I wipe my hands on a towel one last time before glancing toward the door. Through the window, I spot David leaning against his car—dark red T-shirt stretched across his chest, black jeans fitting just right, hair combed back and tucked neatly behind his ears. He looks relaxed, comfortable in that effortless way only David can pull off.
I grab my bag from under the counter and swing it over my shoulder.
As I step out from behind the bar, Sasha gives a teasing whistle. "Your boy's here."
"He's not—" I start, but she's already grinning at me, so I just shake my head, laughing softly as I head toward the door.
David straightens the second he spots me, his easy smile lighting up his face. When he reaches out, the gesture is so familiar it makes something in my chest tighten.
I reach for him automatically—and the moment our fingers touch, the ache ignites. Low. Insistent. Deep enough that I have to swallow hard to keep my expression steady. It's like something inside me snaps awake, humming in recognition.
Grayson. The thought slices through before I can stop it. The ache intensifies between my legs, a low, pulsing reminder that pulls my breath thin. My stomach twists with guilt, my mind flashing to last night—the coolness of Grayson's skin, his voice in the dark, the look in his eyes when he promised to keep me safe. The bond hums, pulsing against the fragile normalcy I'm clinging to. It stirs when I touch someone else, a silent reminder that he's still out there… and that he knows.
David squeezes my hand gently, mistaking my hesitation for nerves. "You okay?"
I nod, forcing a smile. "Yeah. I'm just tired. Long shift."
He chuckles, brushing his thumb across the back of my hand before opening the car door for me. "Then dinner's definitely in order. You need food."
I manage a genuine smile. "Fine, but I'm ordering dessert, too."
"As if I'd stop you."
The city buzzes quietly—honking cars, scattered laughter, the hum of weekend life that feels a thousand miles from marble halls and vampire politics. For a while, I let it wash over me, pretending this—David's hand in mine, the warmth of a Friday night—is enough to drown out the echo of Grayson's cool, commanding presence.
The drive to Marlowe's is pleasant, filled with small talk about work and music, about the old family that runs the place, and how their breadsticks are supposedly addictive. David talks with his hands when he's excited, one hand on the wheel, the other gesturing animatedly, and I find myself laughing despite the tension coiled inside me.
For a few blocks, it almost feels easy again—like the ache in my chest and between my legs is just a ghost of something imagined, not real. But when he pulls onto the street near Marlowe's, the lot is packed, cars lining the curb in both directions.
"Guess we're walking," he says with a grin, finding a spot a few blocks away.
I nod, unbuckling my seatbelt. "It's nice out anyway."
We step out into the night air, the city lights stretching long across the sidewalk. As we walk, David's hand brushes mine again—warm, steady, human. I focus on that. On him. On the quiet comfort of being wanted for something simple.
But under it all, the bond hums again, a faint vibration whispering you're not his to hold. The ache flares in response, sharp and insistent, making my breath catch. My body is attuned to Grayson, every part of me drawn toward him, no matter how much I fight it.
I ignore it—I have to.
Marlowe's Grill is buzzing when we walk in—the soft clatter of silverware, the faint hum of a radio playing something old and familiar, the low murmur of conversation layered with the smell of garlic and sizzling butter. The place feels timeless, the kind of small family restaurant that hasn't changed in decades. Framed photos line the walls: the original owners smiling proudly, kids in graduation caps, someone cutting a birthday cake. It's cozy in a way that aches.
David leads the way to a booth near the window, the soft glow from the streetlights painting the table in gold. He flashes a smile at the older woman behind the counter—Mrs. Marlowe, judging by her name tag—and she greets him by name, teasing that she's already got his usual started.
I laugh quietly. "You're a regular here?"
"Guilty," he admits, sliding into the booth across from me. "I come here after work sometimes. They've got the best grilled chicken sandwich in the city. You'll see."
When the waitress comes by, I order a pasta dish and a glass of white wine. David gets his usual, along with a plate of fries "for sharing," even though I can already tell he'll end up eating most of them himself.
For a while, the conversation flows easily—work stories, music, the weird customers that make the bar feel like its own little world. I find myself laughing more than I expected to, tension bleeding away with every small joke. It feels good to just be here, to exist in a space untouched by darkness, by blood, by the hum of the bond that follows me everywhere.
But every time I glance up, David's brown eyes meet mine with that soft, searching concern that makes it harder to keep pretending.
"You're quiet tonight," he says after a moment, smiling, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Usually you're the one keeping me talking."
I force a small laugh, twirling the stem of my glass between my fingers. "Just tired, I guess. It's been... a long week."
He studies me for a moment, head tilted slightly. "You sure that's all it is?"
The question lands too close. The wine burns on its way down when I take another sip, buying time before I answer.
"I'm fine, David," I lie softly. "Really."
He doesn't press, and I'm grateful for it. But guilt twists inside me anyway, sharp and sour. Because the truth is, I'm not fine. I'm sitting in this cozy booth, surrounded by the smell of garlic bread and laughter from nearby tables, and all I can think about is him.
Grayson.
The sound of his voice when he said my name. The way his anger filled a room, not with danger, but with conviction. The burn of his skin when the sun touched it, the way I held his hand afterward. The weight of the bond humming faintly in the background, even now, threading through my chest like a second heartbeat. The persistent ache between my legs throbbing in time with each pulse.
