The night slips away in quiet conversation, hours dissolving like smoke as Grayson tells me everything — the rogues, territory disputes, hidden networks protecting the coven. He sits back, light painting gold across sharp features, his voice low and steady.
"They don't always come for blood," he says, fingers tapping once against the desk. "Sometimes it's power. Control. A chance to carve out their own domain. That's what makes them dangerous. They don't care who they hurt to get it."
I sit cross-legged on his bed, wrapped in one of his blankets, watching him. He doesn't look like someone who plans defenses, but maybe that's the point.
"And you handle all of that?" I ask quietly. "Every rogue, every threat?"
A wry smile ghosts across his lips. "I have help. But yes, most of it runs through me."
"That sounds exhausting."
He leans back, a faint exhale escaping him. "It is. But I'd rather carry it than see them get caught off-guard. We've lost enough already."
There's something in the way he says it — a shadow that flickers across his eyes. I can't tell if it's memory or guilt.
"Do you ever sleep?" I ask, half teasing, half serious.
He glances at the fire, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. "Not as much as I should. You get used to it after a century or two."
I let out a small laugh despite myself. "That's… not comforting."
"It wasn't meant to be." His tone softens a little, and for a moment, the weight of his years is there in his gaze — not ancient or alien, but human in a way that surprises me.
"You go to all these lengths to keep people safe," I say after a pause. "The patrols, the surveillance, the alliances. You make it sound like a small army."
He nods. "That's exactly what it is. Every city has a balance — humans, vampires, everything else that lurks in between. If that balance breaks, people die. I make sure it doesn't."
His certainty sends a shiver through me. "Do they know what you risk for them?"
He looks up at me then, and there's a faint, weary smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "They don't need to. They just need to be safe."
I don't know what to say to that. The silence that follows isn't awkward; it's heavy with the understanding of what he's admitted — what it costs him to be this person.
When the first hints of dawn start to bleed pale light through the edges of the curtains, he glances at the clock and sighs, rubbing a hand over his face.
"I'm sorry," he says, voice low. "I didn't mean to keep you up all night."
"It's fine," I say, smiling faintly. "I don't think I could've slept anyway."
He rises and crosses to the window, pulling the heavy blackout curtains tighter. A thin spear of sunlight cuts across his hand before he can shut it out. The hiss is soft but sharp — the skin burns instantly, a flare of angry red before he jerks his hand back.
"Grayson!" I move toward him on instinct.
He waves it off, expression tight. "It's nothing. Just carelessness."
But I reach for him anyway, catching his wrist gently in both hands. His skin is cool beneath my touch, the burn already fading as I watch. The wound closes before my eyes, leaving only a faint trace of pink that vanishes moments later.
Still, I don't let go. "You should be more careful."
His eyes meet mine, something unguarded flickering there. "You sound like Angel."
"Maybe she's right."
He huffs a quiet laugh, the tension bleeding from his shoulders. "Maybe she is."
For a while, we stand there — dawn muted behind the curtain, the fire whispering in the grate, the world outside waking up while this room stays suspended in its own quiet gravity.
"I can't drive you home," he says, his tone apologetic.
"That's okay," I murmur, still watching his hand, the place where the burn had been. "Really."
Then he moves toward the desk, reaching for his phone, and the sound of it — that tiny, ordinary click — seems to break the fragile thing suspended between us. I hesitate, not wanting to go, not ready to trade this quiet for the empty hum of my own walls.
Before I can say anything, my phone buzzes, David's name lighting up the screen. A reminder of the other life still waiting, pretending nothing's changed.
I force a smile that doesn't feel right. "I should probably head home."
Grayson glances up, reading too much in my face, and for a second, it looks like he might stop me. But he says nothing.
As he makes the call, my thoughts drift — to the long night behind us, the things I never expected him to share, the strange comfort of realizing how far he goes to protect not just his own kind but anyone who falls under his care.
It's terrifying, and it's beautiful.
And as he speaks quietly into the phone, arranging my ride, I realize I don't want to leave this world just yet.
