Page 49 of Vampire Soldier

I find her near stage right, clipboard in hand, her posture razor-line alert as she adjusts Tara’s notes beside the costume table.

Blake looks exquisite.

Her body moves with brisk efficiency, but I see the flush in her cheeks, the bite of her lip. Her lilac hair is pulled up, curled to frame her cheeks, and she wears a dress I haven’t seen before—a sweetheart neckline, black as ink, tight enough to show the strength she keeps hidden in those short dancer’s legs.

Every inch of her demands attention.

Mine most of all.

She turns, and our eyes lock.

My blood sings.

But she stiffens.

Her spine straightens with professional precision, expression shuttered faster than a drawn curtain. It’s like a blow to the sternum.

Focused. Controlled. Calm through sheer intense will.

I know the cracks beneath it now. Know what it costs to hold everything in place this close to a breakdown. She doesn’t flinch when I step to her side, but the muscle in her jaw tics once—just enough for me to clock the effort it costs her not to react.

Still angry, then.

I deserve worse.

I step close but not in her space. My voice is low enough not to be heard by anyone else. “I want you to join us upstairs for the show.”

She stiffens, hesitates just long enough to make me feel it. Blake doesn’t look at me. “There’s too much to be done.”

Her refusal is smooth. Dignified. It shouldn’t sting. But it does.

I exhale through my nose, letting the pause stretch just a second too long.

Blake finally looks up. Briefly. Just enough for our eyes to meet and for something hot and unfinished to flicker between us. Then it’s gone, shuttered like everything else she won’t let me near. “Mr. Casadecappa, with all due respect, I’m where I belong. I need to be here.”

The way she says my name—formal, detached—slams harder than any insult.

I nod once. Slow. Measured. Fighting the instinct to press.

“Understood.”

I turn away. Not because I want to.

Because she asked me to.

And because if I stay, I’ll say something that will either wreck the night or set us both on fire.

* * *

The hallwayoutside the private balcony suite is lined with shadows and quiet reverence, the kind that only the old ever truly understand. Velvet-wrapped walls, golden sconces burning low like candlelight—not flickering, but steady in a way that promises patience . . . and punishment.

I brace a hand against the door, checking the tightness of my chest as I school every sense into decorum. That Blake refused my invitation shouldn’t unnerve me. Shouldn’t draw blood. But it does.

I gesture at the silent attendant standing beside the door and it swings in without sound, revealing the high-vaulted space that overlooks The Place’s stage like a throne room above a battlefield.

A wash of hushed voices and low laughter precedes me.

Lan sprawls beside Wren, his legs long and loose, one arm slung across the back of her box seat like a bored king deigning to attend a lesser court. Wren—years too young to carry as much power as she wields—appears sculpted from marble and verdicts. She doesn’t smile when she clocks me but gives the smallest incline of her chin before returning to her wine. I’m fairly certain she hasn’t forgiven me for the last time I stole Lan’s Count Chocula.

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