Chapter 10
Nadia
Ilay on my bed with the curtains open and the house making its usual, unsettling noises.
My phone was warm against my thigh because I had been scrolling for minutes and not really looking at it.
My brain kept looping back to Cristian and how he moved through the house like he owned the air, which he technically might.
He was still broody, still grumpy, and still impossibly distracting.
He had this habit of tidying danger away before I even noticed it: shifting a loose picture frame when I walked past, catching a falling glass with one hand without a word, holding me still while I bandaged a stupid paper cut.
Small things. Protective things. He acted annoyed while doing them, as if my existence was a chore.
That was a mode I could live with and also not.
I used to think bumping into furniture was just part of my life, but Cristian watched me like every movement was a tactical report, which made it a lot harder to pretend it was intentional.
I also knew something else: that tug behind my sternum.
That stupid, precise pull of the bond every time he left the room or even turned his head.
I recognized it. I had become intimate with it.
It made me want to be near him whether I liked it or not.
Part of me wanted a distraction. A temporary, controlled experiment in poor decisions. Something simple—someone simple. The kind of man who ordered pizza, said nice things, and didn’t ask deep questions.
A good fuck wouldn’t fix anything, but it might rearrange my brain long enough for me to breathe.
And technically, my therapist had said I should stop attaching guilt to pleasure.
The sticky note on my laptop said so in my handwriting, decorated with a glittery star for accountability. I decided to honor her wisdom.
I opened the dating app because that was what people did when they wanted to feel alive without making a five-year plan. And there he was. Trent. Broad shoulders, decent smile, strong casserole energy. His bio said he liked museums and bad karaoke. Promising.
I swiped right. The app chime echoed through the room.
A message came through immediately. Hey, Nadia. Drinks tonight?
I stared at the screen, chewing my lip. Couldn’t leave the house. Vampire bond. Complicated curse situation.
I typed back: Can’t go out tonight. But I make a mean cocktail, and my couch is emotionally available.
The response came fast. I like both of those things. What’s your address?
I locked my phone and took a deep breath. Okay. Operation Distraction was officially underway. Now I just had to make sure my vampire roommate didn’t ruin it.
I stood and did my ritual, a series of tiny decisions that helped me feel like I was doing a decent job of taking care of myself. I opened my therapy notebook and read three things out loud, then stuck a gold star on the page to track my progress.
I am not too much.
I choose rest without earning it.
I am allowed pleasure without guilt.
I threw on a dress—midnight blue with tiny stars stitched into the fabric—which I’d bought because it made me feel sexy and brave at the same time.
It showed just enough cleavage to say I’m open to possibilities, not please rescue me from celibacy.
Thrifted cobalt blazer for serious energy.
Combat boots because I had to keep my feet available for escape.
Crescent moon earrings. I stuck a star sticker on my phone case for good luck.
I went downstairs to give Cristian a heads-up. He was pacing in the kitchen, hands clasped behind his back, looking like a man preparing for war.
I tapped his shoulder. He turned, looked me over, and went still.
“I have a date tonight,” I said. “Casual. Nothing complicated.”
No response.
“Some guy from an app,” I continued. “Trent. I’ve never met him. He seems harmless. He likes museums and bad karaoke.”
Cristian frowned. “Are you betrothed?” His tone carried the faint conviction that betrothal might explain everything.
“No,” I snorted. “Not betrothed. Not engaged. Not promised to anyone. It’s—” I waved a hand, trying to pick the exact words that wouldn’t make him stare at me like I’d committed treason.
“It’s casual. It’s sex with a person who buys me pizza and does not ask my entire life history before dessert.
No strings, no expectations, no one trying to rebrand my personality to make me more palatable to their family or friends. ”
He crossed his arms. “A date,” he repeated, as if I’d said I was going to perform a ritual sacrifice. “You allow strange men into your dwelling to plunder you without earning your allegiance?”
I gaped at him. “It’s called casual sex, not plundering, Cristian.”
He looked genuinely pained. “The distinction is lost on me.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “If you show him your fangs, I swear to God, I will pour garlic oil into your shampoo.”
“Garlic oil in my haircare would be catastrophic,” he said, with the solemnity of someone announcing a family tragedy. Then, as if the practicalities of domestic warfare mattered more than his principles, he surprised me by asking, “Tell me the rules.”
Relief popped somewhere low in my chest. I listed them off for him.
