13. Alaric
ALARIC
Ihave never in my unlife been so grateful for a slow, domestic morning.
Which is an embarrassing realization, frankly, because my entire existence to this point has been a parade of high-octane melodrama, like an episode of a network drama that won't get cancelled because the executives are terrified of fan backlash.
Flamboyant rivalries, nighttime races, heated exchanges—that was my normal.
The closest I've ever come to "ordinary" was a three-month stakeout in Warsaw where I survived on nothing but pierogi and ennui.
But this morning, in the coven's alternate cabin (and I use the term cabin generously, given that it's three-quarters garage and one-quarter questionable kitchenette), something in me wants to curl up on the scratched linoleum and simply... exist.
Birdie's in the corner, methodically gathering what little we actually need.
Her hair is pulled up, her eyes still hazy with the fog of someone who spent the night sleeping in fits and starts, but she moves with the quiet efficiency of someone who's packed in a hurry too many times before.
Every shirt is folded neatly. Every zipper closes without hesitation.
She doesn't stop to think about what to leave behind because she's had years of practice deciding what matters.
The realization settles somewhere uncomfortable beneath my ribs.
Nobody should become that good at leaving.
Theo and Trent are nowhere to be found. Which is suspicious, given that even on a hangover Trent is more reliable than a metronome.
Theo announced they were "getting supplies" with entirely too much enthusiasm before disappearing out the front door, and Trent followed wearing the expression of a man who'd already accepted that arguing was pointless.
They've left us alone on purpose.
Traitors.
Birdie catches me staring and lifts an eyebrow.
"If you're waiting for me to turn into a pumpkin, sorry to disappoint you," she says, holding up a pair of pink socks like a flag of truce. "I'm just about done."
"I was thinking more Cinderella after the ball." I gesture vaguely in her direction. "You clean up nice."
Not my best line.
I'm running at half capacity.
Maybe less.
She sniffs, amused, as she settles onto the arm of the lint-laden sofa.
"Well, your ensemble has really set the standard. Is that blood on your collar?"
I glance down.
"Most of it is mine," I admit, tugging at the fabric. "You try wrestling a berserker with a bounty to earn."
"You know," she says thoughtfully, "most people would've led with 'good morning.'"
"I've never claimed to be most people."
"No," she agrees, smiling. "That much is painfully obvious."
There it is.
That smile.
Brief, effortless, and somehow bright enough to make the whole cabin feel warmer.
I want to bottle it and keep it in my pocket, or maybe pour it into my coffee mug instead of the usual tar. It's the kind of smile that could power an entire rural township for a week, and it makes my chest feel strangely light.
I don't trust it at all.
Packing should be simple.
Instead, it becomes an increasingly ridiculous contest over who gets to carry what.
She shoulders the duffel.
I take it from her.
She immediately reaches for it again.
"I can carry my own bag."
"I know."
"Then why are you carrying it?"
"Because I got to it first."
She folds her arms.
"That's not how ownership works."
"It's how vampires do it."
She studies me for a long moment before shaking her head with an exasperated laugh.
"I can't decide if you're charming or infuriating."
"I'm hoping for a healthy balance of both."
"You should probably keep hoping."
Despite the words, she's smiling again.
I sling the duffel over my shoulder before she can make another grab for it, and she lets me.
Not because she's giving up.
Because she's letting me.
The distinction matters more than it probably should.
“So,” she asks, “what’s next?”
I hadn’t thought that far. I mean, I have plans—multiple, cross-referenced, and strategic—but I’d assumed, with my usual cocktail of narcissism and bravado, that I would just improvise the next steps.
Birds (the feathered kind) chirp outside, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think the world had righted itself overnight.
For all outward appearances we’re just two people preparing for a long drive, getaway destination unknown.
I could almost believe it, if not for the tingle under my jaw and the ache in my (still healing) shoulder.
The strange part is that I’m not thinking about where we’re going.
I’m thinking about how long I can convince her to stay.
I want to say, “We run,” or “We hide,” or “We burn the world to the ground and start over,” but what I actually say is, “We don’t have to go anywhere right away. If you want to stay, we can stay. For once, no one’s chasing us.”
