The scent of blood assaults me first—faint, but enough to constrict my throat.
I sit motionless in the passenger seat, the hum of the engine barely audible beneath the rush of blood in my ears. Grayson's hands stay on the wheel, streaked dark, the cuffs of his shirt stiff with drying red. He doesn't look at me when he pulls out his phone.
"Tell me you're somewhere private," he says quietly, like he's discussing business instead of murder.
A pause. Then a rough, tired voice crackles through the line.
"I am. You made a mess again?"
My pulse stumbles. Mess. That's one word for it.
"Three men," Grayson says evenly. "Alley off Ninth. They won't be found unless someone goes looking."
The words are too calm, too practiced. He doesn't flinch.
"You never make my job easy," the man mutters.
"I never promised you easy."
Grayson leans back against the seat, the leather squeaking softly beneath him. His voice doesn't waver, but I catch the faint tremor in his fingers where they rest on the phone.
"I'll handle it," the man says, resignation creeping into his tone. "Same deal as before?"
"Yes." The word lands heavy, final. He exhales through his nose.
"And make sure it looks like nothing at all."
Grayson ends the call without another word, tossing the phone onto the dash. For a long moment, neither of us moves. The night hums around us, heavy with iron and silence.
As the car comes to a stop at a stoplight, he finally looks down at his hands, turning them in the faint dashboard light. His voice, when it comes, is meant for me.
"At least you're safe."
The words slide through me—quiet, rough-edged. I don't know if the tremor in my chest is from what he did or from the way he says safe, like the word costs him something every time he uses it.
He doesn't speak again. He doesn't need to. I watch the city blur past the windows, the car swallowing miles like it's hungry for distance. My pulse counts each one, steady but uneasy, the ache twisting tighter with every block.
By the time he pulls up in front of the coven's building, the tension between us is thick enough to taste. He parks along the curb, kills the engine, and we sit in the dark, listening to the metal tick as it cools.
I don't wait for him to open my door. I'm already stepping out when he rounds the hood, his eyes catching mine over the roof. The moonlight cuts across his face—sharp cheekbones, dark hair, the line of his mouth unsmiling.
"Cassidy." Just my name. Nothing else. But it stops me.
He moves toward me, smooth and unhurried, like he knows exactly how to navigate the distance between us. I feel the car's chill against my back as his hand lifts, fingertips grazing my cheek. I can't tell if it's a caress or an apology.
"You shouldn't—" I start, but he cuts me off, his thumb brushing my bottom lip.
"Don't." His voice is low, edged like a blade. "Don't tell me what I shouldn't do. Not tonight."
I swallow hard, caught between the night air and the cool scent of him—blood and cologne.
"Okay," I whisper. And watch his eyes darken.
Before either of us can say more, the coven's heavy metal door creaks open. Voices spill out—low, urgent, vibrating with restrained panic. Someone must have already heard.
Grayson straightens. The shift in him is immediate, almost violent—the predator taking over, the leader snapping into place.
Inside, the air hums with unrest. Vampires move through the corridors like a current under pressure, whispers breaking against the stone walls. Three dead on Ninth.Covered up, again.He did it himself this time.
No one says his name aloud. They don't have to. The respect—or fear—in their eyes is louder than words.
And I feel it too. The reminder of what he is, what he's capable of. The safety he offers isn't clean. It smells like blood.
Then a vampire breaks from the murmuring crowd, tall and broad-shouldered, unease flickering across his face. "Sir—there's been another attack. South district. One confirmed rogue, maybe more."
Grayson's jaw tightens, control sharpening to a fine, dangerous edge. "Casualties?"
"Three humans, from what we can tell. A patrol found the scene."
For a heartbeat, silence. Then Grayson exhales, slow and deliberate.
"Call Randy for clean-up of the humans. Take four men. Contain the rogue. Burn whatever's left after."
The vampire hesitates. "Sir, you're not—?"
