CHAPTER 8
BY LATE AFTERNOON, I’ve cataloged every detail of Max’s room: the scuff marks on the linoleum floor, the way the blinds cast striped shadows across the bed, the steady drip of the IV, the monitors beside him that display vitals that would be alarming for a human—temperature hypothermic, heart rate dangerously low, oxygen levels minimal.
But for a vampire in the final stages of transition, they’re perfectly normal.
Max’s face has lost its pained expression, replaced by an unnatural stillness that makes my chest tighten. This is really happening.
Memories drift back to the night we first met.
It was another one of those evenings when the grief sat heavy on my shoulders. My father, three months gone, the pain as fresh as if it were yesterday.
Evan and Haden dragged me to Pulse, one of those mainstream nightclubs where the music reverberated through your bones and the lights flashed bright enough to give you a headache, insisting I shouldn’t spend the night alone—not tonight of all nights.
“Slow down, birthday girl,” Evan cautioned as I downed my fourth bliskey of the night, the burn in my throat the only thing keeping me from screaming. “You’re going to regret this tomorrow.”
“That’s a problem for future Seraph,” I said, wagging a tipsy finger at him. “Present Seraph needs another drink.”
Haden exchanged a look with Evan. “Should we call it a night?”
“You should mind your own business,” I snapped, immediately regretting my tone. They were just trying to help. “Sorry. I just… I need this tonight. Okay? Besides, you’re the ones who dragged me here in the first place.”
“We’re not telling you to not have fun,” Evan said. “In fact, enjoy yourself. Just slow down a bit with the drinking.”
“Fine,” I conceded, rising from the iridescent banquette with a flourish. “I’ll get me something lighter this round.”
“Good girl,” Evan called after me, earning a smack from Haden in return.
The crowd parted as I made my way to the bar, probably sensing my sour mood. I leaned against the counter, waiting for the bartender to notice me.
“What can I get you?” he finally asked, wiping his hands on a towel.
The urge to order myself yet another bliskey, or a blum—blood rum—was strong, but I forced myself to stick to my promise. “Two blums, neat. One plasmo, on the rocks.”
“Make that two blums and a water,” a smooth voice beside me said.
I turned, ready to tell whoever it was to stay in their lane, when I found myself looking into the warmest brown eyes I’d ever seen.
The man they belonged to wasn’t even conventionally handsome: his nose was slightly crooked, like it had been broken once and not set properly, his jaw perhaps too flat, but there was something compelling about him.
“Excuse me?” I managed, my anger momentarily forgotten.
“You look like you’ve had enough,” he said, his voice lacking judgment. “And your friends seem worried.”
I followed his gaze to where Evan and Haden sat, indeed looking at me with concern.
“You’ve been watching me?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
At least he had the decency to look embarrassed. “Not in a creepy way. You’re just… noticeable.”
The bartender set our drinks down, the stranger having already paid before I could protest.
“I don’t need charity,” I said, reaching for my phone.
“It’s not charity. It’s an investment.” He smiled, and something in my chest loosened just a fraction. “Think it bought me five minutes of conversation?”
I studied him more carefully. His button-down shirt was crisp but not flashy, his hair neatly trimmed. He looked out of place in the club, too put-together.
“Five minutes.” I glanced back at Evan and Haden, who were now watching with undisguised interest.
Those five minutes turned into twenty.
Maxim told me he was deep into law school, specializing in civil rights cases. He asked about my studies then, and I gave him the sanitized version: I dropped out.
Technically, Redmoore students were still students. It’s just that most people wouldn’t walk away from something so prestigious, and I wasn’t in the mood to explain why.
He didn’t press when I changed the subject.
What struck me most was how ordinary he was. In a world where I dealt with constant danger, Max was refreshingly mundane. He worried about essays and moot court deadlines, not sparring drills and field exercises.
When Evan and Haden eventually came to collect their drinks, looking equal parts amused and suspicious, Max asked for my number.
I surprised myself by giving it to him.
“Call me tomorrow,” I told him, winking. “When I’m sober enough to remember this conversation.”
He did call.
And somehow, against all odds and my better judgment, we started dating.
He did it according to the book, never skipping a step, starting with thoughtful texts, steady plans, and showing up exactly when he said he would, until our meetings grew late into the night, shy hands lingering a little too long, tentative kisses deepening.
The heat between us became impossible to ignore.
Max represented everything I thought I could never have—normalcy, stability, a life untouched by the darkness I navigated daily.
