Page 58 of Vampire Soldier

A tremor races through me, sharp and bright—not fear, not even close. I’ve known real fear: crouched beneath blankets beside my twin, keys clutched between my knuckles, shushing Charlie in shadows that felt too loud. This isn’t that. This is electricity pulling our breath into one rhythm—longing and anticipation coiling inside my lungs, whispering finally at every brush of skin.

The elevator dings. I barely register it.

Malachi moves before the doors are fully open—his hands gripping the backs of my thighs as he sweeps me up. I gasp, legs snaking around his waist and arms thrown tight around his neck, pure instinct.

Then, we’re moving.

Not walking, running.

The world blurs into a rush of motion and breath. Cool air tugs at my hair even inside the apartment; only then do I realize—we aren’t just strolling through the penthouse, we’re racing. The thuds of his steps are muffled by layered rugs, the scenery blurs past: city lights spilling through glass, black marble shifting underfoot, tall curtains billowing as we pass.

A heartbeat later, he lays me onto something lush and soft—the thick bedding of his bed beneath me.

Malachi stands above, chest heaving, eyes burning down at me. Hunger still sings there, but beneath it—something steadier, more terrifying in its gentleness, a carefulness threaded through the violence of his want.

And I want it all. Every wild, worshipful edge of him.

We don’t speak. The quiet lands thick and electric around us, heavy with everything unsaid. Only our breathing remains—his slow, control fraying at the edges; mine fast, nerves and want snaring every breath. The room feels too hot, the air drawn tight as skin. I push up on my elbows, gripping the bedding, needing the grounding.

Malachi waits, gaze drinking me in as if memorizing all the space I take up in this world. He doesn’t rush. His hand lifts, light and certain, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear before trailing along my jaw. His thumb traces gently, not possessive, not coaxing, just quiet reverence.

No one’s ever looked at me like this. When I was a dancer, men’s gazes were hungry, transactional—a way to barter for my body, my time, my skin. I’d been immune to it; it was only the job. I’ve seen every variation of selfish want.

But Malachi looks at me, and it’s different. Not just my body—he sees all of me: the woman who survived, who hungered and hid and kept moving anyway. There’s a tempered ferocity in his gaze that matches the ache between my thighs, and I have never ached so fiercely to be truly seen, to be truly wanted.

“Fucking beautiful,” he rasps.

My cheeks flame at his words. His voice is raw, ragged—a sacred roughness, like the word fought its way up from somewhere near his ribs. Being called beautiful never meant much before. I’ve had it wielded at me by men who wanted to buy it, to buy a slice of me in exchange for something temporary. But his words strike deeper, splitting right through all my layers of caution and survival, rooting straight into the softer parts I’ve kept hidden and safe.

“I’m glad no other man has made it into your bed,” he says, fangs catching the low light, and another rush of heat surges through me. “They wouldn’t have been worthy of you. Shit, I’m not worthy, but I’m too damned selfish to care.”

My next breath shudders out of me. I try to summon levity but my voice lands earnest. “It’s not like I was saving myself, Malachi.” I savor saying his name, watching his eyes hood in response. “I just never liked someone enough. I took care of it myself a long time ago.”

His eyes flare, gold sparking with fire. He gazes at me like I’ve handed him some secret, still warm and throbbing. “You did, huh?” His voice dips, a low velvet scrape. “That’s a fucking crime I didn’t get to watch.”

My mouth quirks, embarrassment and want tangling sweetly. Heat pulses low in my belly, so sharp it makes me squirm. “Why am I not surprised that’s what you focused on?”

His smirk twists his lips, his amusement nothing but hunger, the air between us growing thick. “Because the thought of you—on this bed, hand between those gorgeous thighs, claiming your own pleasure—that’s not an image a man forgets.”

His voice alone could split me open. He leans in, lips skimming my ear—each word a benediction.

“One day,” he breathes, voice dark and sure, “you’ll show me exactly how you unraveled yourself…”

His hand glides down my thigh, slipping just beneath the hem of my dress, a slow, possessive caress.

“…so I can do it better.”

The heat in his touch is gasoline to my skin.

I shift, tension making the fabric pull taut across me, already soaked—aware of every flicker of air, every heartbeat, as if my body answers only to him.

My mouth opens—maybe to deflect, maybe to tease back, I don’t know. But then I meet his gaze, bright gold rimmed in crimson, and the breath leaves me. Words fail.

He watches my lips as if every unsaid thing is written there.

“You don’t have to be anyone here but you,” he murmurs, voice frayed and rough, as if my name is etched into his tongue. “No performance. No pretending. Just feel.”

Both his hands slide under the hem of my dress, drawing it higher with a patience that’s agony. His touch drags across my skin, hot as embers. I gasp when his fingers ghost up my thigh—barely there, achingly cruel. My chest rises, trembling. I can’t sit still.

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