Bonus Content
“Hey everyone!” Ira’s voice rings out bright and breathy, cutting through the quiet hum of the room.
She adjusts the phone on its stand, the soft click of plastic against wood punctuating her movements.
A strand of honey-brown hair slips free, and she tucks it behind her ear with a flourish, her smile wide and infectious as she faces the lens.
The warm glow of the desk lamp catches the gold flecks in her brown eyes, and the faint scent of her vanilla perfume mingles with the leather of the nearby armchair.
Culver stands behind her like a shadow carved from stone, his broad frame blocking the softer light from the window.
His gaze flicks to the phone, sharp and flat, as if the device itself had insulted his mother.
But the moment his eyes slide to Ira, his expression cracks, tender, almost reverent.
She looks up at him, beaming, and her fingers find his cheeks, squishing them together until his lips pucker into a mock-smile.
The warmth of her palms and the slight give of his skin beneath her touch make her giggle at the absurdity.
“Ta-da! This is my boyfriend, Culver!”
He catches her wrists gently, prying her hands away. His voice is a low rumble, rough silk against the quiet. “What do the readers want to know?”
She pouts, her bottom lip jutting out, and the sight of it sends a flutter through his inhuman chest. She spins, bending over to retrieve a crinkled paper from the floor, and Culver’s gaze drops without shame.
The curve of her ass and the way her jeans tighten make him draw in a slow breath, savoring the sight.
The air thickens with the faint musk of his cologne, cinnamon and musky, as he lets his hunger bleed into the silence.
“Finally!” She straightens, paper in hand, and bounces back to the center frame. The paper rustles as she smooths it against her thigh.
“First question,” she chirps, her voice bright but with a slight edge of breathlessness, “what is your favorite time period you’ve lived through?”
Culver’s gaze drifts upward, a low hum vibrating in his chest, a sound that Ira feels as much as hears, a subtle thrum against her shoulder blades where his presence looms. “If my attire has anything to say, I believe the late Victorian era.” He gestures vaguely at his own frame—the high-collared shirt, the dark vest hugging his torso—and the fabric rustles with the movement. “That is around the 1870s to 1890s.”
Ira’s brow furrows, her tongue darting out to moisten her lower lip as she processes.
Then a nod, crisp and satisfied. “Ohh, that makes sense. Okay.” She shakes her head, a stray strand of hair catching the light as she refocuses.
The paper crinkles again in her grip. “Second question—have you saved any of my videos from Wiggle?”
Culver’s grin widens, a flash of white and the barest metallic gleam of his fangs against the dim light. The sound of his voice is honeyed silk, low and deliberate. “Of course. I save every one of them. It is to ensure they are secured and safe, just in case.”
Ira’s breath snags in her throat. A heat blooms across her cheeks, staining them pink, as she feels the weight of his attention, a physical pressure like a hand pressed flat against her chest.
She clears her throat, the sound raspy. “A-hem. Okay, third question—do you like cuddling?”
His eyes sparkle, catching the screen’s glow, and he leans forward an inch.
The scent of him washes over her. When he speaks, his voice is almost a purr.
“Cuddling is such a human form of love, but I do admit… holding you closely, listening to your heartbeat against me, it fills me with satisfaction like no other. So, yes, I enjoy cuddling you.” His pause is soft, his tongue tracing the edge of a fang.
“But cuddling in general? I would have to say it is not a favorable activity.”
Ira’s lips thin, pressing together to stifle the warmth climbing her neck. She can feel the pulse in her throat, a frantic rhythm she knows he hears. “Fine—fifth question,” she manages, her voice slightly hoarse. "What is your biggest pet peeve?”
A silence stretches, thick as velvet. Culver’s fingers drum once on his knee, a soft, rhythmic tap before he answers.
The leather of his gloves creaks. “Before I met you, my biggest pet peeve was those who disrespected art. The classics, the history behind each beautiful piece of work.” His eyes find hers, and the intensity makes her stomach flutter.
