Chapter 12
12
Amir
M ike’s days on this earth are numbered. By nightfall, I’m ending him. The way he hovers over my Anora is reason enough to end him right here on the spot.
But killing him in broad daylight? Even I’ll admit Anora doesn’t deserve that kind of spectacle.
She looks drained—stressed, tired, like the world’s been sitting on her shoulders for weeks. And this excuse of a man, this wasteland of a human being, is leaning over her table, making things worse.
I stand across Woodward Avenue, just outside the Detroit Library, my hands clenched into fists. The building next door hosting this craft fair is bright and inviting from the street, big windows showcasing the booths inside. A flimsy handwritten sign is plastered near the door. “Craft Fair Today!” it reads, cheerful and cheap. Yet inside, under those welcoming lights, my mate? She’s struggling.
The streets in front of us are busy, cars kicking up slush and grime. Snow piles line the curbs, icy and packed down after days of shoveling and plowing. The cold bites at my skin, and the sky above is dull, the midday light muted by heavy gray clouds.
And none of it matters—none of it. Because right now, all I can focus on is the figure sitting at a booth near the window. Anora.
She’s wearing a simple blue dress, something modest but flattering. The way it hugs her figure does terrible things to my focus, but it’s her hair that keeps me frozen. Thick, wild curls frame her face, like some queen from an old bloodline. She doesn’t have to announce her power. It’s there. Even when she’s sitting behind a table of handcrafted paintings that no one even bothers to glance at, she radiates beauty. Strength.
And yet, I can smell it even from here. Beneath that sweetness that belongs only to her, there’s fear. Frustration. Disgust.
The source? That thing . Mike. Leaning far too close. His smug posture and phony smile make my blood boil. I step toward the street, ready to end this. Now.
Before I can take another step, Andrew’s hand presses against my chest, stopping me. He moves lazily, like there’s no urgency, still chewing on his pretzel.
“You’re really going to kill him right here, in front of all these humans? How do you think she would feel?” Andrew’s tone is as uninterested as always, like murder is just some passing thought.
I glare at him, my jaw tight. “Get your hand off me.”
He ignores me, ripping off another bite of his pretzel. His fangs peek out slightly as he chews, though he’s making a point of keeping them hidden. Vampires can eat whatever they want—pretzels, fried food, even desserts—but it means nothing. The hunger for blood always lingers beneath the surface. Same as the fire in my chest. My dragon stays quiet, but it’s never gone.
Andrew swallows, finally answering me. “Why don’t you just take her? Collect your mate and get her away from these streets.” He waves toward the window with his pretzel, gesturing toward the booth where my mate sits. “You see what men like him see in her, right? She’s prime collateral. Beautiful. Energetic. Doesn’t have kids, doesn’t have anyone anchoring her down.” He pauses, then adds, “And she’s a virgin.”
That last word makes me growl low in my throat. He’s not wrong.
Andrew presses on, ignoring my anger like always. “Mike won’t be the last. He comes from a long line of desperate, entitled trash. Men like this? They’re predators. They see an opportunity, and they’ll pick her bones clean.”
I clench my jaw, watching through the window as Mike leans closer to my mate, whispering something I can’t hear. Her expression shifts, her shoulders shrinking as she tries to brush him off.
The growl becomes harder to contain.
“Your patience is thin,” Andrew remarks casually, finishing off his pretzel. “But if you kill him right now, what happens next? Hmm?”
I glance back at him, annoyed, but he holds steady. “You’re not just protecting her, Amir. You’re building something. For her. For yourself. For women like her. Overreact here, in front of all these humans, and you risk it all.”
It’s maddening because he’s right.
I glance back at the window just in time to see Anora stand up. She moves quickly, brushing past Mike without a word, her face pale with frustration. Mike grins, watching her pain like it’s a private joke made just for him.
She doesn’t go far—just outside to a bench near the building’s entrance. I watch as she sits down, her shoulders trembling, and then she wipes a tear from her cheek.
Oh no. She’s crying.
