CHAPTER 13
JULIAN
Poppy falls asleep within twenty minutes of returning to the suite.
The champagne, the stress, the emotional whiplash of the evening—it catches up with her all at once. She emerges from the bathroom in pajamas, mumbles something about setting an alarm, and is unconscious before her head hits the pillow.
I should go to my room. The suite has two bedrooms—we discussed this before arriving, established boundaries, agreed on appropriate distance.
Instead, I settle into the armchair by her door.
I tell myself it’s practical. Damien is out there. Watching. Waiting. If he decides to escalate—if he moves from psychological warfare to something more direct—I need to be close enough to intervene.
That’s the logical explanation.
The truth is simpler and more pathetic: I want to watch her sleep.
Not in a predatory way—though I’m aware how that sounds, coming from a creature who has done predatory things. In a protective way. In a this-is-the-only-time-I-can-look-at-you-without-having-to-pretend-I’m-not-falling-apart kind of way.
My phone vibrates silently. A text pops up on my locked screen. It’s from the night concierge—one of three staff members at this resort who know what I am, what certain guests require.
CONCIERGE: Your delivery is outside the door, Mr. Blackthorne. As requested.
I move to the door without sound. In the hallway, a small insulated bag sits on a silver tray—the same discreet packaging LifeSource uses for medical transports. No knock. No interruption. Just efficient service for guests who value privacy above all else.
The blood is fresh. Type O negative, my preference, sourced ethically and shipped to the resort’s private refrigeration unit before we arrived.
I drink in the bathroom with the door closed, watching myself in the mirror—the monster performing necessary maintenance while the woman he loves sleeps ten feet away.
I rinse the container, seal it in the provided disposal bag, and leave it in the bathroom cabinet. Housekeeping here knows what to do with it. They’ve been trained.
When I return to the bedroom, Poppy hasn’t stirred.
Before I can enjoy this moment, I realize I should check all those other messages on my phone. There are a ton of messages from Damien, each one more pointed than the last. Four hours of surveillance, catalogued and delivered like a gift.
I scroll through them slowly, letting each one land.
Between Damien’s taunts, Marcus has been sending his own reports. Clinical. Professional. The counterpoint to Damien’s psychological warfare.
7:15 PM — DAMIEN: The blue dress was a nice choice. Did you pick it, or did she? I’ve always admired your taste in human accessories.
7:18 PM — MARCUS: Subject exited room 3047. Proceeded to terrace bar.
7:23 PM — DAMIEN: Table by the window. Romantic. Also terrible sightlines. You’re getting sloppy, old friend.
7:41 PM — DAMIEN: The mother doesn’t like you. I can tell from here. She’s smarter than she looks.
7:58 PM — DAMIEN: You keep touching her hand under the table. Sweet. Anya used to reach for you the same way.
8:12 PM — DAMIEN: Fifty years I waited after Prague. Patient. Watching you rebuild your little walls. And now here you are, tearing them down for another fragile thing.
8:22 PM — MARCUS: Subject relocated to observation point near orchid display. Remained stationary 47 minutes.
8:29 PM — DAMIEN: Does she know you haven’t fed in three days? That you’re starving yourself to seem more human for her? How romantic. How futile.
8:47 PM — DAMIEN: I met Corinne once, you know. Before the river. She was lovely. Asked too many questions about you. I didn’t have to do anything. Just answered them.
9:03 PM — DAMIEN: The sister’s room is 4012. The mother is in 4008. I mention this only as a matter of interest.
9:15 PM — MARCUS: Subject circling main building. Testing camera blind spots.
9:18 PM — DAMIEN: She’s telling a story. You’re watching her like she invented light. This is worse than I thought. This is almost too easy.
9:34 PM — DAMIEN: Margaret used to smile at you like that. Before the asylum. Before she learned what you were and it broke her mind. Some truths are too heavy for mortal shoulders.
9:51 PM — DAMIEN: I wonder which way this one will break. Will she run like Corinne? Shatter like Margaret? Or will you tell her nothing at all and watch her love a lie until it poisons her?
10:08 PM — DAMIEN: You haven’t checked your phone once. How unlike you. The Julian I knew in Vienna would have threatened me by now. Have you gone soft, old friend? Or just tired?
10:08 PM — MARCUS: Subject returned to room. No further movement.
10:24 PM — DAMIEN: A walk through the gardens. How romantic. The path by the fountain has three blind spots, if you’re curious. Not that you’re paying attention.
He watched the entire evening. Saw me hold her hand under the tablecloth. Saw me watch her tell that story about Barcelona—the one that made her whole face light up. Saw me forget, for whole minutes at a time, that I was supposed to be afraid.
Message fourteen stops me.
10:41 PM — DAMIEN: She kissed you. Under the lanterns. I could hear that strange slow rhythm from here—one beat, then nothing, then another. Not human. Not right. Did she notice? She will eventually.
