Grace gasped, whirling on her cousin. "What is wrong with you?!"
June threw her hands up, her nerves finally spilling out. "What is wrong with me? What is wrong with him? Why is Damien at our house like some door-to-door salesman?! It's creepy!"
Grace blinked. "Creepy? He literally just wanted to hang out."
June stared, incredulous. "Hang out? At this hour? What is wrong with you Grace? Evelyn isn't even home yet. Do you realize what you just said? What if he's—what if he's some killer or something? You don't know what he is!"
Grace rolled her eyes. "He's Damien, June. He's not a monster. He's not going to do anything. Everyone knows him."
June crossed her arms tight against her chest. "Yeah. That's exactly what makes it worse."
Before Grace could answer, the knock came again.
Knock. Knock.
A little firmer this time.
Grace immediately brightened, hurrying back toward the door. "You can come in!" she called without hesitation, practically betraying the household.
June groaned. "Oh my God."
And the door creaked open again.
Damien stepped inside like he owned the place, calm and composed, that maddening smirk plastered on his face.
The door shut behind him, and in that instant, the house no longer felt like theirs.
It was strange—subtle, but undeniable. The air changed. The cozy scent of Grace's tomato sauce simmering on the stove seemed muted, buried beneath something heavier, sharper. A presence. Him.
June stood stiff, her back pressed to the nearest wall as she tracked him with wary eyes. Oh my God. He doesn't just enter a room. He takes it over.
Damien didn't move fast. He didn't need to. Every step was measured, deliberate, confident in a way that made June's skin crawl. His gaze swept the small living room, the worn couch, the framed family photo of Evelyn and Grace, the faint sound of spaghetti sauce bubbling on the stove.
His nostrils flared slightly. "You're cooking something?" His voice carried like velvet over glass, smooth but with a scrape beneath it.
Grace practically bounced. "Yeah! I made spaghetti and meatballs."
A pause. Then Damien's lips curved into that infuriating smirk. "That's my favorite."
Grace looked like she had just won the lottery. "You're kidding—really?"
"Wouldn't lie about something like that," Damien said, sliding into one of the dining chairs like he belonged there. His eyes flicked up to June, who hadn't moved from the wall. "What? Don't look at me like I just crashed your little dinner party."
June's arms tightened across her chest. "That's because you did."
He grinned wider, unbothered. "You should be flattered. I don't just show up at anyone's door, you know."
Grace giggled nervously, brushing at her hair. "He's right, June. He doesn't. This is… wow." She bustled back toward the kitchen. "I'll get you a plate."
June gaped at her. "Grace—"
But her cousin was already humming happily, clattering around in the cupboards, acting like having Damien Cross sitting at their table was the most natural thing in the world.
June dragged her hands down her face. This is insane.
Damien leaned back in the chair, arms draped lazily over its edges, utterly relaxed. "You're awfully tense, newbie. I thought people from Bel-Air were supposed to be all chill and put-together."
Her head snapped toward him. "Don't call me that."
"Bel-Air?"
"Newbie."
He smirked again, tilting his head. "Why? It suits you."
Grace returned with a steaming plate, setting it in front of him like she was serving royalty. "Here you go!"
Damien's eyes softened—just a little. "Thanks."
The fork twirled, metal scraping softly against ceramic, and Damien lifted the first bite of spaghetti and meatballs to his mouth. He chewed once, twice, then leaned back in his chair as if he were dining in a five-star restaurant instead of a modest kitchen with fading wallpaper.
"Not bad," he said at last.
Grace nearly dropped her own fork. "Not bad?"
His smirk widened. "Fine, fine. It's actually really good. Better than the stuff they serve at Louie's downtown." He pointed his fork at her. "Don't let that Italian fraud hear me say it, though. He'll cry."
Grace beamed, glowing with pride. "Oh my God, really? You think so?"
"I know so." Damien leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table. "You could make a killing if you opened a restaurant. 'Grace's Spaghetti'—yeah, people would line up around the block."
Grace giggled, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Stop." But she was blushing furiously, hanging onto every word like it was gospel.
June, however, stabbed her meatball with far more force than necessary. She watched the exchange, incredulous. Seriously? This is happening? He shows up uninvited at ten at night and suddenly he's family?
Damien noticed, of course. He always noticed. "And you," he said, flicking his eyes to June. "You're awfully quiet for someone who usually has a smart mouth. What's wrong, newbie? Spaghetti not up to Bel-Air standards?"
June froze, glaring. "Don't call me that."
He smirked. "I'll call you whatever I want."
Grace elbowed June gently, whispering, "Relax."
June clenched her jaw and went back to eating. But the silence didn't last long. Damien was too good at filling silences.
"So, Grace cooks, newbie sulks," he mused. "Tell me—what do you two usually do around here when you're not… locking every door and window like paranoid burglars?"
Grace burst out laughing. "She was doing that earlier!"
June flushed. "Because it's common sense."
Damien tilted his head, grinning. "Common sense, huh? You always this jumpy, or is it just Blackstone that puts you on edge?"
Her fork clattered against the plate. "Maybe it's because people keep showing up at our door uninvited."
"Ouch." He pressed a hand over his chest in mock injury. "That one stung."
Grace kicked her under the table, mouthing be nice. But June had had enough.
By the time Damien cleared his plate—down to the last strand of spaghetti—June's nerves were fraying. She shoved her chair back a little, watching as he pushed the plate toward Grace.
