Need a time machine? Well, I can only offer this one that takes you back to last month’s newsletter subscriber steamy scene. But hey! Sometimes another steamy scene is exactly the medicine we need, right? ♥

The previous subscriber exclusive was a steamy scene straight out of Blood Bond (Bloodline Saga 1) which releases 11/1. Check out this month’s exclusive to read the first three chapters for free!

The leaves were fading from green to yellow; some had already turned orange where they were still hanging on to their branches, waiting for a stiff wind to knock them free. It was cool, the breeze sending shivers, but it wasn’t yet cold.

The knowledge that this was one of the last chances the two of them would have to be together in their tree until the winter ended and the leaves returned was heavy in the damp air. Heavy on Matra’s mind as she looked at Christopher.

He was standing on a thick limb below the one where she was perched so they were face-to-face, eye-to-eye.

She started to say something about the cold when a breeze rattled the leaves around them but stopped herself, as though acknowledging it would make the leaves fall faster.

Christopher’s gray eyes were someplace else, looking off into the leaves. It was a rare opportunity to observe him without being noticed. Most of the time when she looked at him, he looked at her like he could feel her eyes on him.  In this moment, she could soak up the opportunity to study the smooth skin across his angled jaw and the way his dark hair was always a little wild. She liked, especially, the line of his neck where it met his shoulders and disappeared into the collar of his t-shirt.

“What are you thinking about?” she finally asked, curious to know what had his attention.

His eyes returned to hers and he shook his head. He smiled, but it was heavy. “Things I shouldn’t be.”

“Like what?” Matra pried.

He peered at her for a moment, then his eyes skirted away again.

“Christopher, what?” she pried again. “You know you can tell me anything.”


She shrugged. “Yeah. Of course.” She’d certainly told him everything. He knew more about her than anyone did. That she still had never had a period, despite being nearly sixteen. That her shins still ached sometimes, ever since they’d caned her for talking back and demanding to know why she wasn’t allowed to leave the compound. That she could remember the last birthday party she’d ever had—though she couldn’t remember the date of her birthday. Everything.

“I want to try human blood.”

That brought her up short, but only because it wasn’t what she’d been expecting.

She shrugged. “That’s probably pretty normal, right?”

But Christopher didn’t look so certain, his brows furrowing and his gaze skipping away again. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Well, can’t you ask Julia? Or Topher?” They’d know, wouldn’t they? Being Born Immortals themselves.

He’d scoffed. “Hell no. Mom’s heart would be broken, and my father—” he rolled his eyes. “He’d lecture me about the virtues of control or something.” He groaned. “But I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s like a constant loop in my head, even while I’m sleeping.”

“Is this like the vampire equivalent of puberty?” Matra asked, smiling and mostly joking. Mostly.

That softened Christopher’s edges a little. He chuckled. “Maybe, who knows? I thought I’d done that already.”

“On fast forward,” Matra added.

“Not for an Immortal—but yeah.”

“You went from a boy-voice one day, to a man-voice the next. Literally.”

He grimaced. “Yeah, that kind of hurt, to be honest.”

Matra laughed. Then she said something crazy—and honest. “Well. You can try mine, if you want.”

Christopher’s gaze snapped to hers so fast she could have sworn his eyes made a sound when they landed on her. He seemed to hold his breath for a time; when he exhaled, his breath shook as it left his parted lips.

“You’d do that?” His eyes lightened and his voice was low, tentative.

Matra nodded. “For you, yes. If—” Now for the really crazy part. “If you let me taste yours.”

She’d be lying if she said it wasn’t something she’d wondered about.

Christopher’s eyes went wide. He stared at her for a number of heartbeats, so long Matra started to worry she’d overstepped. But before she could open her mouth to take it back, he nodded a stilted, lopsided nod and seemed to force a swallow down his throat.

“Yeah, okay.”

A thrill buzzed through her. What they were talking about doing was against every rule—it was against the law!

Yet, with him, it felt like something outside of all of that—ungovernable.

“Okay,” Matra replied, nodding and thinking. “I can probably steal a knife from the kitchen tonight while I help make dinner.” That wouldn’t be hard to do.

“We don’t need a knife,” Christopher said. “If you don’t mind teeth.”

Now what thrilled through her wasn’t just giddy excitement—it was a deeper seated, darker, more private kind of thrill the thought of his teeth against her skin created.

She started to nod, but caught herself and shook her head instead. “No, I don’t mind teeth.”