My hands tighten on the armrests.
He heard it. From wherever he was hiding—the gardens, the shadows, some vantage point I should have identified and didn’t—he heard the moment Poppy pressed her lips to mine and found nothing beating beneath my ribs.
Did she notice?
Then he toys with me some more, letting me know he’s in control.
10:58 PM — DAMIEN: She’s had too much champagne. Trusting you to take care of her. The irony is exquisite.
11:09 PM — DAMIEN: I could end this tonight. You know that. But where’s the art in that? The lesson must be learned properly. Slowly. The way you learned it with Anya.
11:18 PM — DAMIEN: She sleeps deeply. Trust is beautiful. Enjoy the hours you have left with her, Julian. I’ll see you at the wedding.
I scroll through the timestamps. Every position Marcus logged corresponds to one of Damien’s messages. He was texting me from each location, marking his territory, showing me exactly how close he could get.
And Marcus caught all of it. Documented it. Built a record that might matter later, when this goes before the Council.
I don’t respond to Damien. He wants a reaction. Wants to see me spiral into the same protective panic that drove me away from her earlier tonight.
I won’t give him the satisfaction. I set the phone down, and close my eyes.
I know I should be worried about Damien and his threats; instead I replay the kiss.
The soft surprise of it. Her hands on my face, warm and certain.
The way she smiled afterward, like she’d solved something.
No hesitation. No pulling back. No flicker of confusion in her eyes.
She didn’t seem disturbed by the strange rhythm of my heart—one slow beat every few seconds, nothing like the steady thrum she’d expect.
Or if she noticed, she filed it away with all the other things she’s choosing not to ask about: The coldness of my skin.
The food I don’t eat. The sleep I don’t need.
Poppy has had trouble sleeping, but tonight… tonight she is deep asleep. I watch the steady rise and fall of her breathing—slow and peaceful and utterly oblivious to the monster in the corner.
The monster who’s trying to be something better.
The monster who is falling in love with every thing about her—even the fact that she talks in her sleep.
“The color temp is all wrong,” she murmurs at one point. “Needs to be... warmer.”
Later: “Sage, I can’t... no, that’s too many emojis. We’re not twelve.”
And, around 3 AM: “Julian.”
Just my name. Soft. Like a question she’s asking the dark.
Trust is beautiful.
Around 4 AM, she stirs. Shifts. Opens her eyes.
She gazes at me for quite some time. I wait for the fear—for the realization that a man she barely knows has been watching her sleep for hours.
It doesn’t come.
“Hey,” she says, voice rough with sleep.
“Hey.”
“You didn’t sleep.”
“I don’t sleep much.”
“You know, that’s not healthy.”
“Probably not.”
She pushes herself up onto one elbow. Her hair is tangled, her face creased from the pillow, her eyes still heavy-lidded. She’s never looked more beautiful.
“Why are you in my room, Julian?”
Because Damien is hunting, and you’re what he’ll use to hurt me.
Because I can’t protect you if I’m not close.
Because I’m terrified of what happens if I look away.
“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” I say instead. “After everything tonight. Damien appearing. Our conversation. I was worried.”
“You worried.” It’s not quite a question.
“Is that strange?”
She considers this. Then she pushes back the covers and pats the space beside her.
“If you’re going to not-sleep, you might as well do it somewhere comfortable.”
“Poppy—”
“I’m not asking you to do anything inappropriate. I’m asking you to stop sitting in a chair like a gargoyle and come lie down next to me.” She yawns. “We can establish boundaries in the morning. Right now I’m too tired to negotiate, and you clearly aren’t going anywhere.”
I should argue. The professional boundary between us calls for distance.
My body betrays me. I cross the room. Remove my shoes. Lie down beside her on top of the covers—one small barrier between us, one last attempt at propriety.
She rolls toward me. Her hand finds my chest—right where a heartbeat pulses, slow and wrong. One beat. A long pause. Another.
If she notices the absence, she doesn’t mention it.
“Julian?”
“Yes?”
“Whatever you’re scared of—whatever that man represents—we’ll figure it out.” Her voice is drowsy, already drifting. “Together. We’ll figure it out together.”
She falls asleep again. Her hand stays on my chest.
I stare at the ceiling. Count the hours until dawn. Think about all the ways this could end—all the ways it will end, because things like this always do.
But for now—just for now—I let myself have this.
Her warmth. Her trust. Her hand over the place where my heart used to beat.
The monster pretending to be a man.
The man in her bed, trying not to be a monster.
Tomorrow, Damien will make his next move, and I’ll have to decide how much to tell her. Tomorrow, everything might fall apart.
But that’s tomorrow.
Tonight, she’s safe. She’s warm. She’s here.
For now, that’s enough.
For now, it has to be.