He looked blank.
“United States?” I offered.
“Where is that?”
I exhaled, rubbing my temple. “Oh boy.”
He hesitated, then said, “What year?”
“Twenty-twenty-five.”
He went perfectly still. His expression didn’t change, but something in the air did. His chest stopped moving. His eyes unfocused.
“I overslept,” he said finally. “By a few lifetimes.”
I stared at him. “A fewwhat?”
He lifted his gaze, composed again. “I was put to sleep in the year 1650.”
My jaw dropped. “So, you’re over four hundredfuckingyears old?”
His brow creased. “Your language has evolved poorly.”
“Oh, bite me.”
I winced.Wrong choice of words, Nadia.
His expression didn’t change, but there was a glint of something feral behind his eyes that made me wish I’d saidhug meinstead.
“I was born in the late-sixteenth century.”
I pressed my palms to my cheeks. “Right. Definitely drank too much. I need food. I’m hallucinating. You’re a dehydration dream.”
Without waiting for his reply, I started for the stairs, still holding my head. “I need carbs.”
He followed, soundless, two steps behind. I could feel him watching the shadows warily. I wasn’t entirely sure it was a good move to turn my back to a vampire, but something deep in my gut told me I was safe. And my gut was rarely wrong.
No matter how insane it was at the moment.
When we reached the kitchen, I pulled open the fridge, desperate for a hit of quick dopamine in the form of sugary chemicals. Cristian hovered in the doorway as if he was deciding whether the room was safe.
I grabbed the milk, cereal, and a bowl. “Okay, snack time. Brain reboot.”
He stared, transfixed, as I poured the milk. “What manner of alchemy is this?”
“It’s breakfast. Or dinner. Or a cry for help.”
He crouched slightly to study the cereal box like it was an ancient relic. “You eat… these?”
“Yes,” I said through a mouthful. “They’re called Cheerios.”
“Curious,” he murmured, then reached out and poked the fridge. “It hums.”
“That’s the fridge,” I said.
“The… what?”
Okay, I guess we were doing a whole… introduction to the twenty-first century crash course, then. Great. Better than murdering me.
