Chapter Ten
Sage
"I have a bus ticket for tomorrow morning," I tell Kayden as we step back into the house. "So I'll only stay one more night."
All I get in response is a grunt, something noncommittal, borderline annoyed.
"I'm serious," I insist, stepping in front of him to catch his gaze.
But he doesn't answer. He grabs me by the waist mid-motion, turns me smoothly, and guides me toward the sofa—gentle, practiced, a kind of soft manhandling that shouldn't feel as good as it does.
I don't resist. The moment I sink into the cushions, the crackle of the fire warms me from the outside, and his closeness… from somewhere else entirely.
A glass appears in my hand. Scotch, double pour.
I should refuse. I should say something biting or distant. But the truth is, I need it. Not because I'm shaken—I've been through worse. But the fight left a lingering tension in my muscles, and I just walked back into the den of predators. Voluntarily.
I sip. The burn helps.
Across from me, Kayden raises his glass. He lifts it like nothing's wrong, but I see the wince. Barely there, but enough.
He's still got the bullet in him, and he's trying to pretend it's nothing.
"Let me help," I say quietly. "Take it out before it festers."
"It's fine. It'll work its way out. Eventually." He waves me off.
Another wince, another gulp of scotch.
"Why do you have to be so stubborn?" I mutter, crossing my arms.
He laughs. A real one this time. "Look who's talking," he throws back, eyes narrowing slightly. Amused, not angry.
Okay, fair.
I breathe out through my nose, shaking my head. "You saved me," I say, softer now. "You earned your hero star. So can you let the damsel repay the favor without turning it into a pissing contest?"
His smirk shifts, something almost fond flickering behind it.
"All right," he concedes, voice low. He nods toward the side cabinet. "Bottom drawer. Bandages and whatever shiny tools Asher left in case I get myself impaled again."
I gather what I need from the drawer and walk back over. Kayden half sits on the counter, nursing his drink, watching me with that maddening smirk of his.
"I need to…" I gesture vaguely toward his shirt.
He gives a slow nod, undoes the buttons, and shrugs off one sleeve. The motion is casual, unbothered, but the sight it reveals is anything but. His chest is all lean muscle carved to perfection, his shoulder still oozing where the bullet struck.
During my training with Darius, I studied vampire biology.
Real vampire biology. Not the nonsense from myths or movies.
They bleed, they breathe, they feel. Their organs function, but it's mimicry—just enough to pass.
Their bodies don't produce life, they feed on it.
Without a steady supply of blood, the whole illusion starts to crack.
Death imitating life is always imperfect.
What always puzzled me, though, was the pain. Why would a creature built on death and predation still feel it?
I focus on that thought, because it's easier than thinking about the proximity of his body to mine, the warmth of his skin, or the way his scent curls around my senses. It drags memories of last night right to the surface, no matter how much I try not to remember.
I dab the wound with alcohol as he takes a long sip of his drink, jaw clenched.
"This'll sting," I warn, grabbing the tweezers.
"Be my… ugh… guest," he grunts as I press in.
The bullet's deep. I have to go in twice before I catch it with the tip and yank it free. It hits the bottom of an empty glass with a metallic clink.
"Got it," I murmur, reaching for the bandages.
"You don't need to fuss," Kayden says as I start wrapping his shoulder. "It'll close soon enough."
"Better than bleeding all over my furniture. Again."
The voice makes me look back sharply.
Asher.
He stands across the room bare-chested, gray sweatpants slung low on his hips, a towel over one shoulder.
His hair is still damp from the shower, tousled in a way that should look careless but somehow doesn't. Dog tags glint against his chest—a chest built not in a gym but on a battlefield.
He looks like a man who wakes up expecting to go to war.
Not just a soldier, but a leader. He radiates authority the way some men wear cologne.
I catch myself staring, so I blurt, "I'm back," just to say something, even if it's dumb.
He gives a single nod. "I can see that."
"You don't look surprised," I add, narrowing my eyes.
"It was one of the possible outcomes," he replies with maddening calm. "I knew my brother wouldn't resist the urge to follow you. So unless you left town immediately, your return was a probability."
Cold, calculated. Like I'm a chess piece moving along a predicted path. I press my lips together, irritation sparking low in my chest. I turn back to Kayden and finish bandaging his shoulder with sharper fingers than necessary.
