Chapter 11
Nadia
I’d been avoiding Cristian for three whole days.
He’d ruined my date, and I was punishing him. Like a fucking adult.
Three days was a personal record considering we lived in the same house and shared an emotional Wi-Fi connection that refused to disconnect. Every time the bond tugged at my chest, I ignored it. Pettily. Deliberately.
I repeated my affirmations as if performing an exorcism.
I am not too much. I am me. I choose rest without earning it. I do not go on a spiral about men who ruin my sex life out of misplaced chivalry.
That last one wasn’t in my therapy notes, but it deserved a place there.
Cristian, of course, seemed entirely unaffected by my silent treatment.
He moved through the house with all the calm in the world, like being emotionally iced out was part of his daily routine.
Like he’d made the right decision. That only made me angrier.
And also, annoyingly, it impressed me a little.
He’d stolen my date, a potential orgasm, and apparently, the upper hand.
But I was committed. I was going to ignore him until he cracked.
Or at least for the next five minutes. I hadn’t decided which one.
I’d spent the morning doing everything except existing near him. My plants had been watered twice. My lesson plans were outlined through next semester. I had pinned seventeen different crochet animal patterns on Pinterest, and none of them were emotionally unavailable vampires.
I was doing great.
All I needed was a hair tie. A totally normal, non-vampire-related hair tie. The one I’d left in the main bathroom.
Wearing my lavender T-shirt dress, oversized cardigan, and slippers, I padded down the hall, proud of how mundane my day was. I was choosing rest. Or boredom.
I pushed the bathroom door open without thinking—
And immediately regretted everything.
Cristian stepped out of the shower, steam curling around him. He was toweling his hair, water running in slow rivulets down his chest.
His completely naked chest.
Broad shoulders. Hard lines of muscle. Water sliding lower than my dignity. My brain identified the sharp cut of his hips as sex bones before I could stop it.
This wasn’t even the first time I had seen him naked, and I was still mesmerized. My brain had apparently tried to suppress just how sexy he really was.
He froze mid-motion, then made a low sound in his chest. Not angry. Not exactly human either. His eyes locked on mine, and his expression dared me to look away. And I really, really should have.
“If I’d known you planned to join me, I would have tarried longer.”
My mouth opened, but no words came out.
My face burned. My whole body felt like a blush with limbs.
I tried to look away, but my gaze did a traitorous sweep of his chest, abs, the trail of hair leading south, the sheer confidence of a man with no concept of shame.
Do not look. Don’t—God, you looked.
I finally turned my head, but it was too late. His mouth curved just enough to tell me he’d seen it, and he didn’t move to cover himself. If anything, he stood a little taller. Which was cruel. Dickhead.
“This isn’t—I didn’t know you were…” I gestured vaguely toward the general area of his nakedness. “Showering. Bathing. Whatever your century called it.”
He tilted his head slightly. “In my century, we called it privacy.”
“Right. Okay. Love that for you.” I nodded too many times. “Fantastic. Great talk.”
I spun to leave, and my slipper caught on the corner of the vanity.
I tripped forward with a squeak, bracing for impact, but he caught me before I hit the floor.
Every nerve in my body short-circuited. The bond stirred in quiet satisfaction, content in a way that made my pulse stumble.
“Careful,” he said softly. Tenderly, even.
I looked up. He was close enough that droplets from his hair brushed my forehead. My face felt hot, my heart absolutely feral.
“Fucking klutz,” I muttered.
His brow furrowed, the faintest crease of disapproval. He lifted one hand and brushed a strand of hair from my cheek with slow precision. “Do not speak that way about yourself.”
I blinked. “What?”
“You are not clumsy,” he said. “Your mind moves faster than your body allows. You see it as a flaw, but it is proof of brilliance.”
My throat went tight. No one had ever said something like that to me before—certainly not while naked and glistening.
He didn’t seem to notice the turmoil he’d just unleashed. He simply put his hands on my waist and set me back on my feet like I weighed nothing.
His palms lingered just long enough for my heart to start doing cartwheels in my chest.
“There,” he said quietly, steadying me. “Better?”
“Right. Yep. Standing. Great job, me.” I stepped back, tripped again from pure muscle memory, and stammered, “Sorry. My bad. Continue… existing.”
I fled, because staying there another second was dangerous. And that danger had nothing to do with vampires. I practically ran down the hall, slammed my bedroom door, and leaned against it like the house might collapse.
My face was on fire.
