Chapter 7
Nadia
The doorbell chimed, bright and fake-cheerful, as if it didn’t get the memo that it lived in a haunted mansion.
I froze as I placed another sticky note. “That must be my Instacart grocery order.”
Cristian looked up from where he was intently studying one of my affirmations. “An… Instacart?”
“Yep.” I opened the door, already smiling for whoever was about to see me in watermelon pajamas and a cardigan. “Groceries delivered to your house. The greatest invention of the modern world.”
A young guy stood on the porch, earbuds in, holding his phone. He nodded toward the line of bags at his feet. “That’s all of it.”
“Perfect. Thank you so much!”
Before I could reach for the bags, Cristian appeared beside me in that unnervingly silent way of his. He looked the driver up and down, expression regal and unimpressed. “This is your servant?”
“What? No. He’s a delivery guy.”
Cristian tilted his head, frown deepening. “A low-born courier, then.”
The Instacart guy blinked. “Uh… what?”
Before I could intervene, Cristian’s eyes darkened. He moved faster than my brain could process—one second he was beside me, the next pressed close to the driver, hand at the man’s shoulder.
“Cristian!” I gasped.
He leaned in, lips at the man’s throat.
“Oh my god!” I clapped my hands over my mouth. “You can’t just—”
The driver froze, confused more than afraid, like this might be some weird modern social experiment he hadn’t agreed to. Cristian exhaled, the sound almost reverent. He drew back and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looking—God help me—satisfied.
The driver blinked, adjusted his hat, and mumbled, “I hate this fucking job,” before trudging back to his car. “I better get a huge tip for that shit.”
I stood there, paralyzed, hands in my hair. “What—what—what was that? You just bit an Instacart driver.”
Cristian looked genuinely puzzled. “He appeared sturdy. I took little. He will recover.”
“Recover? That was customer service trauma!”
Cristian straightened his shoulders, utterly unbothered as he brought the bags inside and took them to the kitchen. “I required sustenance. My hunger was unbearable. I feel much improved.”
“You can’t just snack on strangers,” I hissed, slamming the door shut before stalking off after him. “There are laws. Sanitation codes.”
Although, part of me felt bad for allowing him to be so hungry.
He moved past me, back to the living room, and walked toward the couch like a man returning from war, the faintest smirk curling his mouth. “Noted.”
He sat, leaned back, and let out a low groan of contentment. Not obscene exactly—just… deeply inconvenient.
My stomach fluttered. “Oh, for the love of therapy.”
Cristian stretched, eyes half-lidded. “He seemed amenable.”
“He was confused!”
He gave a faint shrug. “Confusion is not resistance.”
I pointed at him with my pen. “That is not a lesson you’re going to keep.”
He just closed his eyes and sighed like a man at peace for the first time in centuries.
I stood there, vibrating with fury, confusion, and a shameful amount of curiosity about what kind of groan had just come out of him. My therapist would have a field day.
Finally, I gave up, and went to pack away the groceries. “Fine. You sit there and marinate in your moral ambiguity.”
My therapist had once told me that people with ADHD struggle with something called object permanence of joy. Apparently, it meant I forgot fun existed until it accidentally smacked me in the face.
So, when I found my Summer Bucket List taped to the inside of my laptop—hidden behind a sticky note that said “Remember to eat breakfast like a functioning adult”—I decided to reclaim one small, harmless pleasure.
“Watch a rom-com,” I read aloud. “I can do that.”
Cristian looked up from where he was sitting. “A… what?”
“Romantic comedy. It’s basically joy with kissing. Consider it part of your cultural education.”
He didn’t look convinced, but followed me to the kitchen, where I planned to create a smorgasbord of snacks.
“Also, this is your punishment for biting the Instacart guy,” I added, grabbing the popcorn kernels.
“I already apologized,” he said, voice clipped.
“You wiped your mouth and said you felt ‘restored.’ That’s not the same as an apology.”
He exhaled, which I was starting to learn was his version of rolling his eyes.