Within minutes, a knock echoes against the heavy door. A young man steps inside — human, though there's something practiced in his calm, like he's long since learned not to fear what lingers in these halls. His hair is light brown, a little tousled, and his eyes flick between Grayson and me before settling politely somewhere near the floor.
"Evan will drive you," Grayson says. "He's one of ours. He knows the routes to avoid."
Evan nods once, professional but kind. "Whenever you're ready, miss."
I glance back at Grayson. He's standing near the drawn curtains, the faint glow of dawn tracing his outline in shadow.
For a moment, I want to say something — anything — but the words don't come. The air between us is thick, heavy with everything left unsaid.
"Thank you," I manage. My voice comes out softer than I mean it to.
His lips curve into a faint, tired smile. "Get some rest, Cassidy."
The words feel heavier than they should, like a promise wrapped in a warning.
Evan leads me down the corridor. The coven is quiet now — the stone halls still and watchful, the lingering presence of vampires already retreating into the safety of darkness. My footsteps echo faintly, and each one feels like it's pulling me farther from something I don't quite understand but can't let go of either.
Outside, the cool morning air bites at my skin. The city is just waking — faint streaks of gold cutting through gray clouds, traffic humming in the distance. Evan opens the passenger door of a sleek black SUV for me, and I slide in, grateful for the warmth inside.
The drive starts in silence. The hum of the engine fills the space where my thoughts should be, but they're too tangled to settle. I watch the city blur past the window — streets I recognize, places I used to feel safe in. But now, everything looks different, as if the night rewrote the map.
I think about the way Grayson's voice sounded when he talked about safety — the quiet ferocity in it, the lengths he'd go to protect everyone under his care. I'd thought vampires were selfish creatures, bound only by hunger and power. But he… he builds walls around others, even when it hurts him.
And me? I don't even know who I am in all of this anymore.
"Long night?" Evan's voice breaks softly through the quiet, cautious but not unkind.
"Yeah," I say, forcing a small smile. "You could say that."
He nods, keeping his eyes on the road. "He doesn't talk much about what he does, but… the boss looks out for his people. You're in good hands."
The words settle somewhere deep, twisting the ache inside me tighter. I turn back to the window, watching the pale dawn spill across the skyline.
"I know," I whisper, mostly to myself.
The rest of the drive is quiet. The city's rhythm grows louder as we near my apartment — people on sidewalks, the scent of coffee from a nearby café, the warmth of life returning. It should feel comforting. Safe.
But as Evan pulls up to the curb, I realize the silence inside me is heavier than the one in the car. The normal world doesn't feel like home anymore.
"Thank you," I tell him, unbuckling my seatbelt.
He nods once, his tone even but gentle. "He said to call if you need anything. Any time."
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, plain business card, holding it out to me. I take it, seeing a single phone number printed in neat, black text.
I step out, the early light brushing against my skin like a memory already fading. As I walk toward the building, the bond hums faintly under my skin — a thread stretching back through the city, down into the dark, where he waits.
My apartment feels smaller than I remember. Still, the moment I close the door behind me, the silence wraps around me like a blanket — too thin to be comforting, but at least it's mine.
The air smells faintly of coffee grounds and lavender detergent, the way it always does, though there's something hollow about it now. The weight of last night still clings to me — the sound of Grayson's voice, the light flickering across his skin, the low hum of power that seems to follow me even here.
I drop my bag by the couch and sink down onto it, exhaling hard. The cushions dip beneath me like they're remembering my shape. Everything looks exactly the same — the half-read book on the coffee table, the small pile of mail by the door — but I feel like I've stepped into someone else's life.
For a long time, I sit there staring at nothing until my phone buzzes, breaking the quiet. The screen lights up with David's name.
Good morning :)
Did you sleep okay?
If you're not busy tonight, I was thinking dinner? Nothing fancy, maybe Marlowe's Grill. My treat.
A small smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it. Marlowe's Grill. The name alone tugs at something warm — quiet booths, twinkle lights, the smell of butter and basil. Normal. Safe.
