Page 52 of Vampire Soldier

Her tone is easy. Warm. A friend’s request, not a command.

I nod, giving her a faint smile. “I’ll ask. I think the staff might have their own plans tonight—but we’ll see.”

It’s noncommittal enough to pass. It’s enough of a reason to leave the balcony space; still I make my excuses.

Something about post-show security. A final check. A whispered mention of logistics.

They don’t question it.

But this isn’t about logistics or any invitation to celebrate.

It’s about Blake.

And I’m done pretending it isn’t.

ChapterTwenty

BLAKE

The roar of applause still thunders in my ears, even here backstage, where the lights are dimmer, quieter. The heavy velvet curtain has fallen, a final punctuation mark on the performance that’s consumed every waking second of my life for the past week. Even though the music has stopped and the bodies are no longer in motion, the air backstage vibrates with kinetic energy, pulsing through the walls like the echo of a held breath finally exhaled. Laughter rings out behind me—soft and breathless and disbelieving. Cheers and whoops cascade like rain through the green room, God, even the tech crew is clapping. Someone howls, and the entire dressing room answers with a cacophony fit for a pack of wolves, not dancers and waitstaff choking on adrenaline and glitter.

I’m still holding my clipboard. Why, I don’t know. It’s blank now, the meticulous checklist of cues and emergencies ticked and solved. The pages are wrinkled, dented, a casualty of the seven-hour pre-show sprint and my iron grip whenever a cue threatened to go off-book. It was my sword tonight—my shield. Now, it feels absurd in my hands. Useless. Strangely sacred.

“Holy shit, we did it,” Amber yells near the costume tables, flinging herself toward Penny in a blur of fringe and rhinestones. They twirl in a celebratory arc, crashing into Clara from the stage crew, who’s still sobbing into a tissue like she just watched the finale of some romantic apocalypse. Erin is passing around a bottle of something that definitely isn’t water. There’s a lipstick smear on her cheek, hair escaping her bun like feathers in a storm, but she’s radiant. They all are.

And me?

My cheeks ache from how hard I’m smiling.

“I told you,” I yell over the chaos—half scold, half thrilled—but it comes out jagged, like my voice forgot how to climb the octaves without shaking.

Perry’s somewhere to my right, probably trying to coordinate final breakdowns before everyone burns this entire backstage down with their euphoria. He catches my eye and taps his watch meaningfully. I nod back, a private celebration just for the two of us. We did it. Tonight was a gamble, a whispered dare we made between lighting cues and budget panic attacks. And we fucking pulled it off.

“All right, all right!” I clap my hands once—sharp enough to draw some attention. A few heads turn. I raise my arms high. “Everyone—listen!”

A hush ripples through the tempest. Not complete silence, but enough.

“You did it. You crushed it. The audience was eating out of your hands. Every single one of you.” I pause, breath catching. “Get out there. Celebrate. But don’t drink too much. You’ve gotta do it all over again tomorrow.”

Cue laughter, groans, the good kind of theatrical eye-rolls.

“Post-show drinks?” Erin asks, already halfway into her hoodie as someone drapes a coat over her glittering shoulders. “Couple of us are heading out before this adrenaline eats us alive.”

“I’d love to,” I start—and I mean it. I want to. Part of me does. That part that’s still humming with performance fever, comforted by the warmth of these people I’ve grown to care about in such a short time. My cast. My crew. My miracle. But reality drips cold down my spine as I remember what waits for me past the velvet drapes and golden light. Or, more specifically—who.

“I wish I could,” I say without hesitation, still smiling. And I mean it—I really do. “Charlie’s with Tonya tonight, and I’ve got to pick her up. That, and I’m honestly ready to crash. I have no idea how any of you have energy to stay up to celebrate!”

Erin gives me a little salute. “You’re a damn rockstar, Blake. See you tomorrow.”

Amber swings by with a one-armed hug. “We’ll toast you anyway.”

“I’ll take it. Be safe, okay?”

I slip away in the noise, down the hall that cradles the dressing rooms in navy felt and unfinished dreams. The map of the theater is branded into my bones by now. Each creak in the floorboards sounds like a heartbeat. Still, I move fast, head down, craving the silence I know waits in the tiny office behind the racks and makeup mirrors and steaming kettles used for sore voices.

Inside, I let the door shut behind me, the latch catching with a clean click.

Silence.

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