The other vampire was sprawled across the floorboards, half its face caved in, dark blood pooling beneath. The smell of it hit me first.
Iron, rot, and something old, wrong, ancient. It burned my nose even after years of desensitization.
Simon had dealt the killing blow. He’d saved me. That fact alone sat wrong in my head, like a blade turned inward. He turned toward me slowly, as if afraid I might vanish if he moved too fast.
“You’re hurt,” he said.
“I’ve had worse,” I managed, though my voice came out rough.
I tried to sit up, but the motion sent white pain lancing through my side. My breath hissed between my teeth, and I clenched my jaw until it stopped shaking.
Simon was already moving. One second he was across the room, the next he was beside me, crouched low. Too close. His movements were fluid, predatory, and careful all at once.
Like he was trying not to scare me.
“Don’t,” I snapped when he reached for me.
My hand shot up out of instinct, blade still clutched in my fist. He froze, eyes flicking from the weapon to my face.
His voice stayed steady. “You’ll bleed out if you keep pretending you’re fine.”
“And what, you plan to help? Bit of poetic irony there, isn’t it?”
Something flickered in his expression. Hurt, maybe, or something too complicated for me to name. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Sure. You say that now,” I muttered.
He didn’t argue. Instead, he carefully reached forward again, this time slower, giving me plenty of room to stop him.
My instincts screamed to shove him away, to snarl or fight or do anything but let him touch me. However, the moment his fingers brushed my arm, I couldn’t move.
His hand was cold. Not corpse-cold, but chilled, like river water under moonlight. His thumb pressed against my wrist, feeling for a pulse that was hammering far too fast.
He looked at the blood seeping between my fingers, the way it soaked my shirt, and something changed in his face. The hunger I expected wasn’t there.
Instead, there was fear. For me. That thought confounded me.
“Take your damn hand off me,” I muttered, though I didn’t pull away.
He hesitated. “Let me help.”
There was no arrogance in it. Just quiet determination. Like he couldn’t stand the sight of someone hurting. God help me, I let him.
He tore a strip from the hem of his already-ruined shirt and pressed it against my wound. I grunted, more out of surprise than pain. He glanced up, his face pale under the dim light, eyes uncertain.
“Sorry,” Simon muttered.
“Don’t be,” I said through clenched teeth. “Just tie it tight.”
He did, careful as if I’d break. His fingers brushed against my bare skin, and the contact made every nerve in me flare. I told myself it was just adrenaline. It had to be.
“You shouldn’t have stepped in,” I said after a long silence. “That thing would’ve ripped you apart.”
Simon’s mouth tightened, a flicker of defiance in his gaze. “It was my mess. My sire made it.”
“Your sire?”
He nodded, eyes clouding. “He called them… experiments. I didn’t know one was nearby. If I had, I wouldn’t have stayed here.”
