Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
Charlie had been sure he wouldn't sleep again after that nightmare—after Simon's hand over his mouth, after hearing that other hunter talk about him like he was already dead.
But exhaustion had won eventually, pulling him under sometime near dawn.
His body, finally having received real nourishment for the first time in three weeks, had apparently decided to shut down for repairs.
He wasn't sure how long he'd slept exactly, but it must have been a long time. His vampire senses told him that dusk was approaching.
His vampire senses…
The thought still felt ridiculous to Charlie, but he couldn't deny what he'd become. Especially now that he'd had actual blood on his tongue.
Charlie sat up, the blanket pooling around his waist. His body felt different than it had in weeks. Stronger. More solid. Like his bones had remembered they were supposed to hold him up instead of threatening to collapse at any moment.
And everything about the world seemed sharper.
Like the sounds drifting in through the open bedroom door. Controlled breathing, the faint clink of metal on metal.
He crept to the doorway.
Simon was doing pull-ups on a bar mounted between the living room and kitchen, each rep perfectly controlled, just raw strength pulling his body up and down in a steady rhythm. His shirt lay discarded on the counter.
The movement had something hypnotic about it—and so did all that naked skin on display.
Charlie knew that he needed to look away. He had to go back to the bedroom, or make noise, or do literally anything other than stand there in the doorway like a creep.
But he found himself frozen.
It wasn't just the visual—though watching Simon's back muscles work was doing things to Charlie's brain he didn't want to examine.
It was the sound. Simon's heartbeat, accelerated from exertion, thundered in Charlie's ears.
Each pull-up made it spike, sending blood rushing through veins in a symphony Charlie had never noticed when he was human.
He could hear it. All of it. The surge through Simon's artery, the steady pump-pump-pump that seemed to echo in Charlie's own chest.
His fangs descended.
Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no.
What was Simon going to think?
Charlie tried to force his teeth back, but his body wouldn't listen to him.
The memory of Simon's taste was too intense. It hadn't been metallic or harsh but warm and complex and right in a way that made Charlie's whole body ache for more. He'd hoped the hunger would fade after feeding.
But that wasn't the case.
Of course not. Charlie didn't get to be that lucky. His hunger hadn't faded. It had only grown more specific.
Now he didn't just want blood.
He wanted Simon's blood.
Charlie suppressed a yelp at his own thought.
His mouth went dry. His gums ached where his fangs pressed insistently against them, demanding acknowledgment of what his body wanted. Needed. The ketchup packets and cherry syrup seemed laughable now—like trying to satisfy a man dying of thirst with humid air.
Once more he pressed his tongue hard against his fangs, willing them to retract. They didn't.
Simon dropped from the bar, landing silent on bare feet. He reached for a towel, and Charlie watched the movement track across Simon's shoulders, the way muscle shifted beneath skin. Watched a bead of sweat trail down Simon's spine and wanted—
No.
Charlie dug his nails into his palms hard enough to hurt.
This was insane.
Simon wiped his face with the towel, then turned.
Their eyes met.
Charlie wanted to perish.
He knew what he must look like—standing in the doorway like some discount Dracula in yesterday's wrinkled clothes, staring with what was definitely not normal intensity, fangs visible and pupils blown wide and dark.
"You're staring," Simon said.
It wasn't a question.
"I wasn't—I was just—"
Simon raised an eyebrow, and somehow that tiny gesture made Charlie feel more exposed than being caught red-handed.
"Being weird," Simon finished for him. "You're not getting more of my blood if that's what you're after."
Heat flooded Charlie's face. "I wouldn't—that's not—" He took a step backward, his shoulder hitting the doorframe. "I was thinking about food. Human food. That I should eat."
"Right." Simon tossed the towel over his shoulder. "Human food."
"Yes."
"The human food you can't digest anymore."
Charlie opened his mouth. Closed it. His stomach chose that moment to make a sound like a dying whale, which really didn't help his case.
"I should… kitchen." He fled before Simon could respond, putting the counter between them like it might somehow block the scent of warm, sweaty skin and pumping blood.
He yanked open the refrigerator, almost pulling the door off its hinges in his desperation for distraction.
But the sight that greeted him somehow made everything worse.
Rows of identical protein shakes stood like soldiers at attention. One sad jar of pickles lurked in the back. And there, on the door shelf, a single bottle of reduced-sodium soy sauce.