He became my anchor to the human world, a reminder that there was more to life than hunting and survival.
Now, looking at him in this hospital bed, I wonder if I’ve destroyed that too.
A soft knock at the door pulls me from my reminiscence. A nurse steps in, clipboard in hand. “Any change?” she asks, checking his IV.
I rub my tired eyes. “Nothing yet.”
She gives me a sympathetic smile. “According to the doctor, his transition is progressing well. All his markers are stabilizing. You can go home if you want. We can call you when he wakes.”
“I’m staying,” I insist.
The nurse nods, noting something on her clipboard before leaving the room again. I return my attention to Max, wondering what will remain of the man I fell in love with once he wakes. Will he still look at me with that warmth? Or will his eyes hold the same hunger I’ve seen in so many others?
I lean back in the utilitarian chair and close my eyes. Hours pass in a blur of medical checks and hushed conversations outside the door. Finally, a soft groan breaks the monotony. I jerk upright, leaning forward as Max’s eyelids flutter. His fingers twitch against the sheets, and I grasp his hand.
“Max?” I whisper.
His eyes open fully and I stifle a gasp.
The warm brown I’ve grown to love has been consumed by a bright red, filled with an intensity that wasn’t there before.
He blinks slowly, disoriented, then focuses on me.
“Seraph?” His voice is different. Somehow even smoother, with a plangency that also wasn’t there before.
I squeeze his hand. “I’m here. How do you feel?”
He frowns, as if taking inventory of his body. “Strange. Everything’s loud, and bright.” His gaze shifts to the window, where the late afternoon sun filters through the blinds, its rays harmless to those within.
I reach over and close the blinds completely, plunging the room into shadow. “Better?”
He nods, then draws up short, his expression morphing into horror as awareness kicks in. His hand flies to his neck, his fingers probing the healed puncture wounds.
“It wasn’t a nightmare,” he whispers.
“No,” I admit, unable to soften the truth. “You’re a vampire now, Max.” The words feel strange on my tongue.
He pulls his hand from mine, recoiling as if burned. “This can’t be happening. Are you serious?”
“I know it’s a lot to process.”
“Process?” His laugh is spasmodic, bordering on hysterical. “I died, Seraph. And now I’m… this.” He gestures to himself with disgust.
“You’re still you,” I say, reaching for him again.
He shrinks back against the pillows. “Am I? Because I can hear conversations three rooms away. I can smell actual blood in the hallway and it’s making me…” He swallows hard, looking nauseous, his new fangs visibly extending as he speaks. “God, I’m hungry.”
“That’s normal,” I reassure him. “All of this is normal. The medical staff will bring you blood soon.”
“Blood,” he repeats, shivering at the thought. “I have to drink blood now.”
I watch helplessly as the reality of his situation slowly settles in. His eyes dart around the room, taking in details that human vision would miss. His nostrils flare at scents that weren’t perceptible to him before. His hands repeatedly clench and unclench, testing newfound strength.
“I prosecuted a vampire last month for bloodsucking,” he suddenly says. “He claimed he couldn’t control his impulse. That it was like an addiction.” His eyes, filled with unease, meet mine. “Is that what I’m becoming? An addict?”
“No,” I say firmly. “That’s why we have blood rations and keepers. To protect us from worst case scenarios. Because that’s what they are.”
The door opens and the same nurse from before enters, carrying a tray with several bags of blood. She sets down the tray and attaches a bag to a specialized IV line. Max’s reaction is immediate. His pupils dilate, his breathing quickens, and a low growl escapes his throat.
“This is synthesized AB negative,” the nurse explains. “We find it causes the fewest adverse reactions in new vampires.”
Max watches with horrified fascination as the liquid begins flowing through the tube toward his arm.
“Wait,” he says, voice strained. “I’m not ready.”
The nurse pauses. “Your body needs this to complete the transition properly, Mr. Sinclair. Without it, you’ll experience severe withdrawal symptoms. They are not pleasant.”
“Just give me a minute,” he pleads.
She glances at me uncertainly.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “I’ll help him through it.”
Once she leaves, Max turns to me with distress in his eyes. “I can’t do this, Seraph. I can’t be this… monster.”
“You’re not a monster,” I sit on the edge of his bed, carefully placing my hand on the blanket between us to steady myself. “You’re just different now.”
For someone who’s always fit in perfectly, I can understand why he’s having so much trouble adjusting.