"Mind if I have some more?" he asked smoothly, flashing her a grin.
Grace nearly leapt to her feet. "Of course! I'll get you another plate."
As she disappeared into the kitchen, June snapped.
"Don't you think it's weird?" Her voice was low but sharp. "Coming to someone's house at this time? Sitting here like this? Acting like—like you belong here?"
Damien's smirk didn't falter. If anything, it grew. "Weird? Maybe. But weird can be fun."
Her chest tightened. "Stop pretending. I saw you."
His eyes narrowed slightly, though amusement never left his face. "Saw me?"
"That night." Her words tumbled out in a rush, her voice trembling. "I saw your eyes—they were golden. And you moved—you moved so fast no human could. I know what I saw, Damien."
For a moment, the air between them thickened, tense and sharp as a blade.
Then Damien chuckled. Low. Dangerous. Mocking. "Golden eyes? Super speed? Sounds like you've been watching too many movies, newbie."
Her fists tightened in her lap. "I'm not crazy. I know it was you."
But just as the words left her mouth, Grace bustled back in, smiling, carrying another heaping plate of spaghetti. June froze, swallowing her next sentence, her eyes darting to Damien.
And he just leaned back, smirk etched across his face, as if her outburst had been nothing more than a private joke meant for his amusement.
The clock ticked loudly in the quiet house, its hands sliding past eleven. The spaghetti plates were nearly empty, forks clinking against ceramic as the conversation wandered from jokes about Grace's "future restaurant" to Damien's sarcastic takes on high school.
June finally leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "Alright. Enough. It's late. You should probably… you know… go."
Damien didn't move. He leaned back lazily, stretching an arm along the back of his chair like he owned the place. "Go? Already? But we were just getting to the fun part."
Grace shook her head, laughing softly. "Damien…"
June cut in, firm. "No, seriously. It's past eleven. People sleep at this time."
He quirked a brow. "Bedtime? You guys actually have a bedtime?" He let out a short laugh. "What is this, kindergarten? Want me to read you a bedtime story while I'm at it?"
June narrowed her eyes. "Do you also want to tuck us in? Maybe sing a lullaby too?"
Grace covered her mouth, stifling a laugh.
Damien smirked wider, tilting his head. "Don't tempt me. I do a great rendition of 'Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.'"
June groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "Oh my God."
The banter went back and forth, light and ridiculous on the surface. But Damien's gaze occasionally flicked toward the front window, sharp and calculating. His posture might have been loose, his tone teasing, but inside his instincts were humming like a live wire.
He could hear it.
Breathing that wasn't theirs. A weight in the air outside the house. The faint scrape of a shoe shifting against the porch floorboards.
Someone was out there.
June didn't notice. Grace didn't either. But Damien did. Every fiber of his wolf and vampire senses told him so. He knew that scent, faint but laced with copper and rot— The rogue vampire.
And the bastard was waiting.
June pushed back from her chair with a sigh. "Look, it's late. We've got school tomorrow, Grace has dishes, I've got…" She faltered, gesturing vaguely. "…sleep to catch up on. So unless you really want to add babysitting to your list of hobbies, you should go."
Grace shifted awkwardly. "She's right though. It's late." But there was a sparkle in her eyes. "Still… thanks for coming by. This was… fun."
Damien's gaze lingered on her for a moment before sliding back to June. "Fun, yeah. Let's call it that."
Then, almost too casually, he added, "You know… sometimes the night's more dangerous than it looks. Wouldn't want the two of you getting hurt."
June frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Damien just leaned back, smirking again, as if the thought amused him. "Nothing. Just… sleep tight."
Outside, the pale vampire shifted in the shadows, eyes gleaming hungrily at the cracks of light seeping through the curtains. But he didn't come in. He couldn't—not without an invitation. And Damien knew it.
June was already moving toward the door. She gripped the handle and pulled it open. "Out. Go terrorize someone else."
Damien rose from his chair slowly, deliberately. His height filled the room, his presence dragging every ounce of air with it. He met June's gaze one last time, something sharp glinting in his eyes—something she couldn't name. Then he gave a lazy half-smile.
"Sweet dreams, newbie."
And with that, he stepped outside.
Before Grace could say a word, June shut the door firmly behind him. Slam.
Grace gasped. "June! That was Damien!"
"Exactly," June muttered, leaning against the door, her heart thundering. "That's the problem."
Grace threw her hands up. "You're unbelievable."
"What is even wrong with you? You told me this guy was a douche bag." June said.
"Did I? Well, I meant he acts like a douche bag, there's a difference."
June huffed as she marched off to her room. Grace muttered something about cousins being impossible, and went back to clearing the plates.
*********************
The house quieted.
Outside, however, the night stirred.
Damien stood on the porch, the shadows swallowing his frame. His smirk was gone now, replaced with something hard. His head turned slightly, like a predator catching a scent.
The rogue was close.
From the treeline across the street, pale eyes gleamed. The figure stepped forward—the same delivery man from before, lips curled in hunger.
Damien stepped off the porch, rolling his shoulders, claws already pressing at his fingertips, fangs flashing under the silver wash of the moon.
"You picked the wrong house," he muttered, his voice low.
The rogue hissed, darting toward him with inhuman speed.
And in the silence of Blackstone's midnight, while June and Grace got ready for bed, two monsters collided in the dark.