I rushed to add, “He was frustrated. He didn’t mean it. I think.”
Cristian’s reply was flat, deliberate. “If he wasn’t my brother, I would want him dead also. But I do think it’s time for a heart-to-heart with Ezra.”
“And,” I continued, heart thudding, “he implied thatyoumight be the reason I’ve been feeling so drained lately. Because you’re a vampire. That you might be…taking too much from me. Which isn’t true, by the way. I told him that.”
Cristian’s voice came out low, measured, too calm. “He accused me of harming you.”
I swallowed. “Technically, he implied it. Subtly.”
Cristian’s jaw worked once, the muscle ticking. “And you defended me.”
“Of course I did,” I said quickly. “He doesn’t know you. He doesn’t know what this is.” I gestured vaguely between us. “And I told him he was wrong.”
Something like guilt flashed across Cristian’s face, but in a flash, his stoic mask was back in place. He nodded once, very slow, like a man deciding which part of the world to set on fire first.
“Cristian,” I warned. “Are you getting weird?”
He looked at me, eyes dark and unreadable. “I am not. I shall just have a brief conversation with the lad.”
“I think you’ll breathe through it like my therapist tells me to,” I said, grabbing his arm as he sat up. “In through the nose, out through the century-long grudge.”
It didn’t work.
He stood and pulled on a robe. He wore it so well that it was profoundly unhelpful for rational conversation.
“Cristian,” I said again, climbing off the bed. “Please don’t.”
He was already halfway to the door. “I will speak with him.”
“Your version of speaking involves structural damage!” I scrambled after him, pulling on my own robe and tying it hastily. “Please, can we just?—”
He pulled free of my grip with that unstoppable certainty that made arguing feel like yelling at a cathedral.
“Cristian!”
He didn’t look back as he strode down the hall, bare feet silent on the old wood. The bond buzzed like a live wire between us, full of his restrained fury and my rising panic.
I chased him anyway, because apparently that was my summer theme—poorly timed emotional decisions and cardio.
By the time we reached the bottom of the stairs, I could already hear the soft clack of Ezra’s keyboard.
Cristian’s voice, when it came, was steady, cold, and lethal. “Ezra, we need to talk.”
And just like that, I knew the night was about to go spectacularly wrong.
Chapter 22
Cristian
Ezra was in the kitchen, humming to himself as if he hadn’t spent years assisting tyrants in tracking, binding, and disposing of anyone the court found inconvenient.
Mortals had an impressive talent for pretending their sins were clerical work.
Before I dealt with him, I poured a glass of water and set it by Nadia’s chair. She had been pale earlier. Pale did not suit her. Color did. Life did.
I turned to Ezra. “Ezra, we need to talk.”
He didn’t bother looking up from his laptop. “You meanyouneed to talk. I’m more of a listening guy.”