“Now, my biggest pet peeve is when someone touches you.” He says the words slowly, savoring them.
“Oliver—that boy has touched you far too many times. But he is your friend, and I have stayed quiet. I do keep count, though.”
Ira’s mouth opens, then closes. The paper in her hand trembles.
“Listen, you and I are gonna have a talk! You hear me!” She forces the words out, a quaver she can’t hide threading through them.
A sharp inhale, then she straightens her spine, the rustle of her shirt loud in the quiet.
The faint fabric of her blouse shifts against her heated skin.
“Okay. Last question…” She lifts the paper, her fingers tightening until the edges crinkle. “Why is the professor so scared of me?”
Culver’s eyes narrow, a smirk curving his lips. “Is this a question the readers want to know, or are you just curious, my little lamb?” The endearment drips with honey and teeth.
She crumples the paper, a soft crunch, and scoffs up at him. “I only pulled from what they wanted.” Her gaze darts to the phone, then back. “So, is there a reason why he’s scared of me?”
His hand slides up, fingers threading through her hair, silken strands slipping between his knuckles while the heat of her scalp presses beneath his palm. “I threatened to end his pathetic existence if he didn’t treat you with respect. That is all.”
She squeals, a sharp, startled sound, and shakes his hand off. “You did what?! Culver, that’s so messed up on so many levels!”
“Has he treated you poorly?” He’s forgotten the camera now. His hand catches her chin, thumb pressing gently against the soft hollow beneath her jaw, tilting her face up. The leather-smooth pressure of his grip forces her to meet his gaze. “Go on, my little lamb, tell me if he has wronged you.”
Her heartbeat hammers against his palm, and he can feel it like a frantic little bird.
“No, he hasn’t! Ugh, now I need to know what happened to the employee at Golden Valor?
What happened with him?” The paper slips from her fingers, fluttering to the carpet with a whisper.
Her hands wrap around his wrist, and she rises on her tiptoes, the fabric of her shirt brushing his chest while the scent of her shampoo, magnolia and vanilla, fills his lungs.
Culver inhales, slow and deliberate, his thumb tracing the curve of her jaw. “I dealt with him accordingly.”
“Like how? Dangit, Culver, don’t beat around the bush and tell me seriously!” Her teeth grit, a stubborn fire in her eyes.
“His death was swift, Ira. He felt no pain… after the initial breakage of his wrist.” He nods, as if recollecting a fond memory, the faint crack of bone echoing in his mind.
“Oh my God! Are you serious right now? NO, wait! I don’t wanna know more; I’m gonna be sick!
” She tries to spin away, but his arm locks around her waist, yanking her back.
The heat of her body molds against his, the soft give of her curves pressing into the hard planes of his chest. A sharp gasp escapes her lips.
“What is done is done, my beautiful lamb,” he murmurs against her ear, his breath warm, the words a velvet threat.
“But now, your delectable responses are sending me into a frenzy.” His hand slides from her waist to the swell of her ass, squeezing once, possessively, before cupping her thigh and lifting it.
The denim of her jeans ruffles against his palm, and he steps between her legs, the friction of fabric and heat igniting a low, thrumming ache in his groin.
He can feel her tremble, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, and the quickening of her pulse.
“Culv, this isn’t over,” she whispers, her voice weak, melting as she leans into him.
He lowers his head, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along her lips, cool and yielding, tasting of the cherry lip balm she wears.
He trails to her cheek, then down the column of her throat, where her pulse flutters frantically and sweet beneath his tongue.
The salt of her skin and the slight sheen of sweat draws him in as he drags his teeth lightly along her pulse point, and she moans, a sound that curls low in his gut.
His eyes flick to the camera, the red light still glowing, and a slow, wicked grin spreads across his face.
The light catches the gleam of his fangs, sharp and glistening, before he opens wide and lunges for her throat.
The camera shuts off with a soft click, plunging the room into shadow, leaving only the sound of her ragged breath and his low, satisfied growl.