Page 122 of Meet Your Maker: Part One

Xavier laughs, a warm, easy sound. “So, let me get this straight. You’ve been pretending to eat human food for centuries, knowing full well it’s going to come back up?”

“Maintaining a cover has its costs,” I reply with a shrug. “Though I’ll admit, there’s a particular cruelty in smelling the things I loved as a human—like freshly baked bread—and knowing I can’t enjoy them.”

They study me, their teasing smile softening. “I heard somewhere that food smells bad to vamps… and I thought that must be a blessing. At least you don’t want what you can’t have.”

“Not for me. The scents changed—became sharper, more layered than I ever noticed as a human. Many of us develop an aversion to food. It’s easier that way.” I shake my head. “Ultimately, blood sustains us. Food doesn’t. Even liquor is… an indulgence, not a necessity.”

“Can you drink wine?”

“Some of us can.” I offer a faint smirk. “It doesn’t intoxicate, but we can taste it. A small pleasure, reserved for the very old.”

Xavier leans against the counter, their green eyes gleaming with curiosity. “I remember when Sunday gave you her blood in a wine glass. That night at dinner, with her nasty little cousin. You looked like you’d hit peak vampire enjoyment.”

“She had no idea,” I murmur, my thoughts drifting miles away.

“No idea of what?” they prod gently.

“Of how quickly I was falling for her,” I admit, my voice low but certain. “Of how much my monster appreciated her offering. Blood given willingly—especially from someone like her—is rare. Precious. And in that moment, she made it clear she didn’t hate my existence or see me as an irredeemable monster.”

Xavier’s smirk fades, replaced with something more thoughtful. “She wasn’t afraid of you. She was afraid of growing attached.”

I nod, a wry smile tugging at the corner of my lips. “Maybe. But it doesn’t change the fact that she handed me her life in a glass like it was nothing. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.”

Xavier tilts their head, considering me for a long moment. “She still does that, you know.”

“Does what?”

“Gives pieces of herself away like it costs her nothing.” Their voice is soft, almost wistful. “And somehow, she never seems to run out.”

My chest tightens, the truth of their words hitting me like an unwelcome smack. “That’s what makes her remarkable. And how she puts herself at risk.”

Xavier raises a brow. “How is she doing that?”

“She gives so much, so freely.” I know I sound maudlin, but I can’t stop. “It makes people want to take more. And when there’snothing left, they’ll blame her for not having enough—for notbeingenough.”

Xavier falls silent, fingers drumming absently on the counter as they mull over my words. Then they meet my gaze, their expression resolute. “We won’t let that happen.”

Before I can reply, they lean in, brushing their lips against mine—a fleeting touch. When they pull back, their voice is lighter, but their gaze remains steady. “Now, help me load these into the car. The Prescott circus awaits.”

***

Xavier shifts the car into park with a flourish, their grin wide. “And that’s why we’ll survive the apocalypse. Reinforced doors, typed blood, and armor-plating on every surface.”

I glance at them sideways. “Tomas really thought this through.”

“Yeah, I thought it was overkill, but after Silas managed to draw Dominga out… well, I’m kind of glad he’s such a psycho,” they admit, tapping the wheel for emphasis before nodding toward the farmhouse.

Their words hang in the air as I exit the car. Psycho or not, Tomas’ paranoia might be the only thing keeping us ahead of the bad guys. Though, in truth, an armored vehicle wouldn’t have stopped Sunday from walking to her father’s garage and willingly meeting someone who harbored her ill will. But I keep that thought to myself.

The barn doors are wide open, spilling golden light and music into the cool evening air. Laughter rises above the chatter, and the scent of roasting meat mingles with damp earth. Cars line the drive, mismatched and practical—proof of the Prescott clan’s lack of funds or pretense, perhaps both. Overhead, the full moon casts its silver glow, softening the night’s edges.

Xavier steps out, adjusting their jacket with obvious delight. “The barn looks amazing! And look—they put lights up in my tree!” Before I can respond, they’re dashing ahead, excitement pulling them toward the party’s glow.

I follow more slowly, my gaze lingering on the barn and the hum of voices. Halfway there, Vivien materializes at my side, stepping from the shadows with her usual lithe grace. Even in the dim light, she’s striking—dark skin catching the barn’s glow, curls bouncing softly, golden eyes luminous. The sharp click of her heels against the gravel draws a quiet chuckle from me. Even out here in the countryside, she wears her armor, refusing to yield an inch of the four feet and ten inches she’s been allotted.

“Well, don’t you look dashing,” she remarks, her full mouth curving into a smirk. “Dark, broody, and just the right amount of tragic. Very on-brand.”

I glance at her sidelong. “Vivi. Shouldn’t you be inside? Or has Colton slipped his leash?”

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