Annie's breath caught. She pressed the heel of her palm to her forehead, then looked at me, her lips parted.
"It's not your job to keep me safe from everyone," she reminded me, her voice husky as she leaned in until our chests nearly touched. "I don't want to be something you have to guard." Her fingers found the edge of my shirt, playing with the hem. "I want to be your equal. Not your favorite thing." She tilted her face up, eyes dark with challenge. "Your favorite person."
I felt the old, burning urge to argue, but I sat back and let her words dig in. I tried to picture a world where she was just a person, not a miracle, not something I’d been waiting half a century for. It scared the shit out of me, but I wanted her to trust me with more than just her body, more than just the soft, defenseless part she gave me at night.
“Okay,” I said, and meant it. “You’re not a thing. You’re not mine. But you’re still the only one I want.”
She rolled her eyes—hard—but I saw her mouth twitch, the faintest smile at the corners. “You’re such a disaster,” she said. “But you’re my disaster now, so you better not fuck it up.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, and leaned over to kiss the top of her head.
We fooled around for a bit on the deck—Annie, barefoot and backlit by sunset, daring me to chase her through the kitchen while the cat attacked her ankles in solidarity. I let her tackle me onto the velvet couch, let her smother my face with kisses, let her grind against my thigh until both of us were a little lightheaded from laughing. It wasn’t sex, not really, but it was something I’d never had: the play-fighting, the soft wrestling, the kind of intimacy that didn’t require fangs or claws or any sort of violence. I didn’t know how much I wanted it until I had it.
But I’d promised her a real date, and the thought of it—Annie, out in the world, on my arm, the whole Valley watching—lit up every stupid, competitive, territorial circuit in my brain. I told her to get ready, that I’d take care of everything, andshe wandered off to shower again, humming some pop song I’d never heard but would now remember forever.
I called in another favor with Mara, who was not just in charge of the actual Bingo games, but the whole program. Annie would need a dress she could stun in, and I was going to have to rely on Mara to get it for me. There were more than a few shops in town that carried Annie’s aesthetic. I shot off another text to Mara, then went to figure out what I was wearing while Annie showered.
I went to the wardrobe, digging out the clothes I hadn’t worn in years. The shirt was black, collared, tailored but not tight, and I left the top buttons open because she liked my chest, and I wanted her to have easy access. The pants were black too, pressed, nice enough for a funeral or a wedding or the kind of night that could turn into either. I pulled them on, checked myself in the mirror, and realized—surprise—there were nerves. Not hunger, not bloodlust, just the taut, hopeful anxiety that I might fuck this up by caring too much. And beneath that, something territorial and raw—the thought of every demon in the Valley seeing her, wanting her, knowing she'd chosen me.
Mara's knock came just after five—three sharp raps that somehow managed to sound both impatient and smug. When I opened the door, she stood there with a garment bag draped over one arm, her silver-tipped nails tapping against the plastic.
"You're welcome," she said, thrusting it at me before I could speak. "She'll look devastating in this. The color will make her skin glow like she's lit from within." She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "And it'll show off those lovely marks Veeps told me you left on her neck."
I rolled my eyes. Of course there was already gossip about me and Annie. Not a lot happened in the Valley of the Damned, and a new match was always the talk of the town.
I waved Mara off with my thanks, then took the garment bag to the bedroom and opened it. Inside was burgundy crushed velvet, soft and dark as old blood, with a plunging neckline that would frame her collarbones perfectly. The dress had a slit that would ride dangerously high on her thigh and tiny straps that would showcase the marks I'd left on her shoulders. A note from the shop in town read simply, “Wear with attitude." I carried it upstairs, the weight of the fabric absurdly satisfying in my hand, already imagining how it would cling to her curves.
Annie was in the bathroom, steam curling out from under the door. I waited, pacing the hall, until she emerged in a towel and caught me staring. She wrinkled her nose. "Is it time already?"
I held out the box. "Put this on."
She eyed it, suspicious, then lifted the lid. The dress slithered out, pooling in her hands like liquid sin. Her eyes widened, but not with shock—with something hungrier.
"Jesus Christ, Samiel," she breathed, running her fingers along the fabric. "You trying to get me arrested or laid?"
I grinned, slow and deliberate. "Hotel on the lake. Dress code is 'look like a sin or don't bother coming.'"
She bit her lower lip, already holding the dress against her body. "Give me ten minutes."
I waited in the living room, feeding the cat and pretending not to listen for sounds from upstairs. The slide of fabric against skin. A low, appreciative "damn" that wasn't meant for my ears. Then heels on hardwood, deliberate and confident. She appeared at the top of the stairs, one hand on her hip, the other trailing down the banister. The way she moved in that dress—like she owned the air around her—made my mouth go dry.
The dress clung to her like a second skin, the velvet catching the light as she moved, revealing the curves of her hips, the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist. The color deepened when she breathed—more red than purple, more sin than wine. Her hairwas still damp, slicked back to expose the elegant column of her throat where my teeth had been. Her eyes, dark and hungry, met mine through lashes thick with mascara.
"Do I look ridiculous?" she asked, but her voice had dropped to that register that made my skin tighten.
I shook my head, heat crawling up my spine. "You look like everything I've ever wanted to taste," I said, voice rough. "And everything that's going to get me in trouble tonight."
She smirked. “That’s the plan, isn’t it?”
I offered my arm, she took it, and together we stepped into the dusk, the wind off the lake already brushing goosebumps up her arms. I wanted to wrap her in my jacket, but I liked the way the cold made her press in closer.
We walked the path to my car—the real one, not the loaner from the mayor’s pool. It was a vintage GTO, electric yellow and rebuilt with more than a little help from the other side. Annie slid into the passenger seat, the dress riding up her thighs, and ran her finger along the dash as if reading Braille.
“You love this thing more than most people, don’t you?” she said, but her voice was warm. “I’ll try not to spill on the seats.”
I started the engine and let it rumble, then peeled out onto the crushed gravel, the headlights cutting a pale V through the deepening dusk. Neither of us spoke on the way to the hotel, but the silence wasn’t hollow—it was electric, a fuse burning down to something neither of us wanted to name. I kept a hand on the shifter, but every other muscle in my body was tuned to her, to the shape of her mouth in the window reflection, to the way her bare shoulder pressed against the seatbelt.
The hotel on the lake was a piece of old Las Vegas exiled to the desert. Neon script spelled out “The Infernal,” and the sign was a three-story demoness in a sequined dress, one leg cocked, tail wrapped around a martini glass. Inside, it was all red velvet and gold leaf, mirrors that made you look twice, and carpets soplush you could lose a shoe if you weren’t careful. The lighting was dim but intimate, designed to make everyone look just a little more expensive.
