15. Birdie
BIRDIE
Blackthorn is a different beast in the early hours, the bars vomiting out their last patrons and the streets yawning empty except for the occasional plastic bag ghosting across the pavers.
The only business with a light on is Hex & Honey, which glows like a hive from the corner.
The sign is made of tin and magic marker, the E in Honey scribbled in at a wonky angle.
I’m the only person alive who likes that detail.
The other is Daisy, but she would die before she admitted to liking anything about the signage.
It’s a Tuesday, so foot traffic is nil, but Daisy works like she’s prepping for an apocalypse.
She’s got flour on her face as well as everywhere else, and she’s spritzing the countertop with a cleaning potion that smells suspiciously like bubblegum vodka and is probably illegal in three counties.
I’m supposed to be doing inventory, but I keep drifting to the window.
Not for the view—just to see if Alaric’s silhouette is in it.
Since Leland vanished, the world has clicked into place in a way I would almost call suspicious.
No more watchful eyes at my door, no more kidnapping attempts, and my name hasn’t appeared in any dead drops or missing-persons columns for months.
Clover, our resident high witch, is off at some monster summer camp, so it’s just Daisy and me manning the fort for now.
She wipes her hands on her skirt and leans against the case of BEWITCHED BUNS—TRY OUR HEXY ROLLS! I tried telling her that sounded like a sex thing, but Daisy only shrugged and said, “If the bun fits, babe.”
“You seeing him again tonight?” she asks, stretching the him with greasy pride. Her smile is all canine and conspiratorial.
I look away, mumbling, “Maybe,” but Daisy is immune to shame and has the ears of a fox.
“You’re blushing,” she says, nearly cackling.
“I’m not,” I say, which is a lie, but she doesn’t call me on it. Daisy has too much respect for a bluff.
She pulls a tray of marshmallow potion cubes from the oven and sets them down between us. The warmth is comforting, not because of the actual temperature, but because Daisy has been family since the day I floated into this place with a duffel bag and a refusal to die.
A shadow flickers across the window. Not Alaric this time—just the postal wraith making her rounds, her veil trailing behind her like an oil slick. I let my shoulders drop, which Daisy notices, because Daisy notices everything.
“So what’s the plan for tonight?” she asks, flipping a cube into her mouth and talking through chews.
“More brooding in the moonlight? Oh—” She snaps her fingers, sending powdered sugar flying.
“Let me guess. You two are going to dramatically not talk about your feelings and then kiss in a graveyard.”
“That only happened once,” I protest, even if once was the week before and his lips tasted like midnight and menthol and something chemical I couldn’t name.
“Does he eat?” Daisy asks around her snack. “Like, real food? Or is he one hundred percent on the blood diet?”
“He eats,” I say, remembering the first time I saw him make an omelet.
He cracked the eggs with one hand and whisked them like he was conducting an orchestra, casual and infuriatingly good at it.
He set the table, gave me the bigger fork, and didn’t comment when I ate like an escaped squirrel. “He’s got a thing for Italian.”
Daisy whistles. “Classy. I always figured vampires just slurped blood out of Capri Suns.”
“He’s not just a vampire,” I say automatically. “Not exactly.”
She raises both eyebrows, which is her way of calling bullshit in stereo.
“What, then?”
I think about it. “He’s like a very bored predator. A panther who got trapped working retail for two hundred years.”
“Oooh,” Daisy says, licking sugar from her wrist. “That’s hot.”
Even though I roll my eyes, I agree. Every time he looks at me like I’m a puzzle he’s dying to ruin, it feels hot and dangerous and wrong in just the right proportion.
Daisy opens the register and counts the till. “So who’s making dinner?”
“I am,” I admit, and immediately regret it.
Daisy’s face morphs into a smug crescent moon. “What’s on the menu, Chef?”
“Homemade gnocchi.”
“Oh my God.” Daisy’s voice goes up a full octave. “Do you want to borrow my apron? The one that says PASTA LA VISTA, BABY?”
“I will burn that apron,” I say, still grinning.
