I wanted absurdly to reach out, to trace the curve of it, to make sure he was real. Instead, I reached for the empty bowl. “You should rest,” I told him.
Kit caught my wrist before I could pull away. The touch was gentle, but it stopped me cold. His fingers were warm, rough from years of handling weapons.
“Simon,” he said quietly.
My name sounded different on his tongue. Less like suspicion, more like something he didn’t quite know how to feel.
I met his gaze, and for one dizzying second, the rest of the world narrowed down to that point of contact. His pulse against my skin, the soft drag of his thumb as if he hadn’t realized he was still touching me.
“You should eat too,” he murmured.
“I will,” I promised. “Later.”
Kit didn’t look like he believed me, but he didn’t say anything more. I sat beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost brushed.
The scent of him filled the air. Blood and sweat and something faintly metallic, but underneath that, warmth. Human warmth.
I could hear the hum of crickets outside. I found myself relaxing despite everything. Despite who he was. Despite who I was.
After a while, I felt his hand shift, just slightly, as if testing the distance between us. I didn’t move away. Neither did he. When his fingers brushed mine again, his touch light and tentative, I didn’t pull back.
7
SIMON
Kit fell asleep sometimeafter midnight. I knew the exact moment it happened.
The tension bled from his shoulders, his head tilted slightly toward me, and the deep, steady rhythm of his breathing filled the silence.
The faint glow from the dying fire caught in his hair, softening the hard lines of his face. He looked peaceful. I didn’t realize I’d been staring until his hand twitched in his sleep, brushing against mine.
Instinct made me pull away, though a part of me wanted to linger in that accidental warmth just a little longer. It wouldn’t help either of us.
The hunger had been gnawing at me since the fight felt like a a deep, restless ache that coiled low in my stomach and clawed up the back of my throat.
I’d ignored it, telling myself I could go another night. But now, with Kit asleep and his scent so close it was unbearable.
I pushed to my feet as quietly as I could. My body protested the movement, stiff from the night before. The bandage on my arm pulled tight where the feral vampire’s claws had grazed me.
It wasn’t serious. It would heal but the weakness that came with hunger was worse. If I didn’t feed soon, I’d be no good to either of us.
I hesitated by the door, looking back at him. Kit had slumped sideways in his sleep, one arm half-buried under the blanket I’d thrown over him.
Even injured, he looked dangerous. Like a blade left resting on the edge of a table, sharp no matter how still it seemed. Yet I found myself smiling, just a little.
“Don’t worry,” I murmured. “I’ll behave.”
Outside, the air was cool and damp. The world felt washed clean after the earlier rain. The ground was soft under my boots, the scent of wet earth mingling with the faint tang of rust from the old gutters.
The house loomed behind me, its boarded windows glowing faintly with firelight.
I skirted the edge of the property, past the overgrown garden and toward the line of trees that backed the old lot. The forest had reclaimed most of this place years ago.
Nature was always quicker than people to take back what was abandoned. I closed my eyes, let my senses stretch out.
Every sound sharpened. The chirp of insects, the soft rustle of leaves, the quick flutter of something small moving through the underbrush.
Hunting wasn’t easy for me. It required restraint and precision. A fine line between control and instinct.