"I'll be out of your hair tomorrow. I have a bus ticket," I announce, like it's some kind of protection spell.
Neither of them reacts.
"Who shot at you?" Asher asks instead.
"Some drugged-up dirtbags wanted to get chatty with our nymph here," Kayden answers with a smirk, casually shrugging off the remains of his torn shirt and tossing it aside like it's nothing.
Now they're both shirtless. Fantastic.
I sink onto the couch, clutching my drink a little too tightly. I try not to look, but my eyes keep betraying me, darting over without permission, cataloging details like I'm under some kind of test.
Standing side by side, I can finally take them in without high-alert adrenaline clouding my vision. The resemblance is there: strong jawlines, the same sharp lines around their eyes, dark hair almost identical in shade. But that's where it splits.
Kayden is all lean muscle and fluid menace, the type of beauty that belongs in shadows. Every part of him feels like a provocation. He moves like he was born to be dangerous. And those eyes, deep brown, almost black, pull you in like quicksand, sharp with amusement or hunger, or both.
Asher's built differently. Broader. The weight of command clings to him, even barefoot in sweatpants.
His body says discipline, push-ups at dawn, control in all things.
His eyes, though, light brown, almost amber in this light, don't give anything away.
They're softer in color, but not in meaning.
Watching, measuring. Always calculating.
One is fire. The other is steel.
"Were they affected by your allure?" Asher asks me.
"I don't think those guys needed allure to decide to prey on a lone woman," I say, my voice flat. "They were the kind who would've harassed a lamppost if it had legs."
"Well, now they won't bother anyone," Kayden replies, a slow grin curling on his lips, his eyes darkening with that familiar edge, like he's reliving the kill and savoring it.
"Did you get rid of the bodies?" Asher asks, cool and direct.
Kayden huffs. "Yeah, between getting shot and playing knight in bloodstained armor, I also found time to clean up after myself."
Asher exhales through his nose. Wordless judgment. Then he heads toward the side table to retrieve his phone.
Kayden rolls his eyes so hard it's a miracle they stay in his skull. The whole interaction is so clearly older-brother-disappointed, younger-brother-defensive that despite everything, I almost laugh. It's weirdly domestic. If you ignore the vampire part.
Asher's fingers fly over the screen, tapping out a message while asking Kayden for a few details—where it happened, how many, any witnesses. He's focused, precise. Meanwhile, Kayden lounges like he's waiting for a party to start.
They're similar and, at the same time, nothing alike.
Kayden is wild heat, always on the verge of doing something reckless or inappropriate, while Asher is the kind of man who seems to expect not only people, but entire situations, to fall in line. Control radiates from him like a field of energy.
Except when it comes to Kayden. I guess that's the one variable even a war-hardened commander can't manage.
"Maybe you should try turning off that allure of yours," Kayden drawls suddenly, swirling the scotch in his glass.
"Might help you stop attracting every sleazebag from here to the coast. I get it won't stop every idiot, but if you're trying to be lowkey, maybe the walking magical sex-beacon vibe isn't the move. "
I sigh and shoot him a look. "I can't control it.
Not fully. It takes training and focus. Even born-nymphs older than me can't always manage it.
And we're not exactly built for this." I gesture vaguely.
"Walking through cities. Staying in shady motels.
Hiding out in bus stations. That's not what our kind was meant for. "
Kayden flashes a grin, letting his eyes do a slow sweep of me. "Nah. You were made to bounce around naked in sun-drenched meadows, right?"
I roll my eyes. "Sure. With flowers in my hair and deer at my heels."
He chuckles, but his gaze lingers. There's heat there, but curiosity too.
"So how does it work on other supernaturals? Like us?" he asks, voice dipping low. "Is that the reason I haven't snapped your neck yet?"
I narrow my eyes at him, meeting the challenge in his tone.
"I don't know. That's a mystery," I answer, cool and pointed, before adding more seriously, "The effect depends.
Some supernaturals are more sensitive to it.
Usually, the older they are, the less it works.
And it's not like vampire influence—it doesn't control anyone.
It's more like… a nudge. A predisposition.
It makes people notice me. Like me. But only if the rest of me doesn't give them a reason not to. "
"So no," I add, my voice sharp, "it's not the reason you haven't snapped my neck yet."
That earns me another slow grin. This one's darker.