Chapter 15
Chapter
Fifteen
Iwake with the sunset, my body pulling me from dormancy the moment darkness falls.
For a moment, I don't remember where I am. The ceiling is wrong, too high, too white. The bed is too soft. The sheets smell like lavender and something antiseptic.
Then it all comes rushing back.
The alley. Six vampires emerging from shadows. The fight, brutal, desperate, knowing I was outmatched but refusing to go down easy. The bald one's hand around my throat, lifting me off my feet, the world starting to gray at the edges.
And then Maximus.
I close my eyes, and the memories sharpen.
The sound of him arriving, not footsteps, just sudden violence, the bald vampire ripped away from me so fast I didn't see it happen.
The screaming that wasn't mine. The wet, tearing sounds that I understood on some primal level without wanting to examine too closely.
Then silence. And him standing in the middle of it, surrounded by bodies, his eyes completely black and nothing human left in his expression.
For a moment, I'd been afraid of him. Truly afraid, in a way I hadn't been since I was human. This wasn't the controlled, aristocratic vampire who'd saved me in an alley or trained me in his compound. This was something savage, a predator wearing a man's skin.
Then his eyes found mine, and the blackness receded. What replaced it was almost worse, naked terror. Like he was the one who'd almost died.
I remember him lifting me. The impossible gentleness of it, cradling me against his chest like I weighed nothing, like I was something fragile and precious. His voice in my ear, rough and broken: I thought I'd lost you. I couldn't wait. I heard them surround you, and I, I've never moved that fast.
The way his hands shook while Dalton examined me. The way he wouldn't let go of my hand when they set my shoulder. The way he brushed the hair from my face with fingers that trembled, his touch so tender it made my chest ache.
And then the realization. The questions I asked that led to answers I didn't want.
You knew they might come for me tonight.
Yes.
And you sent me anyway.
I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling.
How can someone hold you like you're the most important thing in the world and also use you as bait without telling you? How can tenderness and betrayal exist in the same person, the same hands, the same voice?
I don't understand him. I'm not sure I ever will.
I sit up slowly, testing my body. The ribs that were broken last night have knitted back together, tender when I press them, but solid. My shoulder rotates smoothly, only a ghost of stiffness where the joint was dislocated. The cuts and bruises have faded to nothing.
Vampire healing. At least something about this existence is useful.
The medical wing is quiet. Through the window, I can see full darkness; night has fallen. I slept through the entire day, my body demanding the dormancy it needed to repair itself.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand. A little unsteady, but functional. Someone left clean clothes folded on the chair, my clothes, from my room. Black leggings, a soft gray sweater. Someone was thinking about my comfort.
I try not to wonder if it was him.
I'm pulling the sweater over my head when I hear footsteps in the corridor. Measured. Deliberate. I know that cadence.
Something tightens in my chest despite everything. My body hasn't caught up with my anger yet.
The door opens before I can finish dressing.
Maximus steps inside and stops dead.
I'm standing there with the sweater bunched around my shoulders, arms tangled in the fabric, wearing nothing but a bra from the waist up. For a frozen moment, neither of us moves.
His eyes drop. And stay.
I watch it happen, the way his gaze traces the line of my collarbone, slides down to the swell of my breasts against black lace, lingers on the curve of my waist, the bare skin of my stomach.
There's nothing controlled about it. Nothing measured or deliberate.
He looks at me like a man dying of thirst looks at water, like he's forgotten every rule he's ever made for himself.
His lips part. His hands curl into fists at his sides.
Then he seems to remember himself. He turns his head sharply to the side, jaw tight, a muscle feathering in his cheek.
"I should have knocked." His voice is rough. Wrecked.
"Yes. You should have."
I take my time pulling the sweater down, smoothing the fabric over my hips. I don't rush. Let him stand there, uncomfortable, not looking at me. After everything he's done, this small moment of power feels earned.
"You can turn around now."
He does, but something has shifted. The hollowness is still there, the exhaustion, but he won't meet my eyes directly. His control is back in place, but I saw what was underneath. Just for a moment.
