I pulled the car into the garage like I was docking a spacecraft—slow, reverent, one hand still curled around the wheel like I wasn't quite ready to let go.
The engine cut off with a low purr.
Silence followed, thick and golden.
I exhaled, sank back in the seat, and stared at the dash like it had personally changed my life.
Okay, maybe it had.
Eventually, I peeled myself out and shut the door gently, like I didn't want to wake the beast. My bare feet whispered across the tile as I made my way toward the house. The doors opened before I touched them.
Right. Living house. Still not over that.
The villa was warm inside—dim where I was, but the lights followed like footsteps, flicking on one by one, soft and golden.
And then—
"I take it you enjoyed the AMG?"
Her voice drifted from the landing above like smoke.
I looked up—and yeah, there she was.
Seraphine. Barefoot. Wrapped in a deep red silk robe that looked like it belonged on the floor more than her body. Her hair was a mess, and somehow it made her more dangerous. More divine. She was smiling.
Which meant trouble.
"I didn't even know cars could feel like that," I said.
She descended the stairs slowly, the way predators moved when they weren't hungry—but still wanted you to remember they had teeth.
"Tiff said you were grinning," she murmured, stopping in front of me.
"I might've been," I said. "Briefly. Against my will."
"Mmhmm." She reached up, brushed her fingers across my jaw. "I'm sure it looked good on you."
I felt it then—that ache in my chest. The way she always saw more than I meant to show.
I cleared my throat, scratched the back of my neck. "It's not mine, though. I'll keep it clean. Park it right. Try not to get pulled over."
Seraphine blinked slowly, like I'd spoken another language. "Itisyours."
I frowned. "Wait—"
She was already nodding. "The car. It's yours."
"You—you're giving it to me?"
"Technically, I already did." She stepped closer, resting her palm lightly against my chest. "Consider it a... small token."
"Small?"
Her smile deepened. "Well, after what you survived this morning, I thought you deserved a reward."
My brain short-circuited. "Is that a joke about—?"
"Five rounds, Cassian," she said, mock solemn. "I had to stop myself from planning a parade."
I groaned. "You're never gonna let me live that down, are you?"
"Nope." Her hand slid down my ribs, fingers dragging. "But I will let you have the car."
I stared at her. "You're serious."
"Always."
I opened my mouth. Closed it. "You didn't have to—"
"I wanted to," she interrupted, quiet now. "You should have something here that's yours. Not borrowed. Not temporary."
Her eyes searched mine. "You belong here, Cassian. Not just in my bed."
Something twisted in my chest. Not sharp. Not painful. Just... real.
I nodded. "Thank you."
And then she was gone—turning with that effortless grace, disappearing back into the dark wing of the house she always retreated to during the day. Not because she was hiding.
Because she was what the night had given up.
The lights dimmed around her as she went.
And I just stood there, keys in hand, heart pounding a little too loud.
That car was mine.
She wanted me to stay.
And for a second, I let myself justfeelthat. The weight of it. The weird warmth curling in my chest that wasn't just from sex or speed or silk sheets. Something quieter. Like being chosen. Like being seen.
Then the high started to fade, just enough for my brain to come back online.
Right.The job.
The thing I was supposed to bring up. Before she kissed my sanity out of me and handed me a six-figure distraction with wheels.
I turned toward the hall she'd vanished down, exhaling slowly. My legs still ached. My ribs, too. But this was important. I needed this conversation to be mine—just like the car was now mine.
Not a demand.
Not a complaint.
Just... honesty.
I padded through the villa, the lights brightening subtly with every step, like the house approved. Or was nosy. Still undecided on that.
When I found her again, she was in the sunroom—the one with blackout curtains drawn tight across the windows, warm candlelight flickering along the stone walls. It always smelled like jasmine and blood and something older than either.
She was curled on a velvet chaise like a painting, legs tucked beneath her, a glass of something red in her hand.
"Back so soon?" she said without looking.
"I forgot something," I said, stepping in.
She tilted her head toward me.
I rubbed a hand over my neck, hesitating. "I wanted to talk to you. Before. About... something."
She raised a brow, patiently silent.
I took a breath.
"I've been thinking about getting a job."
That got her attention. Her eyes sharpened, mouth parting slightly like I'd said something unexpected—but not unwelcome.
