Fractured (Deep In Your Veins, #5)(33)

She bit her lower lip. “I know this is an insensitive thing to say, but Tad should have known he’d never get away with that. He should have been smart.”

“You’re right, but he wasn’t. We came back to a burned-down building.” My Sire had been devastated. “They deserved it. There was no arguing with that.” If anyone went after Imani to get to me, I’d make sure she was avenged somehow—even if I wasn’t strong enough to do the avenging myself. Depending on how old and powerful the vampire was, it usually took a few nights for them to die after their mate was killed.

“I have another question. How did you become a vampire?”

“It’s a common story. I was dying on a battlefield, and someone came along and gave me a choice to live as a vampire or die as a human. To be honest, I thought he was full of shit.” Vampires looking to create a nest often went to battlefields, where they were most likely to find willing humans. It was amazing what choices people would make when they thought they faced death.

“You were in the army?”

“Yes.” And I’d enjoyed it. The discipline, the neatness, the action—all of it had spoken to me on some level.

“How old were you when you were Turned?”

“Guess.”

Tilting her head, she studied every line and curve of my face. “Thirty?”

“Close. Thirty-five.”

“Tell me about your human life.”

My mouth curved. “Very curious tonight, aren’t you?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “You never really told me anything about yourself.”

“But if I answer all your questions at one time, you might lose interest,” I said with a smile.

She slapped my chest. “No, I won’t. Tell me.”

“What exactly do you want to know?”

“Where were you born?”

“Miami, Florida.”

“Human and vampire years together, how old are you?”

I hesitated to answer, wondering if it would bother her. “Seventy-seven.”

She winced, but it was fake and her smile was teasing. “You’re way too old for me.”

“Since you were Turned when you were twenty-five and you’ve only been a vampire for sixteen years now, you could be right.”

Her mouth fell open. “How do you know that?”

“I told you the other night, I know plenty about you.”

“Hmm. It would seem you weren’t kidding. I think it’s only fair, then, that I know more about you. Any siblings?” At my hesitation to answer, she smiled. “It’s not a complicated question.”

I gently tapped her lip. “It is when you don’t know much about your biological family. I was found on the doorstep of a church when I was a baby. But I didn’t have a bad life,” I quickly added when her face scrunched up in outrage. “My adoptive parents were good people.”

Her expression softened a little. “How do you feel about being adopted?”

It was a question I’d been asked many times. “I’ve never known any different. It was my life; the only life I knew. I was adopted as a baby, so I didn’t have to go through the adjustment period that older kids have to deal with.”

“You found out about it when you were young?”

“My parents never hid it from me. A therapist told them to tell me I was adopted once a year, each year until I was nine. Then it would be something that stuck with me; something I grew up knowing.” I was glad of that, because I never felt like I’d been lied to.

“Was it an awkward subject at your house?”

“No, my parents talked freely about it. They always answered any questions I had. My mom, Annette, said that it’s okay if I was upset that I didn’t have my biological family in my life; that she suspected it was the sense of loss an adult might feel for a biological child they just can’t have. It’s a kind of grief, but it doesn’t mean my life is any less good. They even thought I should feel proud of being adopted, because it meant I was chosen.”

“Did you always know you were left on a church doorstep?”

I nodded. “They tried softening the blow by making out like being left at a special place made me special.” But that wasn’t the case at all. “They didn’t want to lie to me.”

“Do you think it was better that way?”

“Yeah. It helped me to accept it.”

“It can’t have been easy to accept.”

“It bothered me most when I was younger. I didn’t look like my parents; it was a small thing, but I didn’t like it. And I didn’t like not knowing about my family’s medical history.” I sighed. “I’d sometimes ask myself who I would have been if my birth mother kept me.”

She petted my chest. “Do you know anything about your biological parents?”

I clenched my hand in her hair. “My biological mother came looking for me once. I was thirteen. She just turned up one day, out of the f*cking blue. She saw my picture in the paper with my adoptive parents at some kind of art gallery opening; said she knew it was me because I looked just like my father, but I had her eyes.”

“And?”

“And I told her to go away.” I’d rejected her the way she rejected me. “My parents saw that as loyalty to them. Honestly, I was just angry. Know why? Her first words were, ‘I’m your mom. Your real mom.’ And that just pissed me off. Annette was my mom. This woman gave birth to me, sure. But then she left me. She chose to do that. She dumped me on a church doorstep, knowing I could end up anywhere. She didn’t go through an adoption process, she didn’t hand me over to social services…she just dumped me.”