"Why?" The word escaped before Charlie could stop it.
"Why what?" Simon had followed him to the kitchen, keeping a careful distance. Like Charlie was a skittish animal that might bolt.
Which wasn't entirely wrong.
Charlie held up the soy sauce like evidence of a crime. "Protein shakes and… soy sauce?"
"Sometimes I get sushi." Simon grabbed one of the protein shakes, cracking it open with the same efficiency he seemed to bring to everything. "I like the kind with the cucumbers."
"Kappa maki," Charlie said automatically.
"Yes, exactly," Simon said as if this was the most normal thing in the world.
"So that's it?" Charlie asked. "Protein shakes and cucumber sushi?"
"It's efficient."
"It's sad." Charlie put the soy sauce back, closing the refrigerator door. "Food's supposed to be... I don't know. Good. Enjoyable. Social."
"I eat alone."
"Yeah, I noticed." Charlie took another look at the empty apartment. "My friend Brent and I used to get sushi every Thursday. He'd always order way too much, then complain he was too full for the gym after."
The memory hit harder than expected. Three weeks ago—God, was it really only three weeks?
—he'd been sitting across from Brent at their usual place, arguing about whether rainbow rolls were superior to dragon rolls.
Brent had been stealing pieces off Charlie's plate while insisting he was too full to finish his own.
Now Charlie couldn't even eat rice without his body rejecting it.
Simon studied him quietly. "Guess you can't do that anymore."
Charlie shrugged, the weight of everything settling on his shoulders. "Hard to maintain traditions when you're..." He gestured at himself, at his fangs that wouldn't retract, at his whole pathetic existence.
"When you're what?" There was a challenge in Simon's look.
Charlie met his gaze, something defiant sparking in his chest. "When you're a vampire who can't even vampire correctly. When your friend thinks you're just really committed to LARPing. When the only person who acknowledges what you are is the one who's supposed to kill you."
The words hung between them, too honest for whatever this was.
Simon finished the protein drink in two more swallows, then crushed the bottle with casual strength that made Charlie's stomach do something complicated.
"I'm going to shower." Simon moved past him, and Charlie couldn't help catching his scent. Sweat and skin and that underlying warmth that made Charlie want to reach out.
Dazed as Charlie was, the hunter's words took a moment to register. Shower. Simon was going to shower.
Which meant he'd be busy behind a locked door with running water to mask any sounds.
This was Charlie's chance.
As if he could read Charlie's thoughts, Simon paused at the bathroom door, looking back. "I know the sun's almost down. But if you try to run I'll just track you down again. Don't go anywhere."
Charlie blinked as Simon vanished into the bathroom.
He turned.
The apartment door was right there. The sun would set in a few minutes. He could feel it in his bones; that supernatural awareness of daylight fading.
In spite of Simon's warnings, he really should run.
It was the only logical thing to do.
Simon had fed him, yes, but he was still a hunter. He carried a stake the way a regular person might carry a phone. It didn't matter that he was attractive or that he'd lied for Charlie. He might still kill Charlie.
Charlie couldn't stay.
He had to at least try to get away.
So he moved toward the door. He touched the handle.
But he couldn't turn it.
It wasn't that the handle wouldn't move—it was him.
He couldn't move his hand.
What?
Charlie stared. He wanted to go. He had to go. But the thought of leaving made his fingers shake and his chest tighten with inexplicable dread. It felt like breaking a promise. It felt like betrayal on the deepest level.
The rational part of his brain screamed at him.
What the hell was he doing?
He couldn't waste this opportunity. Simon couldn't chase him naked and dripping. By the time he dressed, Charlie could be blocks away, lost in the city.
Charlie's fingers tightened on the door handle.
He let go.
Something was wrong.
Charlie stepped back from the door, his undead heart racing even though it had no reason to beat at all.
This wasn't normal. None of this was normal, but this specific thing, this inability to turn a door handle when his life might depend on it, was a new level of not normal.
Maybe he was just scared. Maybe some part of him recognized that running from Simon was pointless. The hunter had found him twice already. He'd find him again.
That had to be it. Self-preservation.
Or a spell.
The thought came out of nowhere, but once it arrived, Charlie couldn't shake it. A month ago, he would have laughed at the idea. Magic wasn't real. Except a month ago, he'd also thought vampires weren't real.
And look how that turned out.