“It’s not your fault,” I manage, though my voice still carries the rasp of restrained need. My Bloodfire still lingers quietly, restless, always waiting, but somehow, with her standing there, trembling but alive, the urge to protect her eclipses my urge to feed.
I’ve never been able to stop the Bloodfire once it takes hold.
Never.
But Sloane?
She smothered it without knowing, without trying. She reached inside the oldest, darkest part of me and extinguished my craving with her bare hands.
Oracle’s warning echoes like a prophecy,‘The more time you spend with her, the more the darkness stirs inside her.’
He was right.
Whatever Sloane is, whatever power sleeps in her blood, I’m waking it. And when that power fully awakens…
I don’t let myself finish that thought.
“Come on,” I say softly, the burn on my chest still throbbing in time with her heartbeat. “I’ll take you home.”
She nods, and without another word, we climb onto the back of my bike, and I take off. The ride back is silent, awkward in a way that makes my chest ache. She sits behind me, her grip looser than before, her body tense with questions neither of us knows how to answer. The connection between us hasn’t broken, because I still feel the pull, that inexplicable magnetism, but now there’s fear mixed in with the desire.
Fear of what we might become together.
Fear of what I might do to her.
I pull up outside her apartment building, a modest complex in a neighborhood that’s seen better days. She climbs off the bike, pulling off the helmet, and I follow her to the door because even now, even after almost killing her, I can’t bring myself to just leave.
“How did you know where I live?” Sloane asks.
“You told me.”
She shakes her head. “No, I didn’t.”
Frowning, I run a hand through my hair. “I asked Hex to check you out.”
“As in a background check?”
“Nothing so official,” I say. “Just enough to know you weren’t lying about who you are.”
Her eyes narrow. “You had someone dig into my life?”
“I had someone make sure you were real,” I correct. “Where you live, where you work, that you weren’t walking into my world under a false name.”
Sloane folds her arms and asks, “Did I pass?”
“You did, which is the problem.”
Silence stretches between us, charged and fragile. Her arms are folded, but she hasn’t stepped back, and it feels deliberate. I’m close enough to see the faint crease between her brows, the way her pulse jumps at her throat when my attention lingers there a second too long.
“I didn’t mean to cross a line,” I add, quieter now. “I needed to know you were safe.”
Her shoulders ease, a fraction. The defensiveness doesn’t vanish, but it does soften, reshaping into something more uncertain than angry. She studies my face, searching for the truth she already suspects is there.
“And now?” Sloane asks.
“Now,” I say, holding her gaze, “I step back.”
Something flickers across her expression, disappointment, maybe, or relief? She hesitates, fingers tightening on her arms, then loosen again.
