CHAPTER 21 #2
He stops walking, the sudden stillness of it enough to make me take a half step back, instinctively preparing for what might come next.
He looks over his shoulder, raking his gaze over me.
“Anonymity protects both parties. Bloodmaids come and go from our territory regularly. It’s safer if they can’t identify us.
Should they get caught or questioned, they won’t be able to give away more than necessary.
” His fingers trace the edge of his mask as he turns to face me fully, slow and methodical, like he’s handling something far more dangerous than carved lacquer.
“It also allows them to separate the act from the vampire. Makes it less personal, more transactional.”
My grip tightens on the sleeve of my dress. He’s testing me, trying to see if I’ll flinch. If I’ll react to the obvious discomfort, to the cracks in his calm facade. He’s daring me to blink first. But I won’t.
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask, my voice suspicious. “Playing tour guide through vampire ethics seems beneath you.”
He regards me silently, as if weighing me instead of words. “Because I’m trying to determine whether we’re on the same side or not.”
“The same side?” I scoff. “Weren’t you the one that said you’d hand me to Cain yourself?”
He resumes our walk along the stone path. “What I want and what needs to be done aren’t always aligned.”
“What needs to be done?”
The gravel crunches beneath our feet, each step a small percussion in the stillness of the night.
He lets out a near-imperceptible laugh, the kind that comes from hearing a joke one too many times and growing tired of it.
“What needs to be done,” he says, contemplative, as though speaking to himself more than to me, “is a matter of what the world demands of us. Some forces have long been set into motion, irreversible in their course. They are already written, even before you take the first step, part of a design that stretches far beyond any of us. The question is, do you think you can change the pattern?”
“Yes,” I blurt out with deceptive confidence.
“Just because things have been written, doesn’t mean they can’t be rewritten.
Those who think they can’t are just trying to make sense of their own mistakes.
It’s always easier to blame external forces than admit you messed up and did something terrible. ”
He lowers his head then, his eyes narrowing, maybe the flicker of recognition there. He heard me. Not just my words, but my intention. And I hope it stings. It should. He made a choice, didn’t he? A decision that led to blood on his hands—a massacre.
My father’s death.
When he looks up at me, I’m already staring him down. Gray eyes like storm clouds pierce with an intensity that makes my hands tremble with suppressed wrath.
“I don’t expect forgiveness,” is all he says.
His words hit like a stone sinking into deep water, barely making a ripple on the surface. No remorse. No apology. Not even the faintest hint of vulnerability. It’s like he’s resigned to the fact that he can never undo what he’s done, and he’s not looking for absolution.
Just acceptance.
I want to press him, dig deeper, break him, and make him confront the weight of it all.
I want him to get on his knees and beg for my forgiveness.
I’m about to snap and let fury take over, but I can’t. I know better. I’ve fought too hard to let my emotions dictate every move I make. Not when I’m this close. Not when the answers are just within reach.
Besides, what could I possibly say to someone who’s already made peace with the darkest parts of himself? Someone who has crossed lines others wouldn’t dare, and yet still insists on carrying the full measure of it, as if it’s the only way forward.
So, I bite down on the words I want to hurl at him. Unclench the fists I want to throw at him.
But this fight? It’s far from over.
“Why not detain Cain instead of me?” I ask, desperate to change the subject before I lose it. “You clearly have the means.” I gesture around us at the mansion, the gardens, the evident power at his disposal. His history. “Or is it all just talk?”
He stops at a stone bench overlooking a curving pond, where water lilies drift like pale specters on the dark surface. “Detaining Cain would create a noticeable power vacuum that Redmoore wouldn’t hesitate to exploit immediately.”
I raise an eyebrow. “And that’s bad because…?” I may not be fond of the idea of these vampires being part of the mixed society I know and live in, but I’m sure we could create a separate one just for them.
Far away from Penn City.
“Because, despite everything, the Veltri are our first line of defense against human aggression. They have the legacy army and a willingness to fight that other clans lack.”
“You need them to keep Redmoore at bay.”
Saying it out loud sounds absurd to me. Redmoore isn’t the enemy here. They aren’t the predators. They hunt the killers, not the victims.