"No." The single word lands like a blow. "I'm staying in tonight. You know what to do."
The vampire bows sharply. "Sir."
He's gone within seconds, already shouting orders.
Grayson watches him disappear down the corridor, his expression unreadable in the flickering light. When the last footsteps fade, his gaze finds mine. For a moment, the cold steel softens—but only slightly.
Still, the weight of him lingers in the silence between us: power, guilt, and something dangerously close to care.
The door slams shut behind us with a sound that echoes through the stone hall—final, sharp, like the crack of thunder before the storm breaks.
Grayson's back is to me at first, shoulders tense, jaw tight enough to splinter. When he turns, the fury in his eyes nearly steals my breath.
"What the hell were you thinking?" His voice is low but lethal, the kind of quiet that's far more dangerous than a shout. "You knew it wasn't safe. You knew they were still out there, and you went out anyway."
I flinch. The words hit harder than I expect.
"I just—"
He cuts me off, taking a step forward. "You could've been killed, Cassidy. Do you understand that?"
The anger cracks on the last word, revealing something raw beneath. He drags a hand through his hair, pacing once before stopping, his voice quieter now but thick with restrained emotion.
"You think I don't want you to have your life back? You think I don't want you safe enough to go wherever you want, without fear?"
I can't answer. The guilt rises like a tide, choking off every word I want to say. He looks at me then—really looks at me—and the sharpness in his expression falters. The exhaustion etched into his face steals the breath from my chest.
"Grayson…" My voice cracks. "I'm sorry."
The words sound small in the vast room, fragile and inadequate. I wrap my arms around myself, as if that can shield me from the ache twisting in my stomach.
"I just wanted—" I pause, swallowing hard. "I wanted a normal life."
His gaze softens, but there's sadness there too—an ache that mirrors my own.
"You can't," he says quietly. "Not anymore."
And somehow, hearing it aloud—hearing him say it—hurts more than I expected.
For a heartbeat, silence. Only the faint hum of the coven around us, distant and cold.
My mind flashes with fragments: David's warm smile across the dinner table, the sound of his laugh, the way sunlight used to catch in his hair. That gentle, ordinary life I keep trying to cling to. But it feels like a dream now—thin, faded, and impossible.
I look at Grayson, standing there, still streaked with the blood of the men he killed to protect me. The man who terrifies me, consumes me, but somehow makes me feel alive in ways normalcy never could.
Something in me breaks then—not from fear, but from the weight of choosing.
I take a shaky step toward him.
"You're right," I whisper. "I can't have that life. I don't want to keep pretending."
He doesn't move, but his eyes follow every step I take, the storm in them flickering with something softer, almost disbelieving.
"I'm done living between both worlds," I say, my voice trembling but sure. "No more double life. No more lies."
I stop in front of him, close enough to feel the coolness radiating from his skin, to see the faint red gleam still burning in his eyes.
"I choose you," I breathe. "Whatever this is. Whatever it means."
Grayson exhales, the sound barely audible but full of something that borders on relief and sorrow at once. His hand lifts hesitantly, as if he's afraid I'll vanish if he touches me. When his fingers finally brush my cheek, it's with infinite care—cool, steady, loving.
"You shouldn't," he murmurs, voice hoarse. "But I don't think I can let you go now."
I lean into his touch, closing my eyes, the bond vibrating between us—low, steady, and alive. The hum between my legs ignites when he touches me, a deep, insistent pulse that makes my breath catch. It's a reminder that my body, too, is attuned to Grayson, that every part of me is pulled towards him.
"I don't want you to."
For a heartbeat, he doesn't move. Then, as if something inside him finally breaks loose, his hand comes up to my cheek. His touch is cool against my skin, stained with the faint metallic scent of blood, but it doesn't matter.
I lean into him, and before I can think, before I can breathe, I'm kissing him. The taste of blood lingers on his mouth—metallic, sharp, real—and it shouldn't make my pulse quicken, but it does.
