Chapter 5 #2
They shared another glance. A simple, practiced movement that told me I had been weighed and found lacking.
I kept my smile steady. I kept standing there, like I still belonged in the room. I kept hoping if I held my ground, the tension would ease. It never did.
One of them let out a small laugh, not even bothering to hide it.
That was the moment I chose the door.
And the worst part was not this single interaction. It was knowing this was only one of dozens just like it. Days of quiet exclusion. Weeks of forced politeness. Months of being treated as an outsider no matter how hard I tried.
A slow pattern that wore me down until I could not recognize myself.
The memory loosened its grip, and the kitchen settled around me again. Cristian had gone still. His focus rested on me with a level of attention that made my throat tighten for a different reason.
“Are you all right?” His voice was low, careful. He watched me like he was ready to step closer if I gave him the slightest signal.
I straightened. “I’m fine. Just hungry.”
It came out too fast. He noticed, but he let it go. The concern in his eyes stayed anyway, steady and patient.
My stomach growled, reminding me that I never actually ate the cereal I made this morning. I forced a breath and reached for something safe. “Okay, breakfast. Maybe carbs will fix the whole cursed-bond thing.”
“That’s not how that works.”
I rolled my eyes and opened the fridge. Eggs. Butter. Vanilla. Perfect. “I’m making French toast.”
Cristian’s expression darkened. “I want nothing affiliated with the French.”
I shut the fridge door slowly. “You’re holding a four-hundred-year grudge?”
“Some betrayals never age,” he said, deadpan.
I snorted. “You need to relax.”
“My spine has not relaxed since 1650.”
I blinked. He wasn’t joking. But I laughed anyway. “You’re handling this weirdly well,” I said. So much better than me.
“Panic is inefficient.”
“Sure,” I said, cracking eggs into a bowl. “Tell that to my nervous system.”
He leaned one hip against the counter, watching every movement like I was demonstrating fire for the first time. “How does this machinery produce heat without flame?”
“Electricity,” I said, whisking the eggs. “Don’t touch it.”
He didn’t move.
“When are you from, exactly?”
“Fifteen-ninety-seven,” he said. “I was turned into a vampire in my early thirties.”
The words fell out of me before I could stop them. “How did it feel? Being turned into a vampire?”
He tilted his head. “Have you never met one before?”
“I’ve heard of them,” I said, dipping bread into the egg mixture. “They’re rare now. Big taboo about turning humans. Very frowned upon. Lots of paperwork, probably.”
“I did not choose it,” he said. “It happened during the ‘Thirty Years’ War. I was a soldier. I did not want that life of chaos, smoke, and bodies littering the ground. I did not want the one that came after it either.”
I paused, bread dripping back into the bowl. “Someone forced it on you.”
“Yes. I don’t even know who, but they turned my brother and myself at the same time.”
His voice remained even, but something heavier moved under the surface. Loss, maybe. Barely restrained anger. I could feel there was more to it, but pushing would have been cruel.
He continued, “The process is simple. The vampire drains the human to the brink of death. Then, before the body fails, the vampire feeds them their blood. Without both steps, the transformation is incomplete. Timing is everything.”
He said it like he was explaining anatomy, not horror.
“Right,” I said faintly. “Fun breakfast chat.”
He nodded, serious as ever.
“So… the bond,” I said, trying to change the subject and also because I was bonded to a freaking vampire and would like to resolve that ASAP, thank you very much. “What exactly is it? Why do I feel like someone’s puppeteering my insides whenever I think about leaving?”
“It is a stasis bond,” he said. “A result of the curse placed upon me when I was put to sleep. Whoever wakes a vampire from stasis becomes bound to them. Permanently.”
My stomach dropped. “So, this happens often? Vampires getting… napped?”
He almost smiled. “A cliché, you might say. Vampires are difficult to kill. Stasis is the next best thing for those who want them out of the picture.”
“So, what does this mean for me?”
“I’m not sure.” His tone was measured, as if he’d spent centuries sanding the edges off his emotions. “It is said to be a gift, not a curse.”
“A gift,” I repeated flatly. “Yeah, that’s what everyone says right before they ruin your life.”
His brow rose, elegant and faintly judgmental. “You seem distraught.”
“Distraught?” I huffed out a laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”
“If that is meant to be derogatory, I am still glad you woke me,” he said, voice softer but no less steady. “Though I understand your wariness at being attached to someone you had no intention of being attached to.”
“Yeah, well, I never should’ve read those damn Latin words aloud.” I sighed. “Fuck my life.”