I glance down at my plate, blinking against the sudden blur in my vision. I want this—the simplicity, the peace, the light of David's smile across from me. I want to believe I can still have it. But deep down, I know I crossed a line I can never step back from.
The moment Grayson bit me, I stopped belonging entirely to this world.
David reaches across the table, his fingers brushing mine.
"Hey," he says gently, and I look up, startled. His smile is small, uncertain. "Whatever's going on in that head of yours… You don't have to carry it alone, you know."
The kindness in his voice nearly undoes me. I manage a nod, swallowing hard.
"I know," I whisper. "Thank you."
He squeezes my hand once before pulling back, and for the rest of dinner, he keeps the conversation light—stories about his coworkers, a funny customer from last week, a new playlist he wants me to hear. I smile and laugh where I should, and for a while, it almost feels real again.
But beneath the clinking glasses and the warmth of his laugh, the ache never fades. It hums quietly in my chest, patient and knowing, whispering of the bond that waits in the dark—of the man whose shadow I can't seem to step out from.
My heart races, each beat a thunderous drum against my chest, echoing the chaos I've let into my life. I want to resist this—God, I do. I want to cling to the fragile threads of denial, to the memory of David's warm hand in mine during that picnic he planned, the way his laugh cuts through the ordinary noise of a sunny afternoon. That's the life I crave: simple mornings with coffee and crosswords, evenings tangled in sheets without the sting of fangs or the pull of something darker.
But the ache... oh, the ache is a molten knot low in my belly, twisting with every shallow, ragged breath I take. It's Grayson who unravels me, who makes resistance feel like a lie I'm too tired to tell myself anymore.
David's hand is warm in mine, the city lights glowing around us as we leave the restaurant. As we cut through a back alley toward the car, shadows swallow us, the sounds of the city fading into a muffled quiet.
My heart races in my chest, a thrumming reminder of the life I'm trying to hold onto with David. But with each step, the bond tugs at me, a dark whisper that this isn't my world anymore. That I don't belong in the light. That I have to let him go.
And then—the screech of tires, the slam of car doors, the cold burn of guns pointed my way. Three men step out, faces I used to know, all eyes on me. My ex's men, here to remind me of a life I can't escape.
The man in the center steps forward, his gun never wavering.
"You're coming with us," he says flatly, looking straight at me.
My heart pounds, each beat a thunderous drum against my chest, echoing the chaos that used to be my life. The sound reverberates through my bones, a relentless reminder of the danger that lurks in the shadows. I can feel the weight of my past pressing down on me, threatening to suffocate me with its unyielding grip. But even as fear coils around my heart, I know I must face the consequences of my choices. The life I left behind has come back to haunt me, and I can no longer run from the truth.
His eyes flicker to David, a cruel smile twisting his lips. "I wonder what he'd think, knowing you're keeping secrets."
"Leave him out of this," I say, my voice shaking as I raise my hands in surrender. "He's nothing to me—just a friend. Please, let him go."
David looks at me, his eyes wide and glossy with fear. I can see the hurt flickering there, too, the silent question of why anyone would come for me. But there's no time for that now, not with the cold bite of guns in the air.
The man in the center waves his gun toward David, a silent command.
"Go on then. Get out of here."
David hesitates a moment, torn between chivalry and self-preservation. But when I nod, he finally turns, stumbling away into the dark. The sound of his retreating footsteps is a hollow echo, a door closing on a life I barely got to live.
I watch him go until he's out of sight, then turn back to face my fate. The men advance, their guns steady, and for a wild, desperate second, I consider running—bolting into the darkness and praying for a miracle.
But there's nowhere to go, no way out that doesn't end in blood. So I close my eyes, waiting for the bite of metal, the rip of bullets through flesh.
But it never comes.
Instead, there's a blur of motion—too quick to track, too silent to be human—before Grayson is there, moving like a ghost between the men. He strikes like lightning, vicious and precise, his hands and fangs tearing through them with a savagery that chills my blood.
In moments, it's over.
The air is heavy with the stench of blood, a metallic tang that coats my tongue and turns my stomach. I can't tear my eyes away from the carnage before me—the broken bodies, the gaping wounds, the sickening sight of viscera glistening in the dim light.
This was no ordinary fight. It was a massacre, a ruthless display of savagery that leaves no room for mercy or restraint. The men who came for me lie scattered across the pavement, their lives snuffed out like candles in a hurricane.
One man is twisted at an impossible angle, his neck torn open in a grotesque smile, the arterial spray painting the ground a vivid crimson.
Another is crumpled around the ruined mess of his stomach, his hands limp and twitching in the spreading pool of blood beneath him. His eyes, once filled with malice, now stare blankly into the void.
The third man is slumped against the alley wall, his head lying to the side, revealing the jagged, gaping wound where his throat used to be. Blood still oozes slowly from the torn flesh.
My heart pounds against my chest, adrenaline surging through my veins as I take in the aftermath of Grayson's fury. He stands among the bodies, his eyes blazing crimson, his hands and mouth dripping with the blood of my enemies. He looks at me with a hunger that borders on desperation.
"You shouldn't have been here," he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the air between us.
I nod, my heart still pounding, my legs unsteady beneath me. "I know."
He steps closer, the bond between us thrumming like a live wire, and I can feel the pull of it—the need, the hunger, the certainty that this is where I belong. I glance back once, to where David disappeared, but I know it's too late for that now. The life I wanted is gone, and all that's left is the fire.
"Take me home," I whisper.