It's not frantic this time. It's slow, deliberate—a promise whispered between two people who have long since burned the line between salvation and ruin.
His hands slide to my waist, steadying me as if I might still crumble, and I press closer, feeling the world tilt around us, the scent of blood mixing with my own breath. His lips move against mine, coaxing and pleading, as if trying to convey all the words left unsaid between us.
I feel the scrape of his stubble against my skin, the coolness of his breath mingling with mine.
His mouth is cool, searching, and I lean into him, my fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, anchoring him to me. He sighs against my mouth, a sound that vibrates through my chest.
When he finally pulls back, his breath still tastes like blood and truth. His eyes are dark and unreadable, but his voice, when it comes, is tender.
"Come with me."
He leads me toward the adjoining bathroom, his hand firm on the small of my back, a touch that's equal parts guide and claim—possessive, unyielding, like he's already mapping the ways he'll unravel me all over again.
The door swings open on silent hinges, revealing a space that's all sleek marble and shadowed elegance—his world, timeless and edged with danger, the air thick with the faint, coppery tang of blood that clings to us both. The light there is dim, golden from the sconces on the wall, casting long, flickering shadows that lick across his skin like flames I want to chase. It paints him in hues of amber, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the faint sheen of sweat and gore on his chest from the fight—the men's breaths turning to gurgles as Grayson tore through them, fangs bared, a blur of deadly grace. Crimson streaks his forearms, spatters his throat, and I can still feel the tremor in my limbs from watching him slaughter them for me, protecting what's his with a ferocity that makes my pulse stutter even now.
We make it to the threshold before the urgency overtakes us, that invisible tether between us snapping taut, a live wire of need that shorts out every rational thought.
Our hands are frantic, desperate in a way that borders on violence—peeling off each other's clothes with tugs and rips that echo in the quiet, scattering fabric like debris from a battlefield. My shirt hits the tile first, yanked over my head to expose my breasts to the cool air, nipples hardening instantly under his ravenous gaze.
"God, Cassidy," he growls, voice already rough with hunger, his eyes tracing the curve of my skin. "You're so beautiful."
Then his shirt goes, buttons popping free as I claw it open, revealing the hard planes of his chest, marred with drying blood that I trace with trembling fingers, smearing it like war paint.
"Touch me," I whisper, voice hoarse with want, guiding his hand to my breast.
He obliges, his cool palm cupping the soft weight, fingers finding my nipple and rolling it gently. I arch into his touch, the sensation shooting sparks straight to my core.
His fingers hook into the waistband of my shorts, yanking them down my hips along with my soaked panties in one hard motion, leaving me bare from the waist down, my thighs slick with arousal that's got nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the man who just saved me.
Before I can catch my breath, he's on his knees, his tongue swiping a hot, wet stripe over my clit that makes my knees buckle. He licks me again, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud, each flick sending sparks dancing across my vision. A small moan escapes my lips as he licks me, unable to contain the pleasure building inside me.
I tangle my fingers in his hair, holding him against me as he works me with his mouth, alternating between suction and teasing flicks until I'm trembling on the edge. Just when I think I might shatter, he stands back up, towering over me once more. His lips glossy with my arousal, his eyes filled with dark hunger and possessive promise.
He captures my lips in a searing kiss, his tongue searching my mouth, claiming me with a fierce hunger. I can taste myself on his lips, mingling with the coppery tang of blood and the dark, intoxicating flavor that is uniquely Grayson. The kiss is deep, a lustful invasion that leaves me panting and desperate for more.
I pull back, fumbling with his belt, the leather whispering free before I shove his pants and boxers down. His cock springs free—thick, heavy, already straining toward me. The tip glistens with pre-cum that makes my mouth water even as my core clenches in greedy anticipation. He hisses through his teeth as the cool air hits him, his hand coming up to fist in my hair, tilting my head back to expose my throat.
He leans in close, his breath hot against my skin, and I feel the light graze of his fangs along my jugular.
