He kicks the door shut with his heel. He sees me instantly.
He sees the wrench.
He doesn't flinch. He doesn't drop the wood. He just looks at the makeshift weapon, then up at my face, his expression bored.
His eyes are amber. Not brown.Amber. Gold, glowing, and eerie.
"Put it down," he says. His voice is a low rumble, a subwoofer vibrating in the floorboards. "Unless you plan on fixing the plumbing."
"Stay back," I warn, though my voice lacks the authority I want. It sounds thin. "I know how to use torque. I will break your kneecaps."
He snorts—a dismissive, rough sound—and walks past me like I’m a piece of furniture. He dumps the wood next to the stove with a crash that makes me jump.
"You can't even stand up,chérie," he drawls, the accent thick and rolling, skipping over consonants like stones on water. "You ain't breaking nothing but your other ankle."
He turns to a small icebox in the corner. He rummages around, the muscles in his back flexing as he bends.
"Who are you?" I demand, shifting my grip on the wrench. "Where am I? And don't tell me I'm safe, because the last time I was in a house in this zip code, the dinner guests tried to eat me."
He straightens up, holding a bag of frozen peas.
"You ain't safe," he says flatly. He turns and tosses the bag at me.
My reflexes kick in. I catch it with my free hand. It’s freezing cold.
"You're in the swamp," he says, leaning back against the counter, crossing his arms over that massive, scarred chest. "My swamp. And you're lucky I didn't leave you in the ditch for the gators."
"Lucky?" I laugh, a sharp, hysterical sound. "I was run off the road by monsters. Literal monsters. And then I wake up here, with a giant lumberjack who thinks kidnapping is a hospitality service."
"I didn't kidnap you," he says, his eyes narrowing. "I fished you out of a sinking car. You were drowning."
"And the clothes?" I gesture to the oversized shirt. "Did the swamp fairies change me?"
"You were wet. You were freezing. Hypothermia kills faster than bleeding out." He shrugs, unbothered. "I stripped you. Dried you. Put you in the bed. Don't flatter yourself, darlin'. I didn't enjoy it."
My face heats up. The thought of those large, rough hands stripping my wet dress off... I shove the image into the incinerator of my mind.
"Okay," I say, trying to recalibrate. "Thank you for the rescue. Now, I need a phone. I need to call the police. I need to report the... the people at the estate."
He laughs then. It’s a dark, humorless sound. "The Sheriff? You gonna call the Sheriff on the Duvals?"
"Yes. They attacked me. They had... teeth." I struggle with the word. "They aren't human."
"No shit," he says. "They're vampires."
He says it so casually. Like he’s sayingthey’re Democratsorthey’re Methodists.
"Vampires," I repeat. "So it’s real. The biological impossibility. The violation of conservation of energy."
"You talk weird," he mutters. "Yes. Vampires. Leeches. Bloodsuckers. And you smell just like 'em."
"I smell like them?" I bristle. "I smell like swamp water and... whatever this is." I pull at the shirt. "Cedar?"
"You smell like the Crypt," he says, his nose flaring slightly. "Like dead flowers and rot. It’s all over you."
"Well, I'm sorry I didn't have time to shower after fleeing for my life," I snap. "And for the record, I am not one of them. I’m a clock restorer. I fix gears. I don't drink blood."
"Could've fooled me," he says, pushing off the counter. He takes a step toward me.