Ten minutes later, I had a bowl of popcorn, a bottle of rosé, and a very large, very skeptical vampire sitting on the couch.
We’d compromised—meaning, I’d forced him to watch While You Were Sleeping.
“It’s one of my favorites,” I told him as the opening credits rolled. “Sandra Bullock is an angel, and you’re about to learn about human decency through the power of nineties cinema.”
For the first twenty minutes, he was remarkably well-behaved—stoic, curious, asking occasional questions like, “Why is that man unconscious?” and “Does she intend to wed him in this condition?”
It was almost nice. Safe, even.
But every time the heroine smiled, every time Cristian shifted beside me, my brain kept flashing back to the Instacart guy standing dazed on the porch. The casual way Cristian had fed. The sound he’d made after.
It was driving me crazy.
I paused the movie.
Cristian turned to me. “Did I offend?”
“No,” I said, picking at a loose thread on my blanket. “I just… can we talk about something?”
He looked cautious. “If you wish.”
“I’ve been thinking about earlier. About what it’s like when you… feed.”
His expression sharpened, but he didn’t interrupt.
“I saw it,” I continued. “And after seeing it—and knowing you’re full now—it doesn’t sound as terrifying as it did before. I mean, I still don’t love the idea, but…” I took a breath. “I think I’m considering letting you drink from me. Maybe.”
Cristian went very still. “You would allow it?”
“I said maybe.” I raised a hand before he could start reciting vows or something. “But first, I have questions.”
“Of course.”
“Is it going to hurt?”
He shook his head. “No. In fact, it will feel pleasant.”
I snorted. “You’re going to have to define ‘pleasant.’”
His gaze flicked to my throat, then away again. “My bite triggers a response in the prey—relaxation, euphoria. I am a predator, Nadia. My biology is designed to calm what I hunt.”
“That sounds wildly manipulative.”
“It is instinct, not deceit.”
I looked down at my hands. “Okay. Next question. Will I feel weak afterward?”
“For a moment,” he admitted. “Like standing too quickly. But I would never take enough to harm you.”
“And will your fangs leave a mark?”
“Briefly. I can heal them if you wish. No one would see.”
I chewed my lip. “Does it have to be my neck?”
He hesitated. “No. I can drink from the wrist, the shoulder, anywhere blood flows close to the surface.”
My cheeks warmed at anywhere. “Okay. And what if you lose control?”
He met my gaze evenly. “I will not.”
“That’s a pretty confident answer for someone who just drank from my delivery guy.”
He smiled faintly. “You have my word. I will not lose control with you.”
The room was quiet again.
Finally, I nodded. “All right. But only a little. Like… a snack.”
He inclined his head, solemn as a priest. “A small portion, then.”
I rolled my eyes. “God, you make it sound like charcuterie.”
He didn’t laugh. He looked at me for a long, unnerving moment—so calm, so dangerously composed.
I was curious. Because maybe it wasn’t only him who was hungry.
I fidgeted with the hem of my shorts, bouncing one knee because that was what my body did when my brain was screaming bad idea, bad idea, bad idea.
“Okay,” I said, again, trying to sound chill and failing spectacularly. “Just a little snack. No buffet behavior.”
Cristian inclined his head with that aggravating old-world grace that made him look like he’d invented manners. “You have my word.”
He looked calm. Too calm. Like a man about to sip wine, not… me. God help me, that weird confidence of his was doing something to my already scrambled brain.
“I am no longer ravenous,” he said evenly. “Since feeding from the peasant earlier, I am… tempered. But a small taste will strengthen me. It is… practical.”
“Practical,” I repeated. “Right. Nothing says ‘normal summer house-sitting experience’ like topping off your vampire roommate.”
He waited. Patient. Predictably composed.
I turned around before I could psych myself out and lifted my hair off my neck. “I’ve only seen it done this way,” I said quickly. “So—neck. Let’s do neck.”
