Page 69 of Let Sleeping Vampires Lie

“I’ll try,” I said.

It took him a second to understand. When he did, something softened in his expression, as if a tight band had finally eased around his chest.

“That’s all I’m asking,” he said.

His thumb brushed the back of my hand once more, grounding.

As the darkness pulled me under again, I realized something strange.

For the first time in a very long time, I wasn’t planning how to die for someone.

I was thinking about how to survive with them.

CHAPTER 12

Steam curled around me as I stepped under the water.

For a moment, I simply stood there, letting the heat beat down on my shoulders and glide over aching muscles. My magic hummed low and unfocused, tired but steady—like an animal finally curled in its den after being pushed too hard for too long.

Con had left less than ten minutes ago to “check on the clan,” which I suspected meant check on me by giving me space.

A rare concession.

A needed one.

My palms pressed against the tiled wall in front of me. The shower drowned out the leftover echoes of last night—Raven’s gasps, the crackle of poison in her blood, Con’s fear, my own stupid collapse. The spray slid over my skin, rinsing away dried sweat, a smear of dirt from the cemetery, and the heat-sick haze that had clung to me even after cooling off.

I tilted my head back, letting the water run through my hair.

For the first time since Raven’s wound, my body didn’t feel like a furnace. Power swirled inside me now at a simmer instead of a boil. Still too bright, still too restless, but livable.

I scrubbed clean, methodical, letting my mind slowly reassemble itself the way I always did after a fight.

Breath.

Balance.

Blades sharp, focus sharper.

By the time I turned off the shower, my thoughts felt clearer—still crowded, still bruised, but mine again.

I wrapped myself in a towel and stepped out into my room, skin cooling in the evening air. I dried off slowly, checking my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks had regained some color. The fever flush had faded. No dark circles beyond my usual after-battle exhaustion.

“Still functional,” I muttered to myself.

I pulled on a pair of fitted black pants, reinforced with leather inserts along the sides. A soft shirt came next, breathable enough for movement. Finally, I shrugged into my leather jacket, the one with reinforced shoulders and enough hidden pockets to make a smuggler jealous.

My spear, collapsed down to its compact form, was clipped to my thigh. I tightened the strap, checked the release, and smoothed my jacket over it.

As I secured the last buckle on my belt, night settled outside. Blue twilight sank across the world through the thin space between my curtains.

Someone entered my room.

No knock. But he didn’t need one. His presence cut through the air before the door even finished opening.

Con stepped inside, eyes sweeping over me in one swift, assessing pass.

I didn’t bother scolding him for the lack of knocking. He only did it when he was worried. Or when he thought time mattered more than manners.