I can smell blood, Elena,” Dmitri drawled, walking back into the room. “Are you trying to flirt?

Do you know where Jason is?” she asked Dmitri when they exited the morgue. Dmitri pressed the car remote to unlock the flame red Ferrari parked in the employees-only lot. “Tired of your Bluebell already?” A tendril of champagne circled around her senses, cut with something far harder. Never had she felt that harsh edge in Dmitri’s scent. She pitied the woman he took to his bed today.
“Yeah, that’s it. I’m building a harem.

Dmitri clearly gives good . . . blood.

But it was the dark hunger in his tone that got to her. Damn kinky vampire had actually liked the knife.
Shit.

Sara held up a hand. 'How exactly did you "decline" his offer?'
'By slitting his throat.

In my time,” he said, “they believed in witches. Are you a witch, Honor, that you make me say these things to you?”
Causing him to rip open wounds that had stayed safely scabbed over for so long that, most of the time, he managed to forget they existed.
Her hands, so very, very gentle, continued to hold his face as she tugged him down until their foreheads touched.
“I’m no witch, Dmitri. If I was, I’d know how to fix you.