"A job," she echoed.
"Yeah. Nothing huge. Just... something that's mine," I said. "I've been floating. Waiting. It's not about needing money—obviously. But I need something else. Some kind of purpose. Something to wake up for that isn't just sex and supernatural furniture."
Her lips twitched. "And you think a job will fix that?"
"I think... maybe it'll help me remember who I was. Or figure out who I'm becoming."
She studied me for a moment. Not smiling. Not judging. Justwatching.
Then—softly—"Okay."
I blinked. "Wait, really?"
"I'd rather you tell me what you need than pretend you're fine until you start unraveling." She set her glass down and stood. Walked to me slowly. "If a job helps you feel grounded, Cassian, then yes. Do it."
My shoulders eased before I realized how tense they'd been.
"Thank you," I murmured.
She smirked faintly. "Of course, I'll still ruin you regularly. But I'll let you clock out first."
I groaned, half-laughing. "Can I at least make it through one interview without limping?"
"No promises."
She kissed me, then, light and lingering. And when she pulled back, her fingers brushed mine—warm, grounding.
"I'm proud of you," she said.
Something in me settled at that.
And for the first time since I got here, I didn't feel like I was just orbiting her world.
I felt like maybe—just maybe—I could start building my own.
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The next few weeks slipped by in a strange rhythm—like time didn't tick here, it purred.
Every day started the same.
Late morning sunlight slipping through gauzy curtains. The silk sheets twisted around my legs. The faint ache in my spine and thighs reminding me exactly who I belonged to.
Seraphine rarely woke when I did—if she hadn't already slipped into her wing for the day, that is. She was nocturnal in every sense. Beautiful and lethal, glittering just beneath the surface, and very much not a fan of daylight.
But the rest of the house? Wide awake.
Villa Dahlia was... something else.
There were butlers. Maids. Staff I hadn't bothered to count, all uniformed and graceful, moving through the marble halls like they'd rehearsed their whole lives for this choreography.
I never asked them to do anything.
I never had to.
They just... knew.
Coffee appeared when I sat down. Plates of warm croissants and blood oranges and tiny buttered toasts I never requested were placed gently in front of me on the terrace. My clothes—washed, pressed, hung by color. The AMG was always clean and parked by the front steps by the time I got dressed, engine already warmed like it had somewhere important to be.
One of the butlers—Jared, I think—had started giving me a respectful nod every morning. Like he was quietly impressed I was still alive after sharing a bed with his boss.
I didn't blame him.
By 2PM, I was on the road, picking Tiffany up from high school like some weirdly hot chauffeur with too much horsepower.
Still seventeen. Still unimpressed. Still suspicious of the house.
She climbed in every day with the same look—half judgment, half awe—and muttered, "You know this is excessive, right?"
"Still underage," I'd reply.
Tradition.
The staff doted on her, too. Without explanation. Her room was always clean. Her backpack disappeared and reappeared in the corner like magic. Once she mentioned craving a drink she couldn't find at the store, and the next day there were two chilled bottles in the fridge.
Tiff had theories. "It's like Downton Abbey," she whispered once. "Except your rich girlfriend is hotter than everyone on that show combined."
She didn't know about the vampire part. Not yet.
Meanwhile, I was still job hunting.
Between dropping Tiff off, getting destroyed by Seraphine on a nightly basis, and trying not to get too comfortable living in luxury I hadn't earned, I spent a few hours each day in the sunroom or library scrolling through listings. Part-time stuff. Online. Something normal.
Seraphine didn't hover.
She just watched. Listened. Let me figure it out.
Some days, I caught her watching me over the rim of a wine glass—blood or otherwise—with that quiet, proud smile that felt like sunlight even if it came from the night.
And every night, she wrecked me all over again.
Kisses like vows. Touches like confessions. She didn't take—she claimed. Made it impossible to forget her even when she was gone.
By sunrise, she'd retreat to her wing. The halls dimmed, the staff vanished to their own quiet corners, and I'd be left in the stillness of a house that was never truly silent.
I wasn't drowning anymore.
Just... adjusting.
Figuring out who I was now. Who I could be.
And for the first time in a long time, it didn't feel like I was waiting for something to fall apart.
It felt like I was building something instead.