The growl inside me turns into something deeper, darker. Smoke curls from my nostrils, faint but enough to make Andrew notice. He raises a brow. “Stay calm,” he says, though his hand falls away from my chest.
The dragon inside me writhes, scales scraping against my human form, begging to be unleashed. My skin feels too tight, too confining, golden energy crackling beneath the surface. The beast wants to tear through flesh and bone, to show these humans what real power looks like. But I hold it back, barely, knowing that revealing my true form would only make things worse for her.
“You think I have this under control?” I ask him, my voice sharp but quiet. “If she’s in pain, if she’s upset—how can I not act?”
Andrew sighs, watching Anora closely. “She’s crying because no one’s bought her paintings. She’s trying to move, to get herself out of that awful apartment. She thought this, this fair, would help.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, frustration burning in my chest. “We’ve given her money. Twice. She refuses to leave.”
“She won’t,” Andrew says simply. “Not until she feels like it’s on her terms. That elderly woman? She’s tied to her. Every penny she gets goes toward taking care of her.” He pauses, his tone quiet. “She won’t put herself first. She’s noble, Amir. Too noble.”
“She’s a queen,” I mutter. “But this timing is infuriating. ”
Andrew glances back at me, his voice dipping into something more serious. “That’s not all of it. You’ve noticed, haven’t you? She’s like every other woman of her kind—trying, fighting, failing, because the system is stacked against her. They didn’t buy from her because she’s Black.”
I clench my fists tighter, feeling the heat under my skin rise.
“I don’t understand these humans,” I mutter under my breath. “Melanin is the blueprint, the constant. It’s infinite. They’ll be gone, and she’ll still be here.”
I’ve watched civilizations rise and fall, seen empires crumble under their own prejudices. These humans, with their petty hatred and artificial hierarchies—nothing but a blink in time. My Anora carries the blood of queens in her veins, magic older than their greatest cities. Their ignorance would be laughable if it didn’t hurt her so deeply.
Andrew groans. “That’s great. Philosophical speeches can wait. The fact is, we can’t burn down the building over this.”
I turn sharply to him. “I’m going inside—and I’m buying her paintings.”
Andrew gestures toward the door with a flick of his hand. “Did you catch the sign? No supernaturals allowed .”
I laugh, my grin sharp. “Segregation? Cute. But either I buy her paintings, or I burn the building to the ground. Your choice.”
Andrew curses under his breath, wiping his face. “Fine. You’ll just love the extra attention you’ll bring, won’t you?”
I clap him on the shoulder. “Great! I knew you’d see reason, grandson.”
His head snaps up, and he glares at me. “Stop fucking calling me that.”
I chuckle as I step over the snowbank and onto the street. Nothing will stop me from getting to her now .
Calling him my grandson might annoy him, but let’s be honest—it’s the truth. And getting him rattled? That’s just a bonus.
Andrew walks behind me, his movements stiff, his eyes darting to every corner, every person, constantly on edge. The way he’s so uneasy irritates me. I don’t get it. There’s nothing to worry about. These are mere humans. If something happened, I’d handle it before they could even blink.
Yet Andrew keeps glancing over his shoulder like he’s expecting us to be jumped. His paranoia is as loud as the crunch of snow beneath our shoes. It’s unnecessary.
We approach the entrance. I’m seconds away from using my magic to open the door when Andrew steps ahead, grabbing the handle and holding it open for me. He’s nervous, and it’s obvious—from the way his shoulders are stiff to the way his foot taps against the ground impatiently.
I roll my eyes at his theatrics but step inside without a word.
As soon as I enter, I regret it. The air hits me hard—thick and overwhelming. My nose wrinkles, and my ears twitch as I take it all in. The scent of the humans is everywhere, pressing against me. It’s worse than the nightclubs Andrew drags me to.
