Page 88 of Vampire Soldier

We both smile at one point when she says one of the facades sounds ugly.

And when she finally starts to fall asleep, lips parted, breathing slow, nestled somewhere between me and him, she mumbles thickly, “I liked when you called me your daughter.”

Malachi goes utterly still.

I don’t breathe. I didn’t know he’d said anything like that.

And then he shifts slightly, reaching across the space between them, and his hand settles lightly on her forearm.

“So did I,” he says.

Neither of us speaks when her breathing evens out, slow and steady, her small frame finally at rest.

We stay like that—just watching her. The quiet between us isn’t heavy. It’s steady. Peaceful. Like neither of us want to break it. Like this, right now, is sacred.

Something warm settles in my chest as I glance from Charlie to Malachi. The way he’s watching her, like she’s already his. Like we’re already his. For a moment, it feels less like a night we survived and more like the beginning of something solid. Something that lasts.

He told me he wants to mark me. Told me he wants this—us—with a certainty I can still feel under my skin. I watched him kill for us.

When our eyes meet, I know he’s still thinking about it too.

We rise together, wordless, moving quietly as we leave Charlie’s room behind.

ChapterThirty-Five

BLAKE

The bedroom is dim and quiet in that way the world only gets when it knows you’ve survived something.

A gentle weight hangs in the air—more comforting than pressing. Rain still falls softly outside, a hush against the windows like the city is keeping vigil for us, whispering its apologies for letting things go so wrong. The bedside lamp burns low and warm, casting honeyed shadows that soften the edges of everything: the worn edges of the comforter, the crooked frame of our family photo on the nightstand, my bare feet curled beneath me on top of cool sheets. It all feels like a dream I somehow made real.

Malachi sits beside me on top of the covers, one leg drawn up onto the bed so his knee brushes mine. His shirt is gone, his body still showing signs of tonight’s violence—dark cuts, bruises spreading like slow blooms, and the tattoos inked across his chest now scored and broken by claw marks. I stare at them longer than I mean to, tracing the fractured lines with my eyes, remembering how many times I’ve run my hands over them.

“You’ve already healed so much,” I whisper, voice caught somewhere between awe and sorrow. My hand hovers over his chest, aching to smooth across the ruined ink, to comfort something I can’t quite name. Most of the smaller wounds have already healed, the skin left behind like fresh scars. Only the worst of them still look angry, raw. “But your tattoos . . .”

He watches me, then gently reaches out and takes my wrist. Instead of pulling my hand away, he presses a kiss to my fingers. “I’ll get them fixed,” he says softly. “My artist’s patched me up before. She’ll take care of it.”

The reassurance is simple, but it hits me somewhere deep. A small flicker of something loosens in my chest and it’s easier to breathe. I let my hand fall, his touch still lingering on my fingertips, and settle back against the pillows.

We watch each other in silence. It’s not awkward, though. It’s nice. Like right now, the rest of the world doesn’t matter, doesn’t even exist for us. Just us, okay and together. I drop my gaze to his mouth and realize it’s tight. Suddenly there’s something careful in the way he holds himself. His shoulders are still too tense, like he hasn’t quite let himself exhale.

His eyes are his usual gold, but there’s pain in them.

“What’s wrong?”

He hesitates. Then, slowly, he shakes his head. His head drops back against the headboard for a long moment. His fingers flex slightly, resting on the blanket between us. Then he lifts his head once more.

“I don’t regret killing him, Blake,” he says, each word measured, clear. “I regret that it had to happen at all. That he ever got that close to her. That you had to see it. But what I did? I’d do it again.”

When he reaches for my hand, I’m already meeting his. He runs his thumb back and forth over the back of my hand. There’s guilt in his eyes, tinting his voice, but it’s one I understand.

“Slower, if I had the chance,” he adds quietly, his eyes falling closed for a long moment before opening again. My breath catches at the primal anger in his gaze. “He had his hands on Charlie. I’ve killed a lot of people, Blake, but it was different this time because of her. It felt like he was threatening a part of me.”

“Welcome to being a parent,” I say, my voice soft but edged with something bittersweet. “There’s nothing you won’t do the second someone threatens your kid.”

A silence follows; the both of us caught in our own thoughts.

“I lied to him.”

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