She jumped when his fingers brushed hers.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

Her heart was beating hard behind her ribs, but the tempo was sure and strong and steady. There were few—if any—things she got to choose for herself. She was choosing this. “Yes. I’m sure.”

Then their fingers were entwining, and it was hard to breathe. If they were going to do this, it had to be today. They might not get to be alone like this again for months.

“You first,” she heard herself say.

“Drink first?”

Oh my god. “Yes.”

His chest was sawing, breath drawing in and out of his open lips as he brought her wrist to his lips. He drew closer, stepping up alongside her branch so that, if she’d wanted to—been brave enough to—she could have hooked her dangling leg around him.

Then his mouth was against her skin, and for one moment all she could feel was his breath and his open, satin lips against the inside of her wrist.

With one last, fast breath, he pushed her wrist against his teeth and bit.

The slash of pain was like a gunshot through her skin. She jumped, but before she could even think to pull away, the pain was replaced by the delicious sensation of his lips against her flesh and the sight of his hands holding her wrist in place. Pleasure washed through her, renewed with every pull from her wrist while she watched him. His eyes were closed, his brows furrowed, but not in pain or discomfort.

Matra stroked her foot up the back of his calf. She imagined reaching for him with her free hand. Pulling him close and running her fingers over his chest, up his neck and through his hair. She imagined what it would be like if, when he eventually pulled away, she replaced her wrist with her lips against his mouth. What would it be like to kiss him?

He pulled back before she worked up the courage to do any of it. Then he turned his face away and wiped his mouth, but he didn’t let go of her wrist.

“Did I hurt you?” He looked back to her, entwining his fingers with hers. “You jumped. Did it hurt?”

She glanced at her wrist only to find a faint pink mark, but nothing more as evidence of what they’d just done. “It hurt for a second but—” then she didn’t know how to finish that sentence. “It was good,” was what she decided on. “What did it taste like?”

He watched her for a second, his gray eyes darker than she’d ever seen them, his gaze searching hers. “It tasted like the ocean,” he said. “Like freedom, and power. And sex. It tasted like sex—or what I imagine that would be like.”

Matra’s cheeks went warm.

“Do you…?”

She looked to him. “Still want to?”

He nodded.

“If you’re okay with it.”

His low laugh made it seem like he was more than okay with it. So, watching him, she lifted his hand, and brought it to his own mouth.

“I don’t think I could bite you hard enough,” she explained, her voice low.

“No, you couldn’t,” he agreed. Then he bit his own wrist, wincing as he did it.

Blood welled in the two, short, crescent-shaped puncture wounds when he turned his wrist to her. “Quick, before it heals.”

Heart thundering in her ears, she took his wrist in both of her hands, pulled it to her mouth, and ran her tongue over the bleeding wounds.

Berries. And wildflowers.


Strength and fearless resolve took hold.

She locked her lips to his wrist and pulled once, twice. A third time. Her eyes fell closed as power rushed through her, voltage running down her veins like live wires, pooling low in her belly and lighting her brain with thought and logic and love. She was everywhere, and she was only with him. She was apart, and she was connected to him—connected to every living creature on earth. 

Then, as quickly as the explosion hit, it was over, leaving behind a buzzing knowledge she would never be the same. That Christopher was part of her, just as she was part of him.

The wounds sealed closed, she sat with his wrist in her mouth for a time, her sawing breath damp against his skin.

She kissed his wrist when he turned his hand to cradle her face, pressing his fingers against her cheek and squeezing her eyes shut. Wishing they were anywhere but here.

“What was it like?” he asked, his voice low, private.

“Like flowers,” she said. “And you were everywhere. Everything.” She opened her eyes—and drew a breath. He was so breathtaking. It was like she’d never seen him before. She blinked. “My everything.”

Then his lips were crashing down on hers, and she was kissing him, nothing between them to get in the way, no uncertainty. No rules that applied to them. 

She swore the tree pushed them together—that the air around them lit, sparking to life. Or maybe that was just her brain, as a chain reaction ignited. It ran down her spine, where it blossomed between her thighs, a gnawing need that made her breath shallow and her skin hungry. In her ears, all she could hear was her own heartbeat and his sawing breath.

“My everything,” he mumbled against her mouth. “You’re everything.”

His fingers slid under the hem of her shirt and she arched against him, willing him forward, desperate to feel his skin on her skin. He was all she needed—


Christopher turned to a statue against her, pinning her to the trunk of the tree. Her fingers were deep in his hair, closed in fists. His hands were hot against the skin of her back, and his hips were pressed between her open thighs.

“Matricia!” They’d been caught.