In the nightclubs, it’s tolerable. You mostly smell lust and sweat, the animalistic needs of humans only heightened by alcohol and music. Here? It’s chaos. Scents of processed foods, obnoxious perfumes, soaps, dirt, oils—all of it clings to their skin, to their clothes, even their hair. Some carry the scent of domestic animals too, their supposed “companions” that they keep locked indoors yet pamper endlessly. The combination is disgusting, suffocating.
The craft fair itself is bright and neatly decorated. Long folding tables line the room, dressed in cheap covers, each stacked with handmade goods. Some vendors have signs propped up, flashing smiles as they chat with patrons. The smell of clay, fabric, and paint lingers faintly beneath the human scents.
But my attention isn’t on the colorful displays or the crowd laughing and hovering over the tables. No. It goes to her.
Anora’s booth sits near the middle, painfully empty, free of patrons. No one has even glanced her way. She sits behind the table, her leg bouncing nervously under it. Her lips are pressed into a hard line, and with her stiff shoulders and the faint tremble of her fingers, I know exactly what’s on her mind. She wants to leave.
Her scent tells me the rest. Humiliation, frustration, sadness—but still, she keeps on a brave face, sitting there like she hasn’t noticed the way no one’s giving her or her breathtaking art a shred of attention. Watching her pretend not to care makes my already short patience run out.
I glance at Andrew as we step fully inside. There’s no missing us among these humans. Andrew’s pale skin practically glows in the harsh fluorescent lighting, his sharp jawline and piercing eyes giving him away immediately. Then there’s me—my pointed ears and golden eyes always draw stares. Humans glance at us from the corners of their vision, uneasy, like we’ve stepped into the wrong building. They don’t want us here.
That’s fine. I don’t care what they think. My only concern is my mate.
My eyes shift to Mike, standing a few feet away from Anora’s table. He’s leaning against the wall, smirking at something on his phone as if her silent suffering is entertaining. Then, with barely a glance back at her, he shoves his phone in his pocket and walks off, leaving her to sulk alone.
I want him dead. Right here, right now.
Andrew leans closer to me, his voice low. “We need to make this quick, Amir, before anyone starts a scene.”
I smirk and glance at him. “I know there are radicals here, Andrew. I don’t care.” I flash him a wink and make my way toward Anora’s booth.
Her table is neat, her paintings propped up carefully. The colors stand out even under the dull, artificial lights of this building. I scan each piece slowly as I approach, my sharp eyes catching every stroke, every deliberate detail she’s worked into them.
Their beauty is undeniable. The way light reflects off the layers makes them seem alive, as though they’re breathing pieces of her soul. Her color choices are bold but elegant, striking in ways most humans couldn’t begin to understand. She’s talented—staggeringly so.
The faint trace of her scent clings to the pieces, stirring something possessive in me. The thought of anyone else touching them, of her work falling into hands that don’t appreciate it, sends a jolt of jealousy straight through me.
“Your work is beautiful,” I tell her, my voice quieter than usual. For Anora, I soften. “The way you’ve captured light, the energy in each stroke—it takes skill. And patience. I see both here… and heart.” My fingers hover over one piece, the rich blues blending with earthy tones. “This one—it’s elegant. Timeless.”
Her head darts up at my words, and her wide, dark eyes lock on mine. She freezes, her mouth parting slightly as if she can’t quite believe what’s happening. She looks like a deer caught in headlights, her breathing uneven .
I smile at her, tilting my head slightly to meet her gaze fully.
“You’re—you’re real,” she whispers, her voice shaky. Her lips hang open as though she wants to say more but doesn’t know how.
I nearly reach across the table to gently close her mouth for her, but I hold back, giving her space. Instead, I chuckle softly, letting my smile deepen as I let her process what’s in front of her.
“Yes, Anora,” I murmur, my tone calm but sure. “I’m very real.”
Her scent shifts, surprise and recognition blooming like spring flowers. My enhanced senses pick up everything—the quickening of her pulse, the slight catch in her breath, the way her pupils widen as she takes me in. My beast purrs in satisfaction. Finally, after all this time watching from the shadows, she sees me. Really sees me. And the look in her eyes isn’t fear—it’s wonder.