“No murder. No biting. No interrogations. No dramatic speeches about honor. If you want to be polite, a nod will do. If you try intimidation tactics, I will throw you out on the lawn. Preferably, you just…stay out of the way somewhere.”
He inclined his head once. “I can try and obey that.”
“You won’t sabotage this?” I asked.
He tilted his head slightly. “I will not sabotage something that grants you agency,” he said, and he sounded genuine. “I only dislike feeling useless.”
“You can be not useless and not murdery at the same time,” I said quickly.
His mouth curved—not quite a smile, not quite a lie. “Of course,” he said. “I will stay out of it.”
There was a pause. The tether hummed between us.
“But,” he added softly, “if this man proves unworthy, I reserve the right to intervene.”
I groaned. “That’s literally the definition of sabotage.”
He looked pleased. “Then we understand each other.”
He went quiet for a beat, tried to smile, failed. Somehow that made it worse for my heart. I wanted to be mad at him.
Finally, he spoke, “Very well. Invite him.”
“I already did.”
“Here?”
“Yes. Here. I can’t exactly leave the premises without passing out in the street due to our bond.”
His jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. “Good.”
I leaned forward and kissed his cheek. It was automatic and thoughtless. He didn’t flinch. That was new.
Trent texted to say he was on his way. I stared at the message, then locked my phone and turned toward the fridge.
I grabbed the wine, did a quick mirror check, and whispered my affirmations under my breath: I choose rest without earning it. I choose pleasure without explanation. I am allowed to be messy. I am allowed pleasure without guilt.
I straightened my blazer and waited for the knock on the door, hopeful, yet braced for disaster.
Somewhere upstairs, the floorboards creaked in warning.
Trent was hot in that polished, gym-membership-subscriber kind of way—short hair, good posture, confident enough to call me “adorable” without flinching. Under normal circumstances, I might have been into it.
But the entire time he talked, my focus kept bouncing between his face, the hum of the tether in my chest, and the heavy footsteps pacing directly above us.
Cristian.
I smiled at Trent, pretending to listen, but another creak overhead broke my concentration.
“So yeah,” he said, laughing lightly, “my mom actually—”
Thud.
I froze.
He blinked. “Is your house... okay?”
“Totally fine,” I said too quickly. “The old wood has character. Very colonial chic.”
He chuckled politely. “Right. Just sounds like someone’s walking around up there.”
“Yeah,” I said, forcing a laugh. “That’s—uh—my pet racoon.”
“You didn’t mention a pet.”
“Didn’t I?”
“Nope.”
“Well, now I have.”
Another long creak sounded from the ceiling.
Trent tilted his head, gazing up with concern.
I smiled through my teeth.
“That doesn’t sound like a racoon,” he said uncertainly.
“He’s overweight,” I said, standing up. “And emotionally volatile. I’ll just go ask him to stop… existing so loudly. Give him a treat or something.”
“You keep an emotionally volatile raccoon?”
“Rescue situation,” I said quickly. “It’s complicated.”
He nodded. “I’ll stay here … alone, I guess.”
“Great plan.”
I headed for the stairs, every step echoing my internal scream.
I marched up the stairs like a woman readying herself for battle. By the time I reached the attic, I was seeing red. I flung open the door and hissed, “Be quiet. I’m trying to get laid.”
Cristian stood in the middle of the attic, perfectly still, as if waiting for a cue. His eyes narrowed. He didn’t say a word.
I grabbed the nearest blanket, because it was the closest thing to my hand, and threw it at him. “Unacceptable behavior.”
He caught it, unbothered. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. His glare said more than words ever could. I slammed the door, stomped back down the stairs, and took a deep breath at the landing. Therapy note number twenty- four: regulate before re-engaging.
I straightened my dress, forced a smile, and joined Trent on the couch.
“Sorry,” I said. “Racoon crisis averted.”
He grinned. “You’re cute when you panic.”
That should have been charming. It wasn’t. I tried to focus, tried to let him kiss me, but then—
Scrape.
The sound was deliberate, like someone dragging metal across the floorboards.
I froze. Trent pulled back slightly. “What was that?”
“Probably the pipes,” I said, too fast.
He laughed nervously and leaned in again. A deeper noise followed, somewhere above the vent. It sounded suspiciously like a growl.
“Okay, seriously,” Trent said, glancing around. “What the fuck is going on?”
