A small smile touched her lips. “Exactly. But… um… where did you learn that phrase?”
“I’ve been reading thePsychology Todaymagazines you leave lying around the house. I find them quite informative. Contact?” I asked.
She hesitated, then held up her hand. I met her palm with mine. Warmth bled through the connection, and her steady gaze met mine.
I closed my fingers around hers for a fleeting moment, then forced myself to let go.
I stood. “Rest.”
And before I could change my mind, I walked away.
Because if I stayed another second, I wasn’t sure I could.
The house was too still.
I told myself I was walking its perimeter out of habit—checking the shadows, the windows, making sure the sounds were normal, natural. That was a half-truth. The other half was the singing. Soft, off-key, coming from the end of the hall.
Nadia.
I moved toward it without thinking. My steps made no sound. Some habits never faded, no matter how many centuries passed.
When I reached the open doorway, I stopped.
She was in the laundry room, back turned, light from the small window glinting against her beautiful mess of hair. The hum of the dryer filled the quiet. She reached into the basket, lifted a shirt—the new linen one I’d worn yesterday—and brought it to her face.
She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.
For a moment, I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The bond tightened in my chest. I should have stepped away. Given her privacy. But I stayed. She looked soft there—unguarded in a way she never let herself be when I was near. No armor. No nervous jokes. Just her. And my shirt.
I leaned against the doorframe. “If you needed me closer,” I said quietly, “you only had to ask.”
She gasped and spun around. The shirt slipped from her hands, pooling on the floor. Her face flushed from her throat to her cheekbones.
“Cristian… I—it just… It smells like—laundry,” she said, the words tripping over each other.
“Laundry,” I repeated. “Of course.”
Slowly, I stepped inside. The air was thick with the scent of her, with the warmth radiating off her skin. I could feel the tremor in the bond as it reached for me, wanting more contact.
Her back hit the counter.
“Do I unsettle you, Nadia?” I was in dangerous territory.
Her lips parted. No answer.
Something inside me shifted. Not hunger, the blood-deep craving that ruled my kind. Something else. Want that didn’t demand. Want that waited.
When I first woke, I wanted freedom. Nothing else. But standing here now, watching her—freedom felt like a lesser prize.
I stopped that thought before it went any further.
The silence between us stretched. The shirt lay forgotten. I let my gaze linger—her mouth, her throat, the pulse fluttering beneath her skin. I could have touched her. Kissed her. Claimed what the bond already promised.
I didn’t.
Instead, I lowered my voice. “Next time you want something of mine… just take it.”
Her eyes flicked to mine, wide and uncertain. I stepped back, breaking the pull. The bond resisted, tightening once before it let go.
