That newly awakened yearning was my own.
And I wanted Ambrose.
So, I leaned down and pressed my lips against his.
The moment he gave in to us, something in him loosened. I let him guide me back onto the couch, his body covering mine, his weight pressing me into the cushions as the world narrowed to touch and breath and the heat of him between my legs.
The hours bled into each other, both of us making up for the nine years we should have been doing this with each other instead of having a mortal between us. He made me feel pleasure so intense that I barely remembered my own name, and kept going until I couldn’t think of anything but him—until long after the rage had burned out of him.
Then his mouth brushed over the back of my neck, and he whispered, “Mine,” so softly it felt like it hadn’t been meant to be heard at all.
In that moment, I knew I was in love with him. Maybe a small part of me always had been.
When we’d finally needed to take a break, just as the first light of morning spilled through the window, I half expected him to pull me close. To hold me. To admit that what had just happened meant something to him too.
But what he did instead crushed me.
He stilled, his eyes widening as if he couldn’t quite believe what had happened. Then, too fast, he lifted himself from me, pulled on his pants and crossed the room to the basket of clothes waiting to be ironed. He didn’t look at me as he dug out a pair of sweatpants and handed them over, already excusing himself to go shower.
I lay there, stunned, watching him walk away without a glance back. And when I broke our promise—reaching out with my senses, desperate for some hint of what he was feeling—I metonly the viselike grip of his control, his emotions locked down tight.
By the time I’d cleaned myself up and tugged on the sweatpants, Ambrose had already shut himself away in his room.
The next day, I’d steeled myself to talk to him. To ask if he felt it too—if maybe we could explore whatever had cracked open between us. But before I could say a word, Ambrose padded into the living room with purpose, and an apology.
He said he shouldn’t have taken advantage of me. Not when I’d been hurt, and not when I’d still been under the influence of vampire venom. He said he should have had more control—that he wouldn’t blame adrenaline or blood rage for what he’d done.
I wanted to fall to my knees and tell him it wasn’t the venom. That it had long since burned out of my system, and these feelings were mine. That I wanted the weight of him on me again, and that I wanted to explore every depraved, hopeful thought that had kept me awake all night.
But the regret on his face stopped the words in my throat.
So, I shrugged it off. Told him it wasn’t a big deal. Even joked that it was surprising we hadn’t done it sooner, considering the number of threesomes we’d shared over the years.
Ambrose had visibly relaxed, but things were never the same after that night.
Even our work suffered.
No more high-stakes jobs. No thrilling chases or near-death scraps. The most exciting thing I’d done in six months was escort a frail old water nymph to a string of doctor’s appointments and Pilates classes. We took only the safest contracts. The boring ones. And we charged rock-bottom prices because no one in their right mind wanted to be charged danger pay for such dull work.
It was like we both knew that another close call—another rush of adrenaline—might send us straight back into each other’s arms.
And as much as I wanted that, I couldn’t let it happen.
I didn’t want to lose my best friend. I didn’t want to see that look of regret on his face again. And I didn’t want to face the truth coiling in my gut—that wanting him felt like a betrayal of the witch I was meant for.
Because it was her I should have been thinking about.My fated mate.That faceless Briar Coven witch who was supposed to be the center of my future.
Up until six months ago, she had been.
I hadn’t obsessed over her like our friends, Devlin and Lochran, had obsessed over theirs. I’d trusted she would summon me when she was ready. Until then, I’d been building a life, one that could offer her something stable, something good.
But now, every time I tried to picture her, Ambrose’s shadow stood in the way.
And so, for the first Samhain of my life, I prayed to Hecate not to be chosen.
Just one more year.
One year to untangle what I felt. One year to remind myself that Ambrose was only my friend, and that what we’d shared had been a mistake born of blood and grief and adrenaline. It wasn’t love. No matter how convincing it felt. It was lust. That was all.
