Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
The elevator opened directly into Simon's apartment, which turned out to be some kind of converted loft that probably cost more than Charlie would make in five years.
Floor-to-ceiling windows lined one wall, offering a view of the city that would've been impressive if there'd been anything else to look at.
Because the space was empty. Not minimalist. Empty.
A black leather couch faced a mounted TV. A single bar stool at the kitchen island. No art on the walls. No books. No plants. No signs that someone actually inhabited this apartment.
"You live like this?" The words escaped before Charlie could stop them.
Simon dropped his keys on the counter with a metallic clank that echoed. "Says the vampire who lives off ketchup packets."
Fair point.
Charlie shuffled further inside, hyper-aware of Simon watching him. The hunter had shed his jacket, revealing a sleeveless black shirt underneath. Simon had strong arms.
Strong enough to fight monsters for sure.
Charlie forced himself to look away, taking in more of the apartment's aggressive lack of personality.
"There's not even a coffee table."
"Don't need one."
"What about when you eat?"
"Standing. Or at the counter."
Charlie glanced at Simon. Did this hunter do anything other than hunt? "That's serial killer behavior."
Something flickered across Simon's face—not quite a smile, but close. "You're one to talk."
"I'm not a serial killer. I work retail."
"You're a vampire. By definition, you kill people serially."
"I don't—" Charlie's protest died as his stomach cramped hard enough to double him over. He grabbed the kitchen island for support, riding out the wave of hunger that left him shaking.
Simon moved closer. Not touching, but close enough that Charlie could feel his body heat. "When's the last time you fed?"
Charlie thought of the protein bar he'd had that morning, and the syrup he'd had at work. But that wasn't what Simon meant, was it?
"Never." The admission came out small. "I told you. I can't."
Simon studied him with those dark eyes of his that seemed to see every little flaw. "You're dying."
"You're the one who told me I'm already dead."
"True," Simon said. "You're learning." He studied Charlie a moment longer. "Three weeks, you said? Most fledglings would've gone feral by now without proper feeding."
Charlie didn't know what to say to that. He didn't know what was normal for vampires. His maker hadn't stuck around long enough to say anything beyond good luck with that before disappearing into the night.
"I won't hurt anyone," Charlie said quietly.
Simon watched him for a long moment. Then, with the same deliberate calm he'd shown in the convenience store, he rolled up his sleeve.
"What are you doing?"
"Proving a point." Simon pulled a knife from somewhere—did he just have knives everywhere?—and held it over his forearm.
Wait. What?
Was he going to…?
"Don't!" Charlie cried. He did not want to faint again. Once per night was really enough.
"You need blood. I have blood." Simon's voice stayed matter-of-fact, but Charlie caught something else underneath. Curiosity, maybe. Or challenge.
Clearly, this hunter was insane.
"I can't bite you! And I don't want to see you bleed."
"I'm not asking you to."
Before Charlie could protest further, Simon turned away and made a quick, efficient cut across his forearm. Charlie heard the blade, smelled the blood immediately, but Simon's body blocked his view.
"There's a bottle in the cabinet," Simon said almost casually. As if this was no big deal at all. "A black water bottle. Get it."
Charlie's legs moved without his permission, and then he was fumbling through the cabinet until his fingers closed around metal. He held it out, careful to keep his eyes averted.
Simon took it, and Charlie heard liquid hitting aluminum. The scent intensified—rich and warm and nothing like the chemical sweetness of syrup or the acidic inadequacy of tomato juice.
This was life. Actual life.
"Here." Simon pressed the bottle into Charlie's hands. He'd already wrapped his arm; a red stain was spreading through white gauze.
Charlie stared at the bottle. Opaque black metal, cool to the touch, slightly warm from its contents.
"I can't."
"You can." Simon moved back to lean against the far counter, giving him space. "You need it. I'm offering. No one gets hurt."
"You literally just hurt yourself!"
"It was just a scratch."
Charlie's hands shook around the bottle. The scent wafting from the opening made his fangs fully extend, pressing against his lower lip.
"If I drink this..." Charlie started.
"What? You'll discover you have a taste for it?" Simon's voice carried an edge.
He still expected Charlie to turn into a typical vampire.
The realization should've made Charlie angry. Or maybe it should have scared him. Here he was, standing in the apartment of someone who saw him as a threat to be put down.
But God, he was so hungry.
Charlie lifted the bottle, just close enough to inhale. The scent hit him so hard his eyes rolled back, hands tightening on the metal until it dented.
"Careful," Simon said. "That's my only water bottle."
Charlie almost laughed. Almost.
The first sip was tentative. Just enough to coat his tongue with blood.
Simon's blood.
It was nothing like he'd expected. Not metallic or harsh. It was warm and complex and satisfying in a way that made his whole body sing with relief. Like coming up for air after drowning. Like water in a desert. Like coming home.
