Page 51 of All Your Bloody Lies

After tucking her into my bed, I ordered groceries and have been patiently waiting for her to wake up ever since.

Buzz. Buzz.

My phone vibrates on the counter, and I swiftly grab it without checking who’s calling. “Hello?”

There aren’t many people that call me, so my assumption was Achille. However, I was wrong, instead it was his son, Marcos.

“Hey, Kairhyse. How’s it going?” I lean against the wall, my eyes trained straight up the stairway, watching the door to my bedroom with intensity.

“It’s going, how can I help you?” I maintain a composed tone, though I sense a simmering frustration building within me. The frequent requests for updates are beginning to grate on my nerves; this is the second one within twenty-four hours. With a meeting scheduled with Achille tomorrow, I’m irked by the additional interruption.

Marcos sighs, “I require assistance, but it’s unrelated to the killer you are after. At least, I think it is.”

“Is there compensation involved?” I idly twirl my index finger against my thumb. “And how long will it take?”

“I understand you’re occupied with tracking down the girl. We want to find out if Mathas died in a separate attack, or if it was the girl. My father has asked me,” I tune him out as I hear shuffling in my room. The sheets and blankets are moving, but I don’t hear her feet tap against the floor yet.

Then a soft chirp, almost like a moan, signals she’s waking up.

“—but I’m at a loss for leads. There are reports suggesting a Vampire intervened to rescue a girl from Mathas, but it all seems peculiar. And the accounts of the incident vary drastically. Dispatch and authorities claim the assailant who killed Mathas was a white male with spiked hair, but eyewitnesses offer conflicting descriptions. The description of the girl rescued also differs.“ Marcos continues, but I remain silent, attuned to the presence of my little demon.

“Where... am I?” her voice is but a whisper to herself.

“Kairhyse, do you mind digging into that for me? We just want to close out Mathas’ case.”

“Sure,” I mutter, my tone clipped. “I’ll look into it.” With that, I end the call and place the phone on the counter.

As my bedroom door creaks open, I instinctively cross my arms, watching as Xeraphine emerges, appearing utterly bewildered. I puther into a fresh shirt when we got here, still one of mine, silently enjoying the sight of her wearing it. The gentle patter of her feet against the wooden floor fills the room, accompanied only by the sound of her sharp breath as she surveys the landing, then the living room beyond.

I reside in the heart of Sidence, though not in a penthouse—it feels too ostentatious for my taste, despite being able to afford it. The walls are predominantly black, accented with white trim to soften the obsidian aesthetic. Minimalistic yet elegant furniture dots the space, with three large sofas in red adorned with white pillows, arranged around a glass table. Before them stands a towering fireplace, reaching up to the twenty-or-so-foot ceilings.

In one corner sits a piano, an instrument I’ve never quite mastered, but I enjoy its automatic melodies during feedings—though dining at home has become a rare occurrence. I can’t even remember the last time I brought someone here.

“I see you’re not lacking in funds,” Xeraphine remarks dryly, her gaze sweeping over the luxurious surroundings. “Unless you’ve broken into someone else’s house, that is.”

“Did I also carjack the Corvette?” I retort with a toothy grin.

She eyes me as she descends the stairs. “Honestly, I wouldn’t put anything past you at this point,” she remarks. Once she’s on the main level, I contemplate kissing her.

“Feeling hungry?” I ask, resisting the urge because I’d like to keep her from leaving too quickly.

“No,” she replies, pausing to consider. “Maybe. I don’t know, actually. I feel strange.”

A knot of concern tightens in my stomach, but I keep it in check. “Maybe just try. I’ll make you something.” Not waiting for her to protest, I head into the kitchen, equally lavish, yet unused for its intended purpose. Here, too, I eschew the storage of even blood.

The kitchen boasts black marble countertops, complemented by dark gray cabinets adorned with silver accents. The lone exception is the farmhouse sink, a pristine white amidst the dark hues.

“Why do you even need such a nice kitchen?” Her tone carries that usual hint of irritation. “Seems like such a waste.”

I’m opening the stainless-steel fridge when I retort, “What else would I have here?” I think I’ll just make her a sandwich; quick, easy—can’t fuck that up. “Do you like turkey? I can also make you a peanut butter and jelly.”

“Youknow I’m fully capable of making myself a sandwich...” she remarks, slinking up beside me and reaching for the ingredients. Her insistence on independence can be infuriating at times.

I take her wrist and drag her a step back, “Because it’s my house, so I will make it.” Our eyes lock and her lips are pressed into a fine line. Imagining her softening up to me is as unlikely as a zealot of the Gods bowing to Belial himself.

Guess it’s a good thing I’m persistent with things I want.

“Sit your ass down on that barstool, Xera.” I gesture with my head, “And I’ll bring you your sandwich. Now, turkey or peanut butter and jelly, like a child, because that is how you are acting.”

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