to, and there were never any awkward silences between them. If his face haunted her each night after the hunt, well, she could pretend to ignore that. She was sure that happened only because he was becoming a friend—her first friend in this town. Dahlia still had her eye on Jace—he was everything her people would admire. He could transform her into someone suitable, help her win acceptance. And once she changed him, he would be loyal to her alone.

  "So . . . ." Cam hesitated. Sitting up in his chair, his posture and scent both screamed anxiety and immediately set Dahlia on edge. "I was wondering if you'd like to hang out this weekend."

  "Hang out?" she repeated. What did he mean by that? Like a date, or just as friends?

  "You know, hang out, together, in the same area . . . possibly at the same place.

  I'd even go so far as to say if we were in the same restaurant, we could sit at the same table."

  His tone teased, but he had a serious look in his eyes. She really wasn't sure what to think of his invitation.

  "Like . . . a date?"

  Cam laughed uncomfortably. "You say that like it's a disease."

  "No . . . I mean, I didn't mean . . . ." She swallowed nervously.

  "The polite answer would be, 'Thank you, Cam, but I'm busy.' Which I will know is a blatant lie, but we'll pretend it spares my feelings."

  "Cam, I—"

  "The correct answer would be, 'Sure, Cam, I'd love to go, because we have fun at lunch together, so I think we'd probably have fun together no matter where we are.'"

  Dahlia laughed. He always knew how to save her from her inability to handle social situations.

  "Okay, Cam, let's hang out this weekend. It'll be fun."

  Cam released a huge, overdramatic sigh.

  "What?" she asked with a wide grin.

  "I don't believe I've ever had to work that hard for a date," he said teasingly as he walked away, leaving her sitting there, dumbfounded.

  Did he just say date?

  * * * * *

  Cam stood outside Dahlia's door, hesitant to lift his hand and ring the bell. He genuinely liked Dahlia, her quirkiness, her sense of humor, her utter clumsiness. He felt she was just left-of-center enough that Jace might not notice her, but he couldn't be certain. That made him nervous. He really, really didn't want to put Dahlia on Jace's radar—and not just to protect his own pride. Tabby was cut from a different cloth than Dahlia. She could handle Jace. But Dahlia . . . Jace would eat Dahlia alive.

  Completely unsure of his actions, aware of the risk he took, Cam rang the doorbe
ll.

  * * * * *

  "Major hottie at the door," Aster said. "Helping him with his homework or something? Tutoring?"

  "No," Dahlia told Aster smugly. "He's my date."

  For the first time ever, Aster was speechless. Dahlia took one last uncomfortable look in the mirror. She couldn't tame her hair, so she'd finally just twisted it into one long, heavy braid. She'd put on jeans—which she rarely wore because she felt they looked ridiculous on her—and a beige shirt somewhere between a blouse and a tee. As Dahlia slipped one of her feet into a sneaker, Aster suddenly found her voice.

  "No, Dahlia, that's terrible." She bent down and, to Dahlia's annoyance, pulled the shoe off her foot.

  "Wait here," Aster commanded. She ran to her room and back within a few seconds, carrying a pair of low, black boots. Without asking, she dropped to her knees and shoved Dahlia's feet into the boots.

  "There. Much better."

  Dahlia looked in the mirror again and had to admit the boots did look good with the jeans. But she didn't think they looked good on her. She looked like she was trying to be something she wasn't.

  "I don't know, Aster. I think—"

  "He's waiting," Aster interrupted, pushing Dahlia out the door toward the stairs.

  She might have gone back and changed them anyway, but she heard her mother's voice coming from the drawing room where she knew Cam was waiting. She rushed down the stairs, only slipping once.

  ". . . and after I'd raised the money for the JDRF—the most they'd ever raised in such a short time, I might add—I turned my efforts to—"

  "Hey!" Dahlia called, cutting off her mother's rambling as she stumbled in the boots and practically skidded into the room. Her mother had Cam trapped on the very expensive mohair sofa where no one was ever allowed to sit and was standing in front of him in what Dahlia called her "model" pose—hand on her hip, turned slightly to the side with her feet in a loose interpretation of the ballet fourth position, chest out, free hand flowing expressively with her words. She was dressed in a tight skirt and a shirt cut too low, and Cam looked a little terrified. When Dahlia came in, he stood quickly, sliding past her mother.

  "Hey," he said, smiling with relief.

  "Ready to go?"

  "Yes," he said, hurrying to Dahlia's side.

  "Wait," Rose purred, with a bit of growl beneath the purr. "Let me get a photo of the two of you."

  Dahlia groaned, but knew it was useless to argue. Her mother pulled out the big, expensive camera, hoping to impress Cam. The two of them smiled warily for the photograph, and then Dahlia practically dragged Cam from the house.

  "I'm so sorry about that," she said, once they were both ensconced in his car.

  "No, it's fine, she's really . . . um, nice."

  She laughed at his hesitation.

  "You don't have to try to be kind, Cam. She's overbearing and pretentious . . .

  kind of like my house."

  "You don't like your house?"

  "Are you kidding? It's like a mausoleum or something."

  Cam laughed. "You know what a mausoleum is, right?"

  "Of course I do."

  "Okay, well, a mausoleum that size would house the cadavers of . . . a whole city."

  "Cadavers? Really?" Dahlia raised one eyebrow.

  "You have a better word?"

  She grinned at him. "Carcasses?"

  "That's terrible, Dahlia." Cam laughed.

  They arrived at the Mexican restaurant, Cam running around to open her door—

  a first for her. Before closing her door, Cam reached into the backseat, pulling out a single flower to hand her—a dahlia, of course. A pink one.