The air in the room shifted.
Cristian appeared behind the couch, pale, shirtless, and wearing his new jeans low on his hips like he was a model in an undead Levi’s campaign. His hair was slightly tousled, his expression somewhere between regal judgment and open disdain.
“Your presence offends her dignity,” he said evenly, as if he were delivering a formal decree straight from King Charles I.
Trent froze mid-reach, still half-leaning toward me. “What the hell?” His eyes darted from Cristian to me and back. “Is this a bit? Are we doing, like, a roleplay thing? I didn’t agree to that.”
“Not a bit,” I said quickly, standing and forcing a smile that I was ninety percent sure looked feral. “This is my—uh—roommate. Cristian. He’s… foreign.”
Cristian inclined his head slightly. “Correct.”
Trent blinked. “From where? Narnia?”
Cristian ignored him completely. “He touches you as if you are furniture.”
“Oh my god,” I whispered. “Please stop talking.”
Cristian took a deliberate step closer. “Do not fret,” he said to Trent, calm as stone. “You have other talents, I’m sure. Basket weaving, perhaps. Or collecting discarded bottle caps. A modest life, but fulfilling.”
Trent stared at him. “What? Who talks like that? Are you having a stroke, man?”
Cristian turned to me, tone clipped. “He doesn’t even carry a weapon. Not even a blade.”
Trent’s voice cracked. “Why would I carry a blade? Who is this guy?”
I held up both hands, unable to speak.
Cristian tilted his head, unbothered. “Your aura is… flaccid,” he said to Trent as he eyed his groin region. “It droops with self-doubt.”
Trent’s mouth moved like a fish out of water before he said, “I’m calling the cops.”
Cristian gave a short, pitying sigh. “They, too, will pity your performance.”
Trent grabbed his jacket so fast he nearly took mine with it. “You people are insane.” He bolted for the door, muttering something about exorcists and background checks.
The silence that followed stretched long enough for my dignity to die a quiet death.
I turned slowly. Cristian was still standing there, arms crossed, perfectly composed.
“You’re proud of yourself,” I said flatly.
He nodded once. “You’re welcome.”
“You ruined my date.”
“He ruined his own date by behaving toward you the way he did,” he said calmly.
I threw a couch pillow at him. He caught it with ease.
“I’m going to need so much therapy,” I said.
Cristian set the pillow down carefully. “You already have therapy.”
“I’m going to need more.”
He looked pleased. “Good. Perhaps then you’ll realize I was right.”
“Right about what?”
He met my gaze, steady and unrepentant. “He was not worthy.”
I hated that part of me agreed with him.
I tried to storm past him, muttering every therapy mantra I could remember. None of them covered “hot vampire ruins sex life.”
By the time I reached the stairs, I was still vibrating with annoyance. The tether buzzed unhelpfully in my chest. I could feel him moving behind me, his steps slower, heavier, like he wasn’t done.
“Don’t follow me,” I said over my shoulder.
“I’m not,” he said from too close.
I turned. He was leaning against the banister, watching me with infuriating calm, eyes dark and knowing.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Yes,” he said, almost softly. “But I am consistent.”
I threw my hands up and started toward my room, needing distance that wouldn’t come. He followed anyway.
“I never would have pegged you as a cockblocker.”
When I spun to face him, he was already there. Fucking vampire speed.
“I have never blocked a cock in my life,” he said, voice lazy and smug. “If anything, I could replace it for you, and it would be spectacular.”
The heat hit my face before my brain caught up. “Oh my god.”
I tried to push past him, but he moved just enough to block my way without touching me. I hated how aware I was of the space between us. The tether hummed like it had been waiting for an excuse to tighten.
“Move,” I said.
Cristian stepped closer, close enough that I could feel his presence reach for me even without contact. The air between us shifted, full of heat and restraint. He smelled clean and warm, like the earth after rain and something older than time.
It was hard to breathe when he looked at me in that patient, unguarded way I wasn’t ready for. The bond stretched until it felt like it was part of my heartbeat.
His gaze dropped to my mouth.
For one endless moment, neither of us moved. The hall suddenly felt too small for both of us.
Then he stepped back. His face went calm again, but the calm felt forced, like it cost him something.
The space between us filled with everything we hadn’t said.
I folded my arms, trying to find my balance. “You’re infuriating.”
“Yes,” he said quietly.
I didn’t respond.