Daisy leans in and lowers her voice. “Is he going to bite you?”
I blink. The truth is, Alaric has been the opposite of predatory. We’ve spent a dozen evenings together, sometimes in absolute seclusion, and he’s never once hinted at the fangs. If anything, he’s respectful to a fault, like he’s waiting for me to ask first.
I shrug. “He’s barely touched me since the graveyard.”
Daisy nods, suddenly serious. “That’s a power move. He’s making you desperate.”
I snort. “He’s a gentleman, and I’m not desperate.”
But now that she’s said it, I can’t unthink it: the way his hands hover, never quite closing the distance, every look loaded like he’s holding something back.
The memory of the graveyard—cold stone, wet grass, Alaric pressed against me, his lips at my temple, and the absolute, trembling control he kept.
I don’t think I’ve ever been with someone more dangerous, or someone who has worked harder to make me feel safe.
I asked him once if he was afraid he might lose control. He only smiled and said he didn’t want to do anything I wouldn’t remember in the morning.
Which is why tonight, I’m the one making the first move.
My cottage is small but mercifully soundproofed.
Its bay windows peer out over a moonlit clearing, which at this hour is little more than mist and a couple of raccoons dueling with tarnished blades.
I stumble home with just enough time to reapply my lipstick and nearly impale myself wrestling open a new bottle of elderberry wine.
At 8:58, Alaric texts.
Should I bring garlic bread? I’m mildly allergic, but my craving trumps the hives.
I type back, You’d better.
Then, after a beat: But try to control yourself. I don’t want you sick all night.
He replies with a gif of a gentleman performing a lavish bow. For someone who hunts horrors in the night, he’s disgustingly good at the internet.
When he knocks, I fling the door open too fast and nearly skull him.
Alaric’s hair is soaked, as if he’s just stepped out of a river or, more likely, tussled with something unpleasant.
He’s wearing a shirt that’s probably older than I am, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and his smile is less a smile than its pale echo.
I let him in.
He offers the bread as a peace token and does not comment on my world’s sluttiest apron. For a man with superhuman senses, his restraint is almost pathological.
The gnocchi turns into a calamity. I overboil the dumplings, then panic and dump half a salt shaker into the sauce.
He eats it anyway, which is either true gallantry or the world’s longest con.
He even asks for seconds, which tells me either he’s lying through his perfectly straight face or vampires have absolutely no standards where gnocchi are concerned.
“So,” he says after the second glass, “what’s next?”
I’ve been waiting for that cue. I rise, collect the dishes, and set them in the sink. Instead of turning back, I lean against the mossy counter and study him. He lounges like a great cat, legs stretched out, head cocked as if he’s hearing a joke I haven’t told yet.
Subtlety has never been my forte.
I cross the room in two strides and yank his hand hard enough to jolt him upright, every muscle instantly alert. He towers over me—a built-in intimidation tactic—but tonight I refuse to be cowed by genetics or whatever arcane potion fuels him.
He holds perfectly still.
“Are you going to kiss me,” I say, “or must I write it in blood?”
He blinks once. Then twice. A full, lazy, scorching grin spreads across his face as his fingers slide to the nape of my neck, drawing me in. He kisses me like he’s verifying that I’m real.
The kiss is less graveyard elegance and more kitchen counters and spilled wine, and by the time I break free, I’m grinning like a complete fool.
I want more.
Everything.
Before I can lean in again, he freezes, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and murmurs, “Are you sure?”
It isn’t a test. His voice is gentle, but his eyes are ancient and unreadable.
I nod. “I’m not a damsel, you know.”
He arches an eyebrow. “I would never mistake you for one.”
He lifts me effortlessly, like I’m a bundle of laundry, and plants me atop the counter.
He trails soft kisses along my jaw and down my neck, pausing at the pulse point as though seeking permission.
When he finally sinks his teeth in—just enough to make me shiver—it feels like months of tension unspooling in one sweet exhale.
He pulls back, his lips at my ear.
“Tell me to stop.”
I whisper, “I’d rather you didn’t.”