He took a larger sip, unable to stop himself.
The constant ache in his stomach finally, finally eased. The trembling stopped. His vision cleared from a haze he hadn't realized was there.
Charlie lowered the empty bottle, becoming aware of two things simultaneously.
One: he felt better than he had since being turned. Possibly better than he'd felt while human.
Two: Simon was staring at him.
"Your eyes," Simon said, voice strange.
"What about them?"
Simon opened his mouth, closed it, then seemed to gather himself. "They're brown."
"They've always been brown?"
"They were nearly black earlier. Lifeless." Simon stepped closer, and Charlie found himself frozen under that intense scrutiny.
What was the hunter seeing in him?
Was Charlie healthy enough now to deserve being staked?
Or did Simon want to keep him for observation?
Was this some kind of experiment?
Simon was close enough now that Charlie could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, could count his eyelashes if he wanted to. Which he didn't. Obviously.
Simon blew out a breath, and he seemed almost exasperated when he asked, "Who the hell turned someone like you into a vampire?"
The question hung between them.
Charlie opened his mouth to answer—to make a joke, maybe, or deflect—but Simon had already stepped back, shutting down whatever moment had just happened.
"Never mind." Simon's voice went flat. "You need sleep. Come on."
He turned and walked away, leaving Charlie standing in the kitchen holding a dented water bottle and feeling oddly bereft.
"Come here," Simon called, so, for a lack of better options, Charlie did.
The bedroom was as sparse as the rest of the apartment. A bed with black sheets, military-crisp. A single nightstand.
Simon pulled a blanket from a closet and dropped it on the bed. "You can sleep here."
Charlie stared at the bed. Then at Simon. Then back at the bed.
What was happening?
"You're not serious."
Simon's expression didn't change. "Do I look like I'm joking?"
No. No, he didn't. He looked exactly like someone who'd decided the most logical solution was to... share. A bed. Together.
Charlie's brain short-circuited.
He sat gingerly on the edge of the mattress, hyperaware of every movement, trying to figure out the logistics of this absolute disaster waiting to happen.
It wasn't that he would mind lying next to Simon.
In fact, he probably wouldn't mind it as much as he should.
His skin still hummed from drinking Simon's blood.
Would Simon notice? God, he'd totally notice, wouldn't he? That there was something majorly wrong with Charlie's head that made him think the man who wanted him dead was unfairly attractive.
One way or another, Charlie was going to die tonight. He just didn't know if he would die by the stake or from sheer embarrassment.
"So, uh..." Charlie's voice came out strangled. "How do you wanna... like, arrange this?"
While Charlie's mind was running circles, Simon had moved to the closet, pulling something out.
"Back-to-back?" Charlie continued, words tumbling out faster. "Or head-to-foot? That might be better actually, more space, though your feet would be near my face which—do you snore? I mean, I don't know if I do, but—"
Simon turned around holding a pillow, giving Charlie a look that could've frozen hell.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"The bed! Sharing!" Charlie gestured wildly at the mattress. "You just said—"
"I'm not getting in there with you."
Oh.
Charlie felt his face go nuclear. "Oh. Oh, right, of course you're not. Obviously. That would be..." He laughed, high and hysterical. "Ridiculous. Why would you—I mean, we're not—you literally tried to kill me last night, so why would you want to???"
Simon dragged a chair from the corner of the room. "You thought I was going to share the bed with you."
It wasn't a question. Charlie wished the mattress would swallow him whole. "No! I just… you said get in, and there's only one bed, and I thought…" Charlie pulled the blanket up to his chin like armor. "I misunderstood."
"Clearly." Simon pulled out a stake from somewhere—seriously, how many weapons did he carry?—and rested it across his lap. He looked like the world's most dangerous babysitter. Or the world's most annoyed bodyguard.
Or just someone deeply regretting his choices.
Charlie lay back against the pillow, stiff as a board, face still burning. The mattress was actually comfortable. Kind of soft, really.
"I wasn't expecting that," Charlie said to the ceiling.
"Expecting what?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all."
Silence stretched between them. Charlie could hear Simon's heartbeat, steady and strong. Could smell him too—leather and something metallic, and underneath it all, the warm scent of his skin.
The scent of his blood.
Drinking from the bottle had definitely been a mistake. Now all of Charlie's senses were turned up to eleven, and they all seemed focused on the hunter sitting six feet away.
"Go to sleep," Simon said without looking at him. "Before I change my mind about where to put this stake."
Charlie pulled the blanket higher, covering his face entirely.
This was fine. Everything was fine. He was just lying in a hunter's bed while said hunter sat in a chair with a weapon, probably planning all the ways to kill Charlie if he moved wrong.
Totally fine.
Through the blanket, he heard Simon shift in the chair. "And Charlie?"
"Yeah?"
"If you actually do snore, I will stake you."
Charlie gulped. "Noted."