Chapter 2. Blaise #2
Ambrose was still trembling with rage.
He didn’t speak. Just stood there with his hands clenched at his sides, onyx eyes fixed on the chunk missing from my neck, as if I might collapse at any second, and there’d be nothing he could do to stop it.
I’d taken a step toward him, tugging my bloodied, torn shirt over my head. The buttons had scattered across the floor as I wiped the blood from my neck, trying to show him I was already healing.
His hand had lifted slowly, like he didn’t trust it not to tremble. His fingers ghosted over the scabbed bite mark.
And then his mouth followed.
The moment his lips touched my skin, something inside me ignited.
I told myself it was the adrenaline. The lingering aphrodisiac venom still burning through my veins.
But none of that explained how right it felt.
In all the years we’d fed together, we’d never touched each other like that. And in that moment, it seemed absurd that I’d wasted all that time not knowing how soft Ambrose’s lips could be, or the warmth of his breath as it curled over my skin.
His hands slid down my sides, thumbs tracing the sharp lines of my hips. I felt the tremor in his touch—like he was trying, and failing, to stop himself—as he undid my belt, then my pants, his fingers brushing the waistband of my boxers, knuckles grazing my lower stomach.
Then he paused.
I saw the effort it took—the way his eyes searched mine, as if begging me to stop him. To remind him that we were best friends, not lovers.
But I couldn’t.
Not when I finally reached out with my senses and tasted his familiar bergamot desire flooding the room, and it was all for me.
Heat had licked up my spine, my entire body igniting in a way that I thought was only reserved for my fated mate.
And, yeah, the venom was enhancing it—I could feel that foreign lust tingling at my extremities, promising me that every touch would be explosive—but the venom could only enhance feelings that were already there, not create them.
That newly awakened yearning was my own.
And I wanted Ambrose.
So, I leaned down and pressed my lips against his.
The moment he gave in to us, something in him loosened. I let him guide me back onto the couch, his body covering mine, his weight pressing me into the cushions as the world narrowed to touch and breath and the heat of him between my legs.
The hours bled into each other, both of us making up for the nine years we should have been doing this with each other instead of having a mortal between us.
He made me feel pleasure so intense that I barely remembered my own name, and kept going until I couldn’t think of anything but him—until long after the rage had burned out of him.
Then his mouth brushed over the back of my neck, and he whispered, “Mine,” so softly it felt like it hadn’t been meant to be heard at all.
In that moment, I knew I was in love with him. Maybe a small part of me always had been.
When we’d finally needed to take a break, just as the first light of morning spilled through the window, I half expected him to pull me close. To hold me. To admit that what had just happened meant something to him too.
But what he did instead crushed me.
He stilled, his eyes widening as if he couldn’t quite believe what had happened.
Then, too fast, he lifted himself from me, pulled on his pants and crossed the room to the basket of clothes waiting to be ironed.
He didn’t look at me as he dug out a pair of sweatpants and handed them over, already excusing himself to go shower.
I lay there, stunned, watching him walk away without a glance back. And when I broke our promise—reaching out with my senses, desperate for some hint of what he was feeling—I met only the viselike grip of his control, his emotions locked down tight.
By the time I’d cleaned myself up and tugged on the sweatpants, Ambrose had already shut himself away in his room.
The next day, I’d steeled myself to talk to him. To ask if he felt it too—if maybe we could explore whatever had cracked open between us. But before I could say a word, Ambrose padded into the living room with purpose, and an apology.
He said he shouldn’t have taken advantage of me. Not when I’d been hurt, and not when I’d still been under the influence of vampire venom. He said he should have had more control—that he wouldn’t blame adrenaline or blood rage for what he’d done.
I wanted to fall to my knees and tell him it wasn’t the venom. That it had long since burned out of my system, and these feelings were mine. That I wanted the weight of him on me again, and that I wanted to explore every depraved, hopeful thought that had kept me awake all night.
But the regret on his face stopped the words in my throat.
So, I shrugged it off. Told him it wasn’t a big deal. Even joked that it was surprising we hadn’t done it sooner, considering the number of threesomes we’d shared over the years.
Ambrose had visibly relaxed, but things were never the same after that night.
Even our work suffered.
No more high-stakes jobs. No thrilling chases or near-death scraps.
The most exciting thing I’d done in six months was escort a frail old water nymph to a string of doctor’s appointments and Pilates classes.
We took only the safest contracts. The boring ones.
And we charged rock-bottom prices because no one in their right mind wanted to be charged danger pay for such dull work.
It was like we both knew that another close call—another rush of adrenaline—might send us straight back into each other’s arms.
And as much as I wanted that, I couldn’t let it happen.
