Because if he could answer, he would.
Am I worried? A little.
Four days without a single word. I really thought he’d be back by now. But settling a spat between a shadow monster and a vampire probably takes time. And who knows how far he had to go.
The thread tugs mercilessly, like a hook buried deep, pulling me toward him no matter how far he goes.
If I can feel him—if that connection still yanks—I know he’s alive. Somewhere.
I haven’t returned to work yet, either. Eve told me to take the rest of the week off, and I’m glad I didn’t fight her on it. I reallydon’t want to answer questions from nosey customers about the bruises slowly fading on my neck.
Even in Lorewood, where weird is normal, bruises still get questions.
It’s not judgment. It’s protection. The town watches out for its own.
The morning after stabbing that sick fuck in the balls at The Cardinal, my phone pinged with a news alert. Turns out a violent predator, one who preyed on women and girls, left behind a confession letter.
A full list of names.
A detailed account of every sick, twisted thing he’d done.
Then, like it was the logical next step, he castrated himself and bled out in his bathtub.
The report said “stomach-churning.”
I didn’t flinch. That’s exactly what I was going for.
My snort of amusement as I read through the article didn’t go unnoticed by the hellhound. When I told her what happened, she puffed up her chest like a proud parent.
“Do you know how many lives you saved? That’s fucking incredible!”
“So, that doesn’t earn me a fast pass to Hell?”
“Anyone whose soul is black and tar-like is fair game. If taking a life saves another, it’s justifiable, and even considered heroic in Hell. You’ll be fine. I just wouldn’t make a habit of it. Though that motherfucker deserved everything he got. Fuck yeah!”
Well, at least my immortal soul is safe … for now.
Castrations and soul-judgment aside, I spend my morning on a much harder battle: convincing Louie that human bodies need fruits and vegetables.
“I don’t care, Aurora. They taste like a vegan’s armpit after hot yoga and a good rubdown with DIY deodorant made from bong water,” Louie growls.
That wasn’t just a vivid sentence. That was a sensory hate crime.
Jesus Christ, do all immortal beings talk in chaotic slam poetry?
I shoot her a tight-lipped smile and try again. “Well, your dog food had vegetables in it, so I don’t see what the big deal is. It’s just not in dried pellet form.”
“I’d rather eat kibble.”
Louie scowls, stomps into the living room, and flops onto the couch without another word.
I throw myself onto a kitchen chair and sigh. Chewing on my lip, I pick up my phone before I even realize what I’m doing.
My thumb hovers over Ezra’s name. I could text him again. Just something casual.
Or maybe I could ask if he’s safe. Ask him if he misses me as much as I miss him.
Fuck, no. I refuse to be that girl. I’ve never begged a man for his attention, and I’m not about to start now.