He moved closer, the air shifting around us. His body radiated warmth—or maybe it was my nerves pretending. Either way, it scrambled every coherent thought.
“You are trembling,” he murmured.
“No,” I said too fast. “I’m vibrating with confidence.”
He gave a soft chuckle. “Your sarcasm is a thin veil for your fear.”
I glared at him from over my shoulder. “Okay, therapy with fangs is not on the menu. Just do it before I change my mind.”
His hands landed lightly on my waist. The contact sent a ridiculous jolt straight through me. Then his mouth brushed the base of my neck.
Every muscle in me went lax, like someone had flipped a switch. The sensation wasn’t sharp or cold like I’d imagined—it was heat. A slow, curling warmth that unfurled through me, down my spine, pooling low in my stomach. I wasn’t afraid. I was melting.
“Did you… bite me already?” I whispered, barely recognizing my own voice.
He made a low sound in response—more felt than heard—and my pulse stuttered.
The warmth deepened, spreading like honey. My hands twitched uselessly at my sides before one found his wrist. I didn’t even know if I was asking him to stop or holding him there.
His mouth moved again, tongue tracing lightly against my skin as if he was savoring me. The sound that left me was embarrassingly close to a whimper.
It was obscene. It was gentle. It was intimate. A kiss that understood every place I’d ever wanted to be touched but hadn’t said aloud.
“Is it supposed to feel like this?” I managed.
In answer, he made a deep, satisfied sound that rumbled against my neck and straight through my spine.
Too soon, he pulled back. Cool air replaced his mouth, and I swayed forward, my body betraying me completely.
“You done?” My voice came out rough, breathy.
“Yes.” His voice was different now—lower, thicker, threaded with something possessive. “May I heal you?”
I simply nodded because words had left the building. He leaned in again, his mouth finding the same spot, and dragged his tongue reverently over the bite.
It was tender and electric, and every inch of me reacted.
A sound escaped me—half sigh, half moan—and I slapped a hand over my mouth, mortified. “Oh my god.”
He straightened, eyes darker, lips faintly parted, and I could still feel the ghost of his mouth on my skin. The bond between us hummed, thick and heavy, and I realized I was trembling for a different reason now.
Every cell in my body was screaming yes, while my brain frantically flipped through its therapy notes for healthy coping mechanisms.
I needed to step away, take a deep breath, maybe call my therapist, or possibly fling myself into the ocean.
“Excuse me,” I said way too loudly. “I need the bathroom. Immediately.”
I bolted down the hall before he could say a word. Inside, I slammed the door, gripped the sink, and stared at my reflection. My pupils were blown, cheeks pink.
“What the hell was that?” I hissed at myself.
My pulse was still galloping. My neck looked perfectly fine—no bite marks, no hickey. There was no evidence whatsoever of the absolute emotional crime scene that was happening in my body.
“Get it together, Nadia,” I muttered, splashing water on my face. “You’re not into him. You just got… vampire-tongue drunk. Happens to the best of us. Totally normal.”
My reflection did not agree. She looked smug. Hell, she looked horny.
“Oh my god. You absolute slut.” I pointed accusingly at the mirror.
“No. We are not doing this. You are a professional. You teach children how to spell. You wear cardigans with inspirational pins. You cannot be out here catching feelings because a four-hundred-year-old vampire used his mouth powers on your neck.”
I took a deep breath. “You’re fine. You’re grounded. You’re an emotionally mature adult who just”—I gestured wildly at myself—“participated in supernatural co-regulation with light neck licking. It’s fine.”
My reflection raised one eyebrow.
I groaned. “Yeah. I don’t believe me either.”
Then I pointed at myself again for emphasis. “No touching. No feelings. No more… supernatural mouth adventures.” I paused, grimacing. “God, even saying that out loud sounds dirty.”
Somewhere down the hall, I swore I heard Cristian laugh, like he knew exactly what he’d done to me.
I flipped off the mirror and muttered, “I need a vacation from my vacation.”