I hate that it affects me. Hate the heat that curled through my stomach when he looked at me like that. I'm supposed to be angry.
I am angry. Both things can be true.
"You're awake," he says.
"Obviously."
He closes the door behind him and stands there, hands at his sides. Not approaching. Giving me space. Or maybe just afraid to come closer.
"How do you feel?" he asks.
"Healed. Mostly."
"Good. That's... good."
The silence stretches between us. He's the one who came here, but he doesn't seem to know what to say. I watch him struggle with it, this vampire who always has a plan, always knows the right move. Right now, he looks lost.
Part of me wants to help him. The part that remembers his face when he found me, the raw terror in his eyes, the way he whispered I thought I'd lost you like the words were being torn out of him.
The part that remembers his letters, preserved for centuries, and the grief in his voice when he talked about his men.
The part that leaned into his touch in that firelit study and wanted more.
But then I remember the rest of it.
He takes a breath. "I came to apologize."
"Did you."
"What I did was wrong. Using you as bait without telling you, without giving you the choice, it was a betrayal of your trust. I knew the risks, and I didn't warn you.
I told myself it was strategy, that your reactions needed to be genuine, that the tactical advantage outweighed…
" He stops. Shakes his head. "None of that matters. I was wrong. I'm sorry."
Something shifts in my chest. He means it. I can hear it in his voice, see it in the way he's standing, not defensive, not making excuses. Just owning what he did.
He takes a step closer. Not much, just enough that I can see the details I was trying to ignore. The tension in his jaw. The way his hands flex at his sides like he wants to reach for me, but doesn't dare. The exhaustion carved into his features, deeper than one day could account for.
"I should have told you," he says quietly. "I should have trusted you with the truth and let you decide. Instead, I made the choice for you, and you almost died because of it. I'll carry that for the rest of my existence."
I want to stay angry. Want to hold onto the betrayal like armor. But looking at him now, seeing the weight of what he's carrying, I feel something loosen in my chest.
Maybe we can get past this. Maybe.
"There's something else," he says.
The loosening stops. "What?"
"I've taken you off field operations. Until further notice."
The words don't register at first. "What?"
"No more missions outside the compound. No donor vetting, no intelligence gathering, no…"
"You benched me."
"I'm keeping you safe."
"You benched me." I tighten my hands into fists. The softening I felt moments ago hardens into something sharp and brittle. "I just proved I could hold my own against six attackers. I kept them busy long enough for backup to arrive. And your response is to sideline me?"
"My response is to make sure you're never in that position again."
"That's not your decision to make!"
"It is, actually." His voice is calm. Controlled. The voice of someone who's used to giving orders and having them followed. "I'm responsible for everyone in this compound. That includes you."
"I'm not one of your subordinates. I'm not one of your soldiers. We had a deal: I work for you, you help me find Valentina. That deal included me being useful, not being locked up like some…"
"This isn't about the deal."
"Then what is it about?"
He's quiet for a moment. He steps closer, close enough now that I can smell him, that familiar scent of whiskey and old books and something darker underneath. My body responds without my permission, awareness prickling along my skin.
When he speaks again, his voice is lower. Rougher. "I can't watch you get hurt again. I won't."
"So you're going to control what I do instead."
"I'm going to protect you."
"I didn't ask for your protection!"
"You don't have to ask. It's not optional."
The words hit me like a slap. I stare at him, this man who held me so gently last night, who looked at me like I was something precious, something worth saving. And I see it now, the thing I should have seen from the beginning.
He doesn't see me as a partner. He sees me as something to manage. Something to keep safe in a box where nothing can touch me.
Just like Valentina saw me as something to use.
Different methods. Same result. My choices taken away by someone who decided they knew better.
"Valentina turned me without my consent," I say, and my voice is shaking now. "She took my life, my future, my family, everything I had. And the one thing I had left, the only thing, was deciding what to do with my existence. Who I would be. What I would fight for."
"Celeste."