"I want to taste you so badly," he whispers, his voice rough with desire. "Every inch of you, inside and out."
We stumble into the shower, the glass door sliding shut behind us with a soft click. He twists the knob, and hot spray erupts from the rain-head above, pounding down on us like a monsoon—scalding, relentless, washing over our bodies in steaming sheets.
The water turns rusty pink at our feet as it rinses away the evidence of the slaughter: the arterial spray from the men's throats, the gore caked into his knuckles from ripping them apart, the faint splatters on my arms. It swirls down the drain in crimson swirls, carrying the metallic bite of violence, the echo of their dying breaths, leaving us clean but marked in deeper ways—the bond humming between us, alive with the afterglow of his protection, his possession.
For a moment, we just stand there, skin to skin, chests heaving in ragged sync, the water hammering around us like a heartbeat we share.
His arms encircle me, pulling me flush against him, my breasts pressing into the cool wall of his chest.
It's a sanctuary, this steam-shrouded haze, from the night's brutality. Here, it's just us—raw, stripped, the world reduced to the slide of water and the press of flesh. But the pause is brief, as it always is with him; the violence bleeds into desire, sharpening it to a razor's edge.
In an instant, his lips crash onto mine again, the kiss deep and starving, a devouring clash of teeth and tongues that tastes of blood and salt and unrestrained want—like he's feeding on my very breath, drawing life from the heat I offer.
I kiss him back with equal ferocity, my fingers tangling in his wet hair, slick strands slipping through my grip as I arch into him, grinding my hips forward until my aching clit brushes the rigid length of his cock.
"Yes, just like that," he rasps against my mouth, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise, guiding my movements.
"Grayson," I moan into his kiss, my hips circling harder, slick folds gliding along his length. "Your cock feels so good."
Water streams between us, tracing channels down his shoulders, over the faint, silvered scars that map centuries of survival—battles I can only imagine, but this one? This one's mine, etched in the fresh tension of his muscles, the possessive glint in his hazel eyes.
He presses me back against the slick tile, the porcelain biting cold at my spine, a stark contrast to the fever building where our bodies align. His hardness slots against my belly, hot and insistent despite the spray, the thick vein pulsing under my skin as I shift, trapping him between my thighs.
I reach down, my hand trembling with the raw edge of need, wrapping around his cock with a firm, deliberate stroke—fingers sliding from base to tip, thumb circling the flushed head to smear his pre-cum in the water's flow. He's massive in my palm, twitching at my touch.
He groans into my mouth, the sound guttural and broken, vibrating straight to my core. "Ah, fuck."
"Mmm, you're so big," I gasp, pumping him faster, my thumb pressing into the sensitive underside.
His hips buck forward on instinct, fucking into my fist once, twice, the wet glide filthy under the pounding spray.
I tighten my grip, pumping him slow and teasing, feeling him throb, swell, the ridges and veins mapping against my palm like a promise of how he'll feel buried deep. The bond pulses with it, amplifying every sensation until my pussy weeps, thighs slick with more than water, clenching around nothing as I imagine him splitting me open.
He snarls against my lips—a low, animal rumble that makes my clit throb—and lifts me like I'm air, hands cupping my ass with bruising strength, fingers digging into the soft cheeks to spread me wide.
My legs wrap around his waist on pure instinct, ankles locking at the small of his back, heels pressing into muscle as I hook him closer. The tile scrapes my shoulders as he pins me higher, water cascading over my breasts, and then he's there—the blunt, flared head of his cock nudging at my entrance, parting my swollen folds with teasing pressure.
"Tell me," he demands, the tip circling my clit once, twice, making me whine. "How much you want this."
"Please, Grayson," I beg, voice breaking as I rock against him, the head slipping just inside.
He doesn't make me wait long; with one long, slow thrust, he sinks into me, inch by agonizing inch, stretching my walls with a burn that's pure ecstasy—the thick girth of him forcing me open, filling every empty space until I'm stuffed full, my pussy fluttering around him in greedy spasms.