“For now, yes. Vampires may be stronger individually, but humans have technology, weapons, and sheer numbers on their side.”
“Why don’t you adapt?” The incredulity in my tone isn’t feigned. “I can understand not having the need for technology, but what stops you from using weapons?”
I internally kick myself, hoping my curiosity hasn’t given him ideas.
His head cocks, almost avian. “We adapt, just not in ways that are easy to see.” The moonlight casts his profile in crisp detail, highlighting the hard line of his jaw.
A slow exhale escapes him, the faintest sound in the quiet, and it draws me in despite myself.
“Have you ever tried to clean blood from steel?” he asks, clearly rhetorically.
“It seeps into every crevice, every joint. The scent lingers, even after the stain is gone.” His eyes find mine, unblinking.
“Weapons are designed with one purpose: to spill blood. We exist with one primary need: to consume it. Every drop wasted is a meal lost. Every battlefield is a feast turned to poison.”
I hadn’t considered that—the practical contradiction of vampires wielding weapons that waste what they need most. It is a perspective that shifts something in my understanding, however slightly.
“You don’t fight alongside the Veltri, but you don’t fight against them either,” I say, watching his expression for any crack in the facade. “So, where does that put you?”
“Preparation.”
“For what?”
“You’ve only seen fragments of what’s to come.” He looks out over the water. “Cain’s a symptom, not the disease.”
I hate how cryptically he speaks, but he’s clearly implying the war will soon reach its breaking point. We all know it, even if we can’t quite imagine what it’s going to look like, or what will come after.
The night air grows cooler, a soft breeze rippling across the pond’s surface. I sit on the bench and wrap my arms around myself, suddenly aware of how exposed I feel in this elegant dress, surrounded by creatures who see the world completely different from me.
“We can find ways to live together,” I venture, glossing over the part where the burden of change would fall on them, not us.
He sits beside me, maintaining a careful distance.
“I’d love to see that world. Perhaps you’re the one to make it real.
” He turns to look at me then. “You—with the ability to walk in daylight, hunt your own kind, and the potential to birth the next generation of Nobles—could tip the scales in either direction.” His hand lifts slightly, fingers parting as if weighing something invisible in the space between them.
“Or hold them steady between us. Though, as it stands, our ideals are divided by too wide a gulf.”
My stomach twists as I digest the information.
The pieces are finally starting to click into place, not in the way I want them to, but in the way they have to.
I’ve spent my life straddling worlds. Vampire enough to pass, human enough to hunt.
But now, with Cain seeking to exploit my blood and this man questioning my allegiance, the middle ground I’ve occupied seems to be crumbling beneath my feet.
I exhale slowly, trying to rid myself of the suffocating heat that’s rising in my chest. “What if I choose neither side?”
“Then you stand alone, against forces that will tear you apart.” He leans in, his arm resting behind me on the stone bench, his proximity almost unbearable.
The moonlight reflects the silver in his eyes, turning them glassy, as if lit from within by something not entirely alive. “And that would be a waste.”
As quickly as he got close, he turns away and rises, signaling the end of our conversation. Without breaking his stride, he heads back toward the mansion, not sparing a single glance back in my direction.
For a moment, I stay where I’m at, rooted to the spot.
I wait for him to turn around, to give me some sign that he’s not as indifferent and unreadable as he seems, some indication that he’s someone I could understand. But he doesn’t.
With each step he takes, my options slip further away.
My mind screams at me to find an escape, to seize this chance before it’s too late, but my body won’t listen.
It refuses to move. The message is clear: I’m meant to follow.
There’s no questioning it. No alternative available.
It’s not a choice, but an expectation, and my instincts tell me that defying it would be a mistake.
A mistake I’m terrified to make.
Slowly, I stand and begin to trail after him, the stone path feeling like a tether. He still hasn’t looked back, but I’m not surprised.
He doesn’t need to. He knows I’m behind him. And part of me, the part I wish I didn’t have to give in to, is already resigned to it.
When he reaches the mansion’s entrance, he pauses at the threshold, one hand resting on the heavy brassbound door. His body blocks the passage inside, forcing me to stop just before reaching him.