I reread the messages, my thumb hovering. I want to say yes immediately and fall into the simplicity of David's world, where the worst that could happen is awkward silence or bad dessert.
But then I remember the glow of the security screens, Grayson's voice cutting through the dark: If they're watching her, I want their faces. The way he said her — like I was something to protect, not just a responsibility.
The ache in my chest sharpens. I close my eyes, leaning my head back against the couch. I should feel relieved to be home. I should feel normal. But the apartment feels too quiet, too empty. The silence doesn't comfort me — it presses in.
After a few seconds, I open my eyes and start typing.
Hey, you. That sounds perfect. What time?
I hit send before I can overthink it. The little "delivered" checkmark glows on the screen, and for the first time all morning, I breathe — not quite calm, not quite at peace, but trying.
A moment later, my phone buzzes again.
7:30. I'll pick you up.
I stare at the message, the steadiness of it grounding me in a way I didn't know I needed. My thumbs hover, then move before I can reconsider.
Pick me up at the bar.
Another buzz.
You got it. Can't wait.
My reflection catches in the dark TV screen across from me — same face, same brown eyes, same girl. But I can still feel his mark on me, invisible but thrumming.
The bond hums faintly, like a pulse under my skin.
And as the city outside stirs to life, I sit there between two worlds — one wrapped in sunlight and laughter, the other in shadow and fire — wondering how much longer I can pretend to belong to both.
By the time I finally drift off, it's late morning. Sleep comes in shallow, restless bursts — flashes of last night bleeding into dreams that feel too vivid to be dreams at all. Grayson's voice echoes in pieces I can't quite grasp. Every time I close my eyes, I see the faint burn on his hand, the way it healed beneath my touch.
When I wake again, the sun's already past noon, my head heavy, body sluggish, but there's no time to linger. Work won't wait.
The shower's quick and scalding, the steam doing its best to melt away the fatigue clinging to me. I pull my hair up into a loose bun, swipe on mascara, and throw on my usual uniform — black jean shorts, black tee, sneakers still dusted with bar grit. Normal. That's the word I keep repeating in my head as I lock the apartment door behind me. Normal. Just get through the day.
The bar is already buzzing when I get there — laughter, music, the familiar scent of citrus, alcohol, and fryer grease wrapping around me like a second skin. It's busy enough that I don't have time to think too much, which feels like a blessing.
"Afternoon, sunshine," Sasha calls over the clatter of glass as I tie my apron. "Rough night?"
"You could say that," I mutter, sliding behind the bar and grabbing the first shaker I can reach.
She smirks. "Is that your way of saying you didn't go home alone?"
I shoot her a look that makes her laugh outright. "Oh my God, I knew it! You're glowing."
"I'm exhausted," I correct her, grabbing a bottle of vodka and a half-empty container of lime juice. "Big difference."
"Uh-huh. Sure."
The rhythm of work takes over before I have to elaborate — pour, shake, strain, repeat. I take orders, crack jokes, swipe credit cards, and smile at customers I barely see. My body moves on autopilot, muscle memory taking over where my mind refuses to focus.
By late-afternoon, the rush finally dies down. Sasha leans against the counter, flipping through the drink inventory on her tablet. I take a breath, wiping my hands on a bar towel before speaking.
"Hey," I start, trying to sound casual. "Think I could duck out at 7:30 tonight?"
She arches an eyebrow. "Hot date?"
"Might be." I can't help the small smile tugging at my lips. "David wants to go to Marlowe's Grill."
"Oh, that cute little family place by the bookstore?" She grins, nudging me with her elbow. "You two are adorable. Yeah, get out early. I'll cover."
"Thanks, Sash."
She waves me off. "Just bring me back a breadstick or something."
The rest of the shift hums by in a blur of clinking glasses and muted conversation. I clean the counters, refill the garnishes, and chat idly with the regulars. Every so often, I catch myself glancing toward the clock, counting down the hours until I can leave.
By the time I untie my apron and hang it up, the sky outside is already beginning to shift from gold to deep blue. I run a damp towel over the bar one last time, watching the light fade through the windows, the city coming alive again.