Page 6 of Take Her to the Grave

A drop of crimson wells up on my fingertip. As I watch, mesmerized, the rose seems to shiver, its petals darkening impossibly further as if drinking in the sight of my blood.

"Jesus," I breathe, stumbling back from the window. This isn't happening. Thiscan'tbe happening. But even as I try to deny it, other details in my room start jumping out at me. The stack of papers on my desk has been disturbed, the top pages rifled through. My laptop is at a slightly different angle than how I left it.

He's been here. Reading my work. Watching me as I drift in and out of restless sleep.

I should be terrified. Should be running from the house screaming. Instead, I find myself wondering what he thought of my writing. Did he laugh at how wrong I got the details of vampire mythology? Did he recognize himself in any of my fictional monsters?

"Stop it," I tell myself firmly. "This isn't one of your stories. This is fucking real, and you need to think clearly."

But thinking clearly seems impossible when every shadow might hide his presence, when every breath of air against my skin might be him moving unseen through my room. The familiar confines of my bedroom feel different now – more intimate, somehow. Moredangerous.

I pad downstairs to make coffee, knowing sleep is a lost cause. My home office welcomes me with its wall of books and comfortable writing chair, everything exactly as I left it.Almostexactly. There's something off about my desk, something I can't quite...

The manuscript. My latest work in progress was in a neat stack on the left side of my desk. Now it's centered, with certain pages dog-eared. Heart pounding, I approach to examine it.

Page 47 is marked – a scene where my protagonist first encounters the dark creature hunting her. Page 124 – their first kiss. Page 186 – the scene where she finally surrenders to her darkness. Each marked page grows progressively more intimate, more intense.

He's sending me a message. A preview of his intentions.

Heat floods my face as I imagine him reading these scenes, those arctic eyes taking in my most private fantasies. Did he smile at how close I came to the truth in some places? Did he make mental notes of my protagonist's weaknesses, planning to exploit my own?

The smart thing would be to leave. Pack a bag, drive to a hotel, figure out my next move from there. Instead, I find myself sitting at my desk, fingers hovering over my keyboard. The cursor blinks at me expectantly as words begin to flow:

The monster who haunts these pages is nothing compared to the reality of you. I've written about darkness, but I never truly knew it until I saw your smile. What are you doing to me?

I save the document, knowing he'll read it.Wantinghim to read it. This is madness – exchanging notes with a vampire like some kind of supernatural pen pal. But I can't seem to help myself. The writer in me needs to understand him, to peel back the layers of mystery and see what lies beneath.

The room suddenly feels colder. I wrap my arms around myself, but it does nothing to stop the shiver that runs down my spine. The air grows heavy with that same charged feeling from upstairs, and I know with certainty that I'm no longer alone.

"Trying to understand me, little ghost?" His voice comes from directly behind me, rich with amusement. I don't turn around – can't turn around. If I see those eyes again, I might shatter completely.

"Trying to understand myself," I whisper. "Why I'm not running. Why I'm not afraid."

"But youareafraid." He's closer now, close enough that I feel the words stirring my hair. "I can hear your heart racing. Smell the fear rolling off your skin." A cool finger traces the line of my throat, making me gasp. "The question is... what else are you feeling?"

Heat blooms everywhere his finger touches, spreading through my body like wildfire. This is insane. He's a murderer, a monster, a creature that should exist only in fiction. I should be recoiling from his touch, not fighting the urge to lean into it.

"What do you want from me?" I manage to ask, proud that my voice only shakes a little.

His laugh is dark silk against my ear. "Everything."

I close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. "Why me? Why now?"

"Because you understand the darkness." His hands settle on my shoulders, strong and possessive. "I've read every word you've written, Elena. Every story, every scene, every dark little fantasy. You don't just write about monsters – youlongfor us.Dreamof us. And now..."

"Now?"

"Now you've caught the attention of a real one." His grip tightens slightly. "The question is, are you ready to step out of your fiction and into truth?"

Finally, I force myself to turn and face him. He's even more beautiful than I remembered, his pale features carved from marble and shadow. That expensive black suit fits him perfectly, making him look like some dark god descended from Olympus. But it's his eyes that capture me – ancient, knowing, hungry.

"What if I say no?" I ask, though we both know I won't.

His smile shows the edges of fangs. "Then I walk away. Leave you to your safe, ordinary life and fictional monsters." His hand comes up to cradle my face, thumb brushing across my bottom lip. "But we both know that's not what you want. Not really."

He's right, God help me. I've spent years writing about women who dance with darkness, who find freedom in surrendering to their monsters. Now that I'm living it, how can I possibly walk away?

"Tell me what happens next," I whisper.

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