You did not just ogle your vampire roommate. You are a grown woman with degrees and student debt. Get it together.
Somewhere down the hall, I heard Cristian chuckling.
The tether pulsed, as if it too was amused.
I buried my head in my hands. “I need to see my therapist.”
I was multitasking in the least productive way possible: watching RuPaul’s Drag Race reruns, eating chips out of the bag, and googling how to suppress attraction to undead men.
The results were not encouraging. The internet said my options were holy water or therapy. I’d already done therapy, and was out of holy water. Should’ve kept Lena’s stash.
Cristian sat on the other end of the couch, flipping through a magazine he’d found in the mail basket. He was muttering under his breath about “decadent nonsense” and “why does one need fifty-seven pages about moisturizers?”
“Because hydration is important,” I said without looking up.
He made a noncommittal sound.
My therapy notebook rested in my lap, open to a page of reminders I was trying to absorb.
Protect your energy, like you protect your students.
You are not responsible for other adults feeling uncomfortable around joy.
Next to that last one, I scribbled: even undead adults. Even though I knew my energy always felt safest when I was close to Cristian. My energy was a backstabbing bitch.
Cristian glanced over at the notebook. “You write spells?”
“Affirmations,” I said. “For mental health. Remember?”
He nodded, as if he were making peace with the difference.
I sighed and looked down at the page again. “I’m practicing not editing myself for people who don’t like me anyway.”
He gave a slow nod. “A wise practice.”
No lecture. No teasing. Nothing but quiet understanding. It threw me off balance a little.
Before I could say something weird and awkward, the front door opened.
Lena burst in holding a box of wine and a tote bag. “Ladies and gentlemen—undead gentleman—we’re having a sleepover!”
Cristian looked up. “Sleep… over what?”
“Not what, who,” Lena said, setting down her bag. “Evening, Fang Boy. You still brooding, or have you learned how to smile yet?”
I made a strangled noise. “Lena!”
She ignored me, pulling bottles of polish out of the bag like ammunition. “You, sir, are about to experience the cultural milestone that is a girls’ night in.”
“I see,” Cristian said slowly. “And is survival expected?”
“That depends on your attitude,” she said cheerfully.
By the time we had music playing, snacks set out, and wine poured, Cristian was sitting in the middle of the living room like someone awaiting trial.
Lena patted the couch. “Feet, please.”
“Pardon?”
“We’re painting your nails,” she said.
“That seems unnecessary.”
“So were neck ruffles, but can you say you never wore them?” Lena shot back.
Cristian: zero. Lena: eternal champion.
He hesitated, then—probably from sheer curiosity—placed his feet on the couch.
Lena got to work as I took a healthy gulp of my wine. “You have excellent nail beds,” she said. “Do vampires use cuticle oil?”
Cristian looked personally offended. “I am not aware of my nail beds.”
“That’s tragic. Everyone should be aware of their nail beds.”
I was laughing so hard I nearly spilled my wine. By the time she finished, Cristian’s toenails were glossy red, and he regarded them as if weighing the cost of survival.
“Magnificent,” Lena declared. “You’re a new man.”
Cristian muttered something that sounded like a prayer for death.
Lena was a nurse, and on call, so she was drinking soda. I poured myself more rosé, and Cristian, ever the martyr, agreed to a glass just so he could complain that it was a deeply disappointing beverage.
Lena rolled her eyes. “And yet you keep drinking it.”
He muttered something about the mediocrity of modern winemaking and kept sipping.
While I tried to decide between a movie or sleep, Lena started snooping. She scanned shelves and poked through drawers as if she was casing the place.
“Lena,” I warned. “No snooping.”
She ignored me completely.
I was about to suggest a movie when she gasped loud enough to startle Cristian. He’d been flipping through an old atlas, looking deeply insulted by the concept of Australia.
“What did you find now?” I asked.
She stood at the far bookshelf, grinning mischievously. “A Ouija board. Hell yes. Let’s talk to the ghosts. It’s Boston. There’s at least one pissed-off Puritan in here.”
“No.” I pointed my glass at her. “Absolutely not. I don’t do ghosts. I live with enough paranormal already.”
She ignored me, of course, and took candles off the mantle. “Come on, you love this creepy aesthetic. You live in a haunted mansion. You basically invited this moment.”
Cristian straightened in his chair, expression darkening. “You would summon the dead for amusement?”
Lena turned, eyes wide. “Whoa. I forgot Count Passive-Agressula was still here.”
Cristian’s jaw tightened. “Do not mock what you do not understand.”