Chapter 2
TWO
PHOENIX
I feel his eyes on me as I eat the reheated stew at the small wooden table. He’s sitting across from me now, no longer shivering in just a towel. I managed to find him some clothes—a thick sweater and work pants that hang off his too-thin frame.
But he looks better. Much better.
And he won’t stop staring at me.
“It’s rude to stare,” I say without looking up from my bowl.
“You’re eating.” He sounds genuinely surprised. Confused, even.
I glance up at him, spoon halfway to my mouth. “You said you didn’t want any more yet.”
He waves a hand—a careful, measured gesture. “Humans usually don’t when they’re around me.”
“What?” I shove another spoonful into my mouth. It’s bland as hell, but filling.
“Eat. Humans don’t usually eat. When I’m around.” Each word comes out precise. Deliberate.
I swallow. “Well, I never said I was human.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “What are you then?”
“That’s also pretty fucking rude to ask a girl on a first date, don’t you think?”
His eyes narrow in confusion, and I can’t help but roll mine.
“Jesus, you really need to learn to take a joke. Lighten up, man.”
He just blinks at me. Processes. Blinks again.
Right. He’s just spent who knows how many years laid up in a deep forest. His social skills are probably rusty.
I drop my spoon in my empty bowl with a clatter. “So what are you, anyway? You sticking to that whole Horseman of the Apocalypse schtick?”
His eyes flick to mine, and for a moment, I’m caught again by them. Those piercing, translucent gray irises. Like storm clouds with light bleeding through. Now that he’s cleaned up, they’re even more striking.
I catch myself staring and force my gaze down to my bowl.
“I told you,” he says solemnly. So serious. “I am Famine.”
I let out a low whistle. “Damn.” That explains the staring-while-I-eat thing, I guess. Been a minute since he’s seen that. “Can you control it, or is it just... everywhere you go...” I gesture vaguely.
“I stay away from people.” His voice drops. Like he’s... ashamed.
Something twists in my chest. Here I was bitching about Grandfather’s control. At least I can be around people without accidentally killing them.
“So you’ve been out in the middle of the forest all alone for how long?” I take a sip of water.
“Two hundred years. Give or take.”
Damn. “What about before that?”
“With my family.” A shrug.
“Well, what the hell happened to them?” The question comes out sharper than I mean it to. I stand and move toward the bed where he’s now sitting up. He winces slightly—probably from his back—and I catch myself. “Shit. Let me get you another pillow or something. You must be uncomfortable.”
“It’s fine,” he says, and there’s something almost reverent in his voice. “The fire is warm. The bed is soft. It’s...” He trails off, looking at the flames. “Much warmer than I’ve been in a very, very long time.”
I pause, staring at him.
Jesus Christ. How many winters did he spend out there? Two hundred I guess. Winters up here in the mountains are cruel. And just sat against that tree, covered in snow and ice for months at a time each year?
The thought makes my stomach clench.
“Where is your family now?” I ask, grabbing another pillow from inside a little chest in the corner. “Can they help you?”
“No.” The word comes out hard. Sharp. “They’re no good to me.”
I get it. Family is a loaded topic for both of us, apparently.
I hand him the pillow and he takes it, arranging it carefully behind his back.
“I think...” He pauses, and when I look at him, those gray eyes are fixed on mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. “I think I’m ready to eat a little more. If there’s any left.”
I freeze, suddenly hyperaware of how close I’m standing. Close enough to see the way his pupils dilate slightly when I meet his eyes. Close enough to notice he’s taller than I first thought, even sitting down.
He still looks too thin in those clothes—the sweater hangs off his shoulders, the pants held up with a belt—but cleaned up like this?
He looks... good.
Better than good. It’s like I’m seeing him for the first time. The strong line of his jaw beneath that beard. The breadth of his shoulders. The way his eyes track my every movement like I’m the most fascinating thing in the world.
Heat creeps into my cheeks and I force myself to look away.
“Yeah. Let me get you some more.” I practically sprint toward the kitchen area.
Grandfather would lose his mind if he saw me in a rustic cabin with no running water. He drowns himself in luxury—overcompensating for something, obviously.
But that’s the thing about Grandfather and my “uncles.” They don’t have pulses. They’re undead, every one of them.
I come from a family of vampires. Every generation transforms at twenty-five—bloodlust and sexual lust hitting in unison, creating the next generation through a frenzy of violence and fucking.
TMI about one’s own family, if you ask me.
Twenty grandfathers and great-grandfathers, all of them forever looking twenty-five. The four from the 17th century are barely more than feral. The ones from the 19th century are bearable. The newer ones are so power-hungry I never let my guard down when I’m anywhere near home.
They all think Grandfather will leave his dynasty to them.
Pointless.
The old bastard can’t be killed and has no plans of leaving.
Also pointless because everyone knows if he did choose a successor, it would be me. The one who was born, not made, and broke the chain. The one who isn’t a vampire but is somehow more powerful than all of them.
And Vlad Dracul values power above everything.
Which is why he always finds a way to get me back. Even as I run away, I knew that. I’ll never be able to truly get away from him.
Vlad always gets what Vlad wants.
I sigh and turn back with a plate of bread slathered in butter.
When I walk back over, Layden is watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. Something softer than before. Almost... wondering.