  "Thank you," she said. It was the first time anyone—any boy—had given her a flower. Her heart jumped a little at the gesture.

  "You know what the dahlia means?"

  "Yes. Everything I'm not."

  "Wrong," he said. "It means dignity and elegance."

  "Exactly," Dahlia said. "If Rose was going to insist on going with flower names all around for her daughters, she should have gone with 'Geranium' for me. It means stupidity."

  "Dahlia," he said, taking her hand in his. Her heart beat picked up . . . and so did his, loud and clear to her. She felt the edge of the hunger begin and pushed it down with effort. "You are the furthest person from stupid I know."

  "I'm not talking about book smart," Dahlia argued.

  "Neither am I."

  "I have no dignity."

  "Not true," he refuted. "I've watched how you deal with those who look down at you. You don't cower. You don't get angry."

  "I don't know if that's dignity or pride. And elegance is nowhere near being one of my virtues." She pictured herself—dressing like a grandma, stumbling through life . .

  . tearing into a victim like an animal. She saw nothing elegant in even the smallest corner of her being.

  Cam lifted her hand to his lips, and, for one second, she was reminded of the Old Ones, how they always maintained proper manners even when they committed their harshest acts. Then he turned her hand and laid it alongside his cheek.

  "The first day you walked into GCC, I knew there was something different about you."

  You have no idea, she thought.

  "Beneath every stumble was grace, in the line of your face there was poise, the way you held your head reminded me of the most refined ladies who live in town."

  "Did you read this somewhere, Cam?" she asked cynically, pulling her hand from his.

  He laughed. "It's mine . . . but I practiced—a lot." He paused, then added, "And I used a thesaurus."

  She shook her head, crestfallen her first real compliment was just good use of a thesaurus.

  "But"—he interrupted her pity party, punctuating the word with a raised finger before placing both hands on her waist—"that doesn't mean that the words are any less true."

  He stepped closer, and she heard both their pulses ratchet up. His breath came heavier, igniting her hunger with fierceness as she scented the blood that pulsed through him.

  "I'm going to kiss you, Dahlia," Cam informed her. She fought the voracious blaze that flamed in her belly and raced up her throat. Her eyes dropped to the base of his throat, where his pulse beat like a siren's song—inescapable, irresistible. She felt her fangs begin to elongate. She could take him without any effort; all she had to do was—

  He pressed his lips to hers. A sensation she'd never experienced before flooded her body, washing away the hunger, the burning replaced with a sense of wonder. Her fangs retracted completely as his mouth moved on hers, and the only pounding she could hear as her arms slid up around his shoulders was her own pulse. When he pulled back, she could only stare at him in amazement. He looked a little stunned himself.

  "Dinner?" he finally said.

  "Huh?" She couldn't comprehend the word.

  Cam laughed. "Are you ready for dinner?"

  "Oh, um, yeah. Okay."

  * * * * *

  Dahlia found herself watching Cam more than usual in the weeks after their date. She got him to kiss her as often as possible, loving the feeling of calm, happiness, and fulfillment that overcame her each time—able to forget for those few moments just what she was. She never got tired of being with him. They seemed to find endless subjects to discuss, and had a similar sense of humor. Dahlia laughed more with Cam than she had at any other time in her life.

  It was never far from her mind, however, that he wasn't for her. Jace was her quarry, the one who would gain her acceptance among her people—because he was corrupt enough to want that life. Cam was not. Cam was too good, too pure for her to drag down into her reality. She could totally see Jace hunting—and enjoying the hunt.

  But Cam . . . every time she tried to imagine it, picture him as the hunter, taking down some hapless human . . . the image wasn't right. I may be a selfish person, she thought, but not enough to condemn Cam to such a life.

  She figured she could indulge herself for another few weeks. For once in
her life, she would allow something fun and pleasurable to be a part of her life . . . but then she'd have to move on with her original plan. She was running out of time. It was only six months until her twenty-first birthday. She had put her decision off as long as she could, and now she was almost out of time. She looked across the lunch room at Jace, who stood surrounded by his fan club as she thought of them. As if he could sense her gaze, Jace looked up. She could see his lip curl in distaste when he noticed her observation.

  Cam slid onto the bench next to her, his tray loaded with food for the both of them. She smiled at him, and he kissed her quickly on the lips. Her eyes flicked back to Jace, and she couldn't help but notice his distaste had turned to interest.

  * * * * *

  "Hey there."

  Dahlia turned at the unfamiliar voice—and saw Jace, smiling in what she assumed was supposed to be a seductive manner. Her pulse leapt, but more from dread than from excitement or nervousness. She knew she'd have to begin her pursuit of him soon, but she never would have guessed he'd approach her first. She wasn't prepared.

  "Um . . . hi," she said.

  "I'm Jace."

  "Yeah, I know."

  He smirked, as if it were obvious she would know him. "And you are?"

  Dahlia felt a chill climb up her spine. He didn't even know her name.

  "Dahlia," she said reluctantly.

  "Beautiful name, for a beautiful flower."

  Dahlia nearly laughed aloud. "Did you read that somewhere?" she asked, repeating the words she'd used with Cam.

  "What? No. Why would you ask?"

  Dahlia bit the inside of her cheek. She suddenly, overwhelmingly, did not want to have anything to do with Jace McMahon.

  "Just kidding," she told him.

  "Oh." He gave an unconvincing laugh. "So, uh, you and Cam Taylor, huh?"

  "Me and Cam, what?" She couldn't keep the annoyance from her voice.

  "I saw the two of you at lunch, and it seemed like you were . . . you know."

  She just stared at him, not giving an inch.

  " Together," he said in exasperation.