In a tone of pure satisfaction, he said, “What’s poppin’, chef bitch?”
The knife clattered against the cutting board. “Cristian, no. We just talked about this.”
He frowned. “Was that not… slay?”
“You cannot”—I gasped for air—“talk like that. Ever.”
He tried again, undeterred. “These vegetables are mid. No cap.”
Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. I had to grip the counter just to stay upright. “Oh my god, you’re not even in the right age bracket for this. You’re not even close,” I managed between wheezes. “You sound like a Victorian ghost haunting Gen Z.”
He frowned. “I said it correctly.”
“That’s the problem,” I said, still laughing. “You sound like a dad trying to use slang to seem cool to his kids.”
It took me a second to breathe again. My cheeks hurt. My stomach ached. “Sorry,” I said finally, wiping at my eyes. “I just—God, I needed that. I don’t laugh like this enough.”
He watched me intently.
I shrugged one shoulder. “My therapist says I should stop apologizing for being loud and taking up space when I’m happy.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “This room likes you loud.”
The words landed like a punch, and I felt that fucking flutter in my chest.
Then—pain.
“Shit!” I hissed, clapping my hand over my finger. Blood welled up fast. “Ow, ow, ow.”
He was beside me in an instant. Vampire speed. I’d never get used to it.
“May I?” he asked, his voice steady but low.
I stared at him, not entirely sure what he meant. But something in me trusted him. I nodded and extended my hand.
He brought my finger to his mouth.
The first touch of his tongue burned. Then the pain vanished. My breath caught. His mouth was warm and far too gentle.
He pulled back slightly. “I can heal small wounds with my mouth.”
I couldn’t look away. My brain filed that information somewhere dangerous. We were standing too close together. The air felt heavy between us. I could hear my heartbeat—or maybe it was his. Did he have a heartbeat?
He turned as if to walk away, but paused. His fingers brushed my hair behind my ear. They lingered along my jaw, tracing downward until they stopped at the base of my throat.
His eyes flicked to my lips. My breath hitched.
His fangs slid down, a flash of white. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Tell me to stop.”
I didn’t. I couldn’t. I tilted my head slightly, exposing my neck. He hesitated just long enough for me to feel his hands trembling at my waist, then his mouth was on my skin.
The bite was quick, deep enough to make me gasp. The sting gave way to something else. Heat spread through every nerve, every cell, every inch of my skin. My body went liquid. My fingers twisted in his shirt.
“Cristian,” I breathed.
When my knees threatened to give out, he steadied me, one hand firm at my back, the other sliding up to cradle my jaw. His strength didn’t startle me anymore; it grounded me.
His tongue flicked over the wound, sealing it, his breath warm against my throat. But he didn’t stop there. His lips found the line of my jaw, then the corner of my mouth, and when he finally kissed me, it was like every ounce of control he’d been clinging to snapped.
