Page 37 of Vampire Soldier

I didn’t mark her neck, even though her fluttering pulse made my fangs lengthen and my cock harden.

Instead I let her walk away… because I’m supposed to be the one with control. The one restrained enough to follow rules. General of the Nightshades. Businessman. Professional. Responsible.

Except all of that restraint is a lie when I’m close to her.

Now I watch her row home, counting how long each room stays lit.

The flick of yellow light dies from the kitchen first. Twenty-three seconds later, the hallway dimmer clicks off. Then the soft orange glow I know is Charlie’s night-light filters through the sheer curtains of the bedroom window. I sit on the roof edge and watch Blake slowly circle the front windows, checking locks again.

Once. Twice.

Her hair’s down tonight, softer than it has any right to be, curling against her cheek where she pushes it back out of habit. I noticed she had the lilac color refreshed and wonder what she’d look like with her natural hair. Just as beautiful, no doubt. She’s in one of those oversized sleep shirts again, no bra, and I curse every shred of ethics I have because my damn cock tightens like a leash on a starving dog.

And I know—gods help me—I know this isn’t passing infatuation. It isn’t some indulgence I’ll shake off after a few weeks of tension and a night in her bed. No. I’m becoming obsessed with her. With the way she smells, the way she tucks her chin when she’s thinking, the way she lies through her teeth to everyone but still can’t quite lie to me. I’m coming undone over a woman I swore I wouldn’t touch again.

I won’t admit it to her. Not yet. Not to Perry. Not to the clan. But here, in the dark, with only the moon and my guilt to bear witness—I admit it to myself.

Charlie appears for a moment in the hallway behind her, arms wrapped around a plush narwhal. Blake smiles, bends to kiss her on the temple.

And then the home goes dark.

I should leave. She signed her employment papers, shifted to professionalism so seamlessly I almost believed she’d forgotten about the way she came on my cock while I held her hands down.

But I can’t leave. Not tonight.

There’s something wrong. I can feel it in the pit behind my ribs, in the teeth of the wind. The same way I can feel an ambush coming hours before the shadows shift. The part of me that has slaughtered men, that has defended the Barrows for centuries, that has kept me and mine alive… it’s screaming now.

The apartment stays dark for an hour.

Then two.

I sit like a statue, breathing her faint scent in. Listening to the steady, even beats of her and her daughter’s hearts. Waiting.

Thinking about the fact that she and Charlie like the same shitty shows I do. Married at First Sight. They’d been watching the recent episode earlier in the evening, the sounds of the season’s latest pair of disasters echoing through the front windows.

If there’s a part of me that wants that—a real connection, the often painful honesty of partners trying and failing—it stays buried.

Until now.

I scent it before I hear it.

A scuff. Barely audible. Like suede against cement.

A whisper of motion—too quiet for a human to catch. A scrape of fabric. The unmistakable creak of an old floorboard, just one, in the far back corner of the apartment.

Inside.

Then a soft gasp—barely audible, but sharp enough to pierce through my spine. Blake’s voice, too low for a human to hear, too clear for me to ignore.

“Charlie—shhh, baby. Come here. Into my room. Hurry.”

The doorknob clicks. A rush of breath. Wood dragging against wood—furniture scraped hastily across the floor. The soft clatter of something locking into place.

My legs are moving before I’m even aware I’ve leapt from the rooftop, gravity snapping at the hem of my coat, the wind tearing past my face. I hit the street below in a crouch, already lunging toward her row home. Even before my boots hit pavement I’m snarling, fangs punching free, the snick of power sliding through my limbs like oiled blades. The windows on this block rattle with the force of impact—I make no effort to hide it. Let anyone watching know: a predator is loose, and he’s hunting.

There’s nothing. No footfalls. No scent trail. No fear scent from the intruder—which in itself is an answer. Whoever it is, they knew how to mask it. They’re good. Too good. Blake screams above as a door is bashed against. Her scent floods into me as I reach the side of the house—blinding, concentrated, laced with adrenaline and the copper-bright note of blood.

She’s hurt.

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