A cry tears from my throat, high and shattered, echoing off the glass as my nails rake down his shoulders, carving red furrows that bead with water and heal in seconds.
"Yes—God, yes, just like that," I cry out, clenching around him deliberately.
We move together then, bodies slamming into that perfect rhythm—primal, unforgiving, like we've been created for this. Each thrust is a claiming: deep, hard snaps of his hips that drive him to the hilt, the head of his cock hitting my cervix with every plunge, balls slapping wet against my ass.
Water pounds around us, steam curling thick as I meet him stroke for stroke, my hips rolling to take him deeper, grinding my clit against his pubic bone on every downstroke. Skin slides against skin, slick and heated, the filthy sound of my pussy sucking him in mingling with our gasps, our moans—mine high and keening, his low growls that border on snarls, fangs grazing my jaw without piercing. The tension coils tighter in my belly, a molten knot of pleasure-pain, every nerve alight as he angles his hips to drag along that spot inside me, the one that makes stars explode behind my eyelids.
"Oh, fuck—right there, Grayson," I gasp, my voice raw as I grind down harder. "Don't stop."
He kisses me again, fangs a careful threat, nicking my lower lip to draw a bead of blood he laps away with a hungry flick of his tongue, mimicking the relentless plunge of his cock—shifting deep, twisting, claiming my mouth as thoroughly as he ravages my body.
I'm lost in him: the stretch and drag of his thickness splitting me, the cool slide of his chest against my heated breasts, nipples grazing over scars; the way his fingers knead my ass, one slipping teasingly toward the tight ring of muscle there, circling without entering; the bond singing electric between us, every thrust echoing in my veins like a second pulse.
The world narrows to this inferno—to him, owning me with every brutal grind, the desperate, aching pleasure twisting low until it's all-consuming, my thighs quaking, toes curling against his back.
"Yes. Come for me, baby."
"Grayson—I'm..." I scream his name, the sound fracturing into sobs as ecstasy rips through me, white-hot and blinding, waves of it pulsing from my core to my fingertips, leaving me shuddering, boneless in his arms.
He follows a heartbeat later, hips stuttering erratically as he buries himself to the root, grinding deep with a roar that vibrates through my bones—spilling hot and thick inside me, pulse after pulse of his cum flooding my walls, marking me from within as my name falls from his lips like a broken incantation.
"Cassidy... mine... oh, mine."
We collapse together against the tile, a slick tangle of limbs and trembling muscle, his arms the only anchor keeping me from melting into the floor as my legs slide down to shaky footing.
The water still hammers relentlessly, rinsing the sweat and cum from our joined bodies, but it can't wash away the deeper brands: the faint bruises blooming on my hips from his grip, the sated hum of the bond humming low and content under my skin, the way my pussy twitches with aftershocks around the slow drag as he slips free, his cum trickling down my thigh in warm streams.
He twists off the spray with a flick of his wrist, the sudden silence ringing in my ears, and reaches for a towel from the rack—draping it over my shoulders with a gentleness that steals my breath, his cool fingers lingering to trace the swell of my breast, the dip of my waist, as if committing the flush of my skin to memory.
"Stay," he murmurs, voice roughened gravel as he presses his lips to my temple, that quiet possessiveness weaving through the word like smoke. He steps away for a moment, moving to the vanity. I hear the soft sound of a drawer opening, and then he's back behind me, a brush in his hand, its dark handle worn smooth from use.
He hands the brush to me, his fingers brushing mine with that same electric tingle. I take it, my hand trembling ever so slightly as I grip the smooth handle.
Then I lean into him, letting his arms enfold me as he dries us both with unhurried strokes, the bond purring its approval. For now, it's enough—the thrill of him, the danger that saved me tonight, the fire that consumes without apology. The shadows can wait; this blaze burns brighter.