I jerked. “Yes!” My voice cracked. I cleared my throat. “Just a minute.”
Cristian stayed where he was, gaze locked on mine, still breathing unevenly.
I smoothed my hair, desperate to look composed. “I’ll… uh… wait outside.”
He nodded once. I slipped past him, ducked through the door, and nearly walked into a clothing rack. My hands were shaking.
Behind me, Cristian laughed under his breath.
Ignoring the heat crawling up my neck, I muttered, “I hate shopping.”
Chapter 10
Nadia
Ilay on my bed with the curtains open and the house making its usual, unsettling noises. My phone was warm against my thigh because I had been scrolling for minutes and not really looking at it. My brain kept looping back to Cristian and how he moved through the house like he owned the air, which he technically might. He was still broody, still grumpy, and still impossibly distracting. He had this habit of tidying danger away before I even noticed it: shifting a loose picture frame when I walked past, catching a falling glass with one hand without a word, holding me still while I bandaged a stupid paper cut. Small things. Protective things. He acted annoyed while doing them, as if my existence was a chore. That was a mode I could live with and also not.
I used to think bumping into furniture was just part of my life, but Cristian watched me like every movement was a tactical report, which made it a lot harder to pretend it was intentional. I also knew something else: that tug behind my sternum. That stupid, precise pull of the bond every time he left the room or even turned his head. I recognized it. I had become intimate with it. It made me want to be near him whether I liked it or not.
Part of me wanted a distraction. A temporary, controlled experiment in poor decisions. Something simple—someonesimple. The kind of man who ordered pizza, said nice things, and didn’t ask deep questions.
A good fuck wouldn’t fix anything, but it might rearrange my brain long enough for me to breathe. And technically, my therapisthadsaid I should stop attaching guilt to pleasure. The sticky note on my laptop said so in my handwriting, decorated with a glittery star for accountability. I decided to honor her wisdom.
I opened the dating app because that was what people did when they wanted to feel alive without making a five-year plan. And there he was. Trent. Broad shoulders, decent smile, strong casserole energy. His bio said he liked museums and bad karaoke. Promising.
I swiped right. The app chime echoed through the room.
A message came through immediately.Hey, Nadia. Drinks tonight?
I stared at the screen, chewing my lip. Couldn’t leave the house. Vampire bond. Complicated curse situation.
I typed back:Can’t go out tonight. But I make a mean cocktail, and my couch is emotionally available.
The response came fast.I like both of those things. What’s your address?
I locked my phone and took a deep breath. Okay. Operation Distraction was officially underway. Now I just had to make sure my vampire roommate didn’t ruin it.
I stood and did my ritual, a series of tiny decisions that helped me feel like I was doing a decent job of taking care of myself. I opened my therapy notebook and read three things out loud, then stuck a gold star on the page to track my progress.
I am not too much.
I choose rest without earning it.
I am allowed pleasure without guilt.
I threw on a dress—midnight blue with tiny stars stitched into the fabric—which I’d bought because it made me feel sexy and brave at the same time. It showed just enough cleavage to sayI’m open to possibilities,notplease rescue me from celibacy.Thrifted cobalt blazer for serious energy. Combat boots because I had to keep my feet available for escape. Crescent moon earrings. I stuck a star sticker on my phone case for good luck.
I went downstairs to give Cristian a heads-up. He was pacing in the kitchen, hands clasped behind his back, looking like a man preparing for war.
I tapped his shoulder. He turned, looked me over, and went still.
“I have a date tonight,” I said. “Casual. Nothing complicated.”
No response.
“Some guy from an app,” I continued. “Trent. I’ve never met him. He seems harmless. He likes museums and bad karaoke.”
Cristian frowned. “Are you betrothed?” His tone carried the faint conviction that betrothal might explain everything.