I didn’t want to lose my best friend. I didn’t want to see that look of regret on his face again. And I didn’t want to face the truth coiling in my gut—that wanting him felt like a betrayal of the witch I was meant for.
Because it was her I should have been thinking about. My fated mate. That faceless Briar Coven witch who was supposed to be the center of my future.
Up until six months ago, she had been.
I hadn’t obsessed over her like our friends, Devlin and Lochran, had obsessed over theirs. I’d trusted she would summon me when she was ready. Until then, I’d been building a life, one that could offer her something stable, something good.
But now, every time I tried to picture her, Ambrose’s shadow stood in the way.
And so, for the first Samhain of my life, I prayed to Hecate not to be chosen.
Just one more year.
One year to untangle what I felt. One year to remind myself that Ambrose was only my friend, and that what we’d shared had been a mistake born of blood and grief and adrenaline. It wasn’t love. No matter how convincing it felt. It was lust. That was all.
By this time next year, I told myself, you will be whole again.
That night would mean nothing. Just a fun night that led to a brief period of weird vibes.
I glanced toward the living room, straining my ears for any sign of movement, before letting my gaze drift back to Ambrose’s shelf of mementos.
A life of friendship sat neatly arranged there.
But the token from our last job—the night we’d crossed a line we couldn’t uncross—had never earned a place among them. It wasn’t a memory meant to be cherished. He’d saved it as a reminder that what we had done could never happen again.
I tiptoed across the room and slid my hand beneath Ambrose’s pillow. My fingers closed around cool plastic, and I pulled out the bloodied button.
Without looking at it, I slipped it into my pocket.
If I wasn’t summoned, I’d put it back in the morning.
And I’d force myself to talk to him then.
Just get through tonight.
As I padded out of his room, I forced the frown from my face, schooling my features into my usual careless smirk. Ambrose still stood at the window, watching the traffic and mortals below, his shoulders stiffening the moment I drew near.
Words failed me again, so I reached for my phone—anything to give my hands something to do. My tongue clicked unconsciously against the roof of my mouth as I skimmed through my notifications and opened my email.
Three new requests for supernatural security.
The first was from a young wolf shifter, Rhea Varrow, asking for backup during a meeting between her alpha and a rival pack trying to muscle in on their territory. Six months ago, that would’ve been right up our alley. I sent a polite reply declining the job.
The second was from a witch who’d heard—via a friend of a friend—that we were now taking on domestic work. She had a hob problem. Apparently, a handsome, strong man lingering for a few weeks would be just the thing to persuade it to stop attacking her wards.
The third was from another witch, this one wanting someone to hang around and keep a particular coven-mate from stealing her magicked candy recipe until she could perfect and patent it.
Thrilling stuff.
“Hob or candy?” I asked.
“Hmm?” Ambrose murmured, still facing the window.
“For a job,” I said. “If neither of us gets summoned tonight. Want to scare off a hob or watch a witch make candy for a month?”
Ambrose shrugged. “I’ll take whichever one you don’t want.”
Neither. I want to do neither.
The hob job sounded simple enough, but it reeked of forced small talk, herbal tea, and a nomad witch expecting a bit of flirtation from the muscle she’d hired. Ambrose was the patient one.
My chaos was better suited to cursed candy than polite cups of tea.
“I’ll take the candy one then,” I said, slipping my phone back into my pocket, planning to accept the jobs after the summoning—assuming we were both still here.
The silence stretched again.
I perched on the armrest of the couch, doing my best not to let my mind replay exactly what we’d done on that same couch six months ago. And just as my resolve started to waver, Ambrose finally turned to face me.
His expression was stoic and unreadable, his dark gaze sliding past me—lingering for just a fraction of a second on the couch, long enough to make my heart stutter—before fixing on the clock on the wall behind me.
“Less than an hour until the summoning,” he said. “Are you ready?”
I slapped my palms against my thighs and forced a grin as I pushed to my feet. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
Ambrose’s lips tightened as I stepped closer. He stood half a head taller than me, and I resisted the urge to stare at his mouth now level with my eyes, the ghost of its softness sending sparks along the scar at my neck.
Instead, my gaze dropped.
Our shadows had begun to unspool across the floor, reaching for each other, winding together as one.
It was the first time since that night that they’d touched.
They moved like old flames, mine slightly erratically as they pulsed with undeniable pleasure at the contact.
Heat crept up my cheeks as I prayed he hadn’t noticed.
But just before the darkness swallowed us whole, Ambrose’s eyes dropped to where our shadows met.
And in that flicker of expression, I saw something cross his face that made me wish we’d traveled separately.
Sorrow.