Page 36 of Vampire Soldier

And then there’s the couch beneath me. The memory of his hands. The way my back had arched, my breath had caught, how his voice had sounded—low and hungry—right here. I shift slightly, trying not to let the ghost of that night tighten my chest. We said it was just one time. But this couch remembers. And so do I.

“Mom?” Charlie’s voice is soft, careful. “You seem... different lately. Is everything okay?”

I paste on a smile. “Just work stress, baby. Opening night is coming up fast.”

She gives me a look that’s pure teenager skepticism. “Really? Because you’ve been all...” she waves her hand in the air, “floaty. And you’re blushing more.”

Even more heat creeps up my neck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Was that guy actually your boyfriend? The one who was here that night with Uncle Sam?”

The mac and cheese turns to cement in my mouth. I set my plate down, buying time. “No, honey. He’s... he’s my boss, actually.”

“Oh.” Charlie is quiet for a moment, then: “But you like him, though, right? I mean, the way you looked at him...”

“Charlie—”

“And he looked at you like...” she trails off, suddenly serious. “Mom, you’ve never brought anyone home. Ever. Is it because of me?”

The question hits like a punch to the gut. “No. God, no. Baby, it’s never been about you.” I turn to face her fully, needing her to understand. “I’ve dated and I never let any of them meet you because I didn’t feel like any of them would work out.”

She leans in, resting her head on my shoulder like she used to when she was little. “Okay... but if you did want someone, I wouldn’t be mad. I’d get it. I’m not a kid anymore.”

I laugh. “You’re twelve, which is definitely still a kid to me.” I stroke her hair, trying to find the right words as the show returns from commercials. “There isn’t anyone, sweetheart. Not like that.” It’s not exactly a lie, but my daughter isn’t the one to open up to about this. I won’t be like my mom, using my daughter as a therapist for relationship drama. I’ve got friends like Tonya and Clara if I need to vent about how much I wish things were different with Malachi. How one night wasn’t enough. How I’m starting to think I’m addicted to sex now that I’ve officially lost my virginity.

“If you say so.” Charlie’s tone makes it clear she doesn’t believe me, but she lets it drop, turning back to the TV.

I hold her closer, grateful for this moment of peace. But in the back of my mind, I can’t stop thinking about the gift box locked in my desk drawer. About golden eyes that see too much. About how desperately I wish sometimes I didn’t feel like I had to face everything alone.

Later, lying in bed, I stare at the ceiling and try not to think about any of it. Try not to remember how Malachi looked at me today, like he wanted to devour me whole. Try not to imagine his hands on my skin again, his mouth on my throat, the weight of him pressing me down...

My hand slides beneath the sheets before I can stop myself. I close my eyes and let myself remember that night—the heat of his kiss, the strength in his hands, the way he made me feel both safe and dangerous at once. But the fantasy shifts, becomes something new. Something darker.

I imagine what might have happened today if he’d grabbed me instead of letting me go. If he’d dragged me into one of those private dining rooms and reminded me exactly why one night could never be enough. I picture him bending me over one of those expensive tables, his hand in my hair, his voice rough against my ear. What it might be like if he’d sunk his fangs into my neck.

I come with a gasp, biting my lip to stay quiet. As the pleasure fades, reality crashes back in. I’m in so much trouble. Because this thing with Malachi? It’s not just physical anymore. And that terrifies me more than any mysterious gifts or stalker notes ever could.

ChapterFifteen

MALACHI

The Barrows are quieter in this part of town.

Topside still hums with its sterile cleanliness, the simulated hum of electric cars, and the flickering breath of neon bleeding off glass towers. But the Barrows? It hibernates beneath its skin this hour, darker than a closed throat. Life doesn’t vanish so much as it coils inward, waiting, watchful. Born to that hunger, I understand it intimately.

I crouch on the ledge of a neighboring row house across the street, perched like a gargoyle watching her glowing windows. The wind tugs at the ends of my coat and drags scents past me—warm asphalt, fried food from the takeout place three blocks over, and layers of human musk, always tinged with anxiety in this part of town. None of it matters. I only breathe for one thing.

Blake.

Her scent rising on the draft between buildings is the only thing anchoring me, dragging me from the spiral I’ve been locked inside since the moment I felt her pull away.

She’d almost walked right into me yesterday.

She’d passed ten feet beneath my perch without even knowing. The way her jaw was tight, her lips pressed together with fake calm—I’d bet every dollar in my bank account she wasn’t just thinking about lighting gels and missed cues. No. Something was bothering her.

And I hadn’t moved. Hadn’t said a single word. Because if I had, I would’ve lured her somewhere dark and nailed every inch of her to the wall until the only name she could remember was mine.

So I stayed still. Didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

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