“What’s your name?” I ask suddenly, pausing before handing him the plate. “Your real name.”
He hesitates, like this question is somehow more intimate than telling me he’s a Horseman of the Apocalypse. His throat works. His jaw tightens.
Finally, he inhales deeply and releases the breath slowly.
“Layden.”
The name settles between us. Heavy with meaning.
“Layden,” I repeat, testing it. Letting him hear it again. “Nice to meet you.”
I hand him the plate, and our fingers brush.
Just barely.
Just for a second.
But I feel it like an electric shock straight through my core.
I pull my hand back too quickly, and from the way his eyes flare, he felt it too.
“Why are you being so kind to me?” His voice is soft. Confused. “From the world I remember... before...” His eyes go distant, like he’s trying to recall something from centuries ago. Maybe he is. “No one was kind to one another.”
I think of my parents. I wonder where they are and if they’re happy. If they ever think of me.
“There’s not a lot of kindness in today’s world either,” I admit.
“So why are you—”
I shrug. “We all need somebody every now and then.”
“Who was your somebody?” The question is gentle.
My chest tightens. “My mother.” The words come out rough. “And my best friend, Sabra. There are good people in this world. It just takes patience to find them.”
His eyes soften. Lighten. “Well, it’s taken me a very, very long time for my path to cross with yours...” He gestures, clearly waiting.
“Phoenix.”
“Phoenix.”
The way he says it—slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring each syllable—makes something flutter low in my stomach.
“A perfect name,” he continues, his voice dropping, “for a perfect being.”
I laugh—nervous. A little breathless, actually. “Okay, smooth talker. Eat your bread.”
But I can feel the blush burning in my cheeks and my pulse kicking up.
He eats slowly, and I watch him. The way his throat works when he swallows. He closes his eyes briefly, like even simple bread is the best thing he’s ever tasted.
When he’s done, I take his plate and pump more water. The cabin feels smaller somehow. More intimate in the firelight.
“You should get some sleep,” I finally say. “You need rest to recover.”
“As do you,” he points out. “You’ve been taking care of me all evening.”
I wave a dismissive hand. “I’m fine. Vampires don’t need as much sleep as humans.”
His eyebrows rise. “You’re a vampire?”
“Close enough. I was born, not turned. Long story.”
He leans forward slightly, genuinely curious. “How does that work? I thought vampires couldn’t—”
“Reproduce until they transform at twenty-five? Yeah, that’s the rule. Except I was born when my dad was still human, to my human mother. Then he transformed later. So technically I’m a vampire by blood, but I never had the turning.”
“But you’re young. How many turning of seasons have you had?”
“Nineteen.”
“So few.”
If only he knew. But unlike him, I don’t spill all my secrets at first meeting someone. No matter how cute they are.
I just smirk, and so he doesn’t think me the child I’m not, say, “I’m older than I look.”
He just keeps frowning. “Perhaps I should go after all.”
“Going to protect me from the big, bad apocalyptic angel? Careful, Layden. That’s almost sweet.”
His name tastes good in my mouth. I want to say it again.
“You should rest,” I say again, needing to break this moment before I do something stupid. “I’ll take the floor.”
“No.” The word comes out sharp. Firm. “You will not sleep on the floor because of me.”
I raise an eyebrow. “It’s your first night out of the forest in two hundred years. You’re not sleeping on the floor.”
“Then we will share the bed.”
The suggestion hangs in the air between us.
My eyes widen. “That’s... I don’t think...”
“It’s large enough,” he presses. “And I give you my word—I will not touch you. I will not move from my side. You have nothing to fear from me.”
There’s something in his eyes. Something almost... desperate. Like he needs me to believe him.
Like he needs me to not be afraid.
I study him for a long moment. This broken angel who’s been alone for two centuries and flinches away from touch but just offered to share a bed with me.
“Fine. But you stay on your side, and I stay on mine. Got it?”
“Got it,” he echoes.
I start to turn away, then pause. Look back at him.
“For what it’s worth, Layden?”
His eyes snap to mine at the sound of his name.
“I’m not afraid of you.”
His breath catches. I can see his chest rise and fall. “You should be.”
“Well.” I give him a sharp smile, showing all my teeth. “I’m a bigger monster than you, remember?”
I change in the bathroom—well, the closet, this is the kind of country cabin that has an outhouse in the back—into a spare shirt I found. When I emerge, Layden is already under the covers on the far side of the bed, his back carefully to me.
He’s considerate. Giving me space.
I slip under the covers on my side, leaving a careful distance between us.
The cabin is quiet except for the crackling fire. It’s cozy. Safe.
“Phoenix?” Layden’s voice is soft in the darkness.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
Something warm blooms in my chest. “You’re welcome.”
We lie there in silence for a while. Both of us awake. Both of us hyperaware of the other person in the bed.
I can hear his breathing. Steady and Even. But it’s the warmth radiating from his side of the bed across the space between us that really keeps me awake.
It’s been so long since I’ve shared a bed with anyone. Since I’ve let anyone this close. Usually, I don’t dare.
“Layden?” I finally whisper.
“Yes?”
“I’m glad I found you.”
The silence stretches. Then, so quiet I almost miss it:
“So am I.”
And for the first time in a long time, I fall asleep feeling something that might be hope.