He frowned faintly. “That phrase… you wish harm upon yourself?”
“What? No. It’s just—never mind.”
His eyes remained curious.
I blinked at him. “You’re impossible.”
A small pause. “So I’ve been told.”
I turned back to the stove, because looking at him too long made my chest feel unreasonably tight. “Do you want some French toast or not? Wait—can vampires even eat?”
“We can.” He moved closer, his voice low and even. “It is unnecessary. But pleasant. A way to socialize.” His nostrils flared slightly. “And the foreign toast smells… appealing.”
“Foreign toast,” I muttered, flipping a slice.
He stood beside me—too close again. Close enough that I could feel his body heat and that stupid tether thrumming under my skin, smoothing my pulse instead of spiking it. I couldn’t tell if he was smelling the toast or me, and I didn’t want to know which would be worse.
I cleared my throat. “Okay. Distraction. Since we’re apparently stuck together for eternity, let’s get to know each other. Five questions. No jokes allowed.”
He eyed the timer I spun to five minutes like it might explode. “Define ‘joke.’”
“Anything that makes me laugh. Ready?”
He looked displeased at that, but he stepped closer again—not touching, but close enough that my brain stalled. “Proceed.”
“First clear memory?”
“Steel and smoke. I was ten.”
I nodded, swallowing. “Mine’s my mom’s ugly, orange, thrift-store couch. But it was safe.”
He considered this, then asked, “What do you collect?”
“Mugs.”
“Secrets.”
The air thickened between us.
“What do you hate that everyone loves?” I asked.
“Monuments.”
“Why?”
“Stone that praises dead men,” he said. “Feed the living instead.”
I blinked. “That’s… unexpectedly deep.”
His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile—just a glint, the kind that could ruin a girl if she wasn’t careful. “Your turn.”
“Networking.”
He tilted his head. “Explain.”
“Ugh. It’s when adults pretend to like each other for professional gain. Lots of fake smiling. Small talk. My personal hell.”
He nodded once, like that explained the downfall of civilization. “Ah. So… strategic deceit.”
“Exactly.”
“What calms you?” he asked.
“Grading with tea.”
“Freedom,” he said simply, straightening the salt cellar by half an inch.
Something in my chest went still.
“What do you want during your holiday that’s actually possible?” he asked after a moment.
I hesitated. “Rest.”
He looked at me for a long moment. “A plan.”
The timer ticked between us, sharp and loud. Neither of us moved.
My hands trembled, so I flipped the toast just to have something to do. “Well,” I said lightly, “this should be an interesting summer.”
He watched me, eyes half-shadowed. “It already is.”
For a beat, neither of us spoke. The kitchen felt too small for two people who barely understood each other but were somehow stitched together by invisible thread. I could feel the tether hum beneath my skin. It was damn inconvenient.
I took a long sip of coffee, needing the distraction. The caffeine didn’t help much. I needed something practical, something that made me feel like I was steering the madness instead of being dragged behind it.
Which is how, fifteen minutes later, I found myself pacing in front of him with a dry-erase marker and a mission.
“All right,” I said, crossing the room. “If we’re going to be stuck together until we figure out how to break the bond, we need boundaries.”
He looked up at me quizzically. “Boundaries?” he repeated, suspicious.
“Exactly.” I grabbed my work bag from the counter and fished out my mini whiteboard—my go-to teaching tool and now my vampire management system.
He watched me curiously. I set the board down and started writing. “Rule number one: You cannot bite me.”
Then, because he’d just woken up from a centuries-long nap, I added a helpful visual: a stick figure with fangs lunging at another stick figure, and a giant red X through it.
“Do. Not. Fucking. Bite. Me,” I said, tapping the drawing with the marker.
Cristian’s gaze moved from the board to my face. Slowly. Deliberately. “You do know I can read, correct? I am not a peasant.”
I glanced down at his naked body, his groin area covered by a measly dish towel I had lying on the counter. “You’re sure about that? Do you not know what pants are?”
He looked down at himself, completely unbothered. “I am enjoying the freedom.”
“Not anymore, you’re not.” I snatched a throw blanket from the couch and tossed it at him. “Cover yourself more. This isn’t a nude beach.”
He caught it easily, letting it fall across his lap and drape over his legs like a toga. “This is absurd.”
“Welcome to the twenty-first century.”
He gave me that flat, unimpressed look that made me want to throw something. “Your rule is unreasonable.”
I looked him over—because I’m human and weak and he was… a lot. Sharp lines, cut chest, veins like a classical sculpture.
Focus, Nadia, you slut.