Birdie’s face does something complicated—I can practically see the gears turning behind her eyes.
“If we don’t run, aren’t we just waiting for them to find us?”
There’s no panic in her voice.
Just exhaustion.
“I’m pretty hard to kill,” I remind her, with a shrug. “I’m more concerned for you. Things might get ugly.”
She’s looking at the floor now, and I realize it’s the first time she’s let herself admit she’s tired.
The first time she’s allowed herself to want rest that isn’t a product of fear or necessity.
I suspect that “nice” is a foreign language to Birdie Longfellow—and that makes me want to give her a week of peaceful mornings.
A year.
A decade.
If only so she learns the taste of it.
I busy myself with the keys, the bags, the performative shuffling.
Anything to avoid the urge to touch her.
Which is a new one for me; usually, I have an ironclad rule about keeping my hands (and teeth) to myself unless explicitly invited.
But Birdie is an exception. Somewhere between braiding her hair, making her toast, and carrying her through the woods, she stopped feeling like a client and started feeling dangerously like home.
She gathers her things. I grab the duffel. We head out where my truck sits scowling at us like an ornery guard dog.
The air is saturated with that soft, scruffy fog that settles on Blackthorn Bay only after a storm. The ground squelches underfoot. I try to step around a puddle and, predictably, miss.
My boot lands squarely in the center, splattering mud against the hem of my jeans.
I hear Birdie snicker behind me.
“Smooth,” she says. “Very suave.”
“Just practicing for my next impression: hapless Midwestern dad.”
She arches an eyebrow.
“Needs more fanny pack.”
“She’s ruthless,” I mutter to no one in particular.
When we get to the truck, I open the passenger door and gesture for her to get in.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she stands, eyes fixed on the edge of the woods, like she’s expecting someone to come out of them.
“Is it weird,” she says quietly, “that I don’t want to leave?”
“Not even a little.”
I lean into the cab, sliding the duffel beneath the seat.
“So many people come to Blackthorn planning to leave.”
“And?”
“They rarely do.”
She looks up at me, her chin tilted in that way that signals she’s about to say something important.
“I’ve never felt...safe,” she admits. “Not really.”
She swallows.
“Not before last night.”
The words hit me harder than Mason ever managed.
“You did,” she continues softly. “You made me feel safe.”
Her cheeks pinken.
“That’s not...that’s not nothing.”
No.
It isn’t.
No one has ever thanked me for making them feel safe.
Terrified?
Frequently.
Safe?
Never.
For the first time in over a century, I honestly don’t know what to say.
“So,” I manage, “does this earn me a medal?”
She laughs.
“A coupon for free therapy?”
“That too.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I’ve heard rumors.”
Silence settles between us.
Not awkward.
Comfortable.
Birdie leans against the truck door and folds her arms, studying me like I’m a particularly confusing chapter in a mystery novel.
“So, Alaric Grimhaven,” she says. “Vampire. Professional fugitive. Savior of damsels in distress.”
I sigh dramatically.
“I was hoping that title wouldn’t catch on.”
“What if I told you I’m not a damsel?”
My eyes drift over her before I can stop them.
“I noticed.”
“Then why are you still here?”
That should have an easy answer.
It doesn’t.
I reach into the truck for my jacket instead, my arm brushing hers.
“Give me your arm.”
I do.
She slips the jacket over my shoulders, smoothing the collar with careful fingers before her hand lingers lightly against my chest.
“You’re bleeding again.”
“Occupational hazard.”
Neither of us moves.
“Birdie...”
She looks up.
“Hm?”
I should step back.
Instead, I hear myself whisper,
“Tell me to stop.”
She searches my face for a long moment.
Then, very quietly...
“I don’t want you to.”
Her fingers curl into the front of my shirt, and she rises onto her toes.
The kiss is soft.
Tentative.
The kind of kiss meant to test the water, not cannonball into it.
I nearly laugh into her mouth because, of course, she would be the one to make the first move. Of course kissing Birdie would somehow feel both entirely unexpected and completely inevitable.
My hand settles against her waist.
Carefully.
Giving her every chance to pull away.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she leans closer, and somehow that tiny bit of trust means more than the kiss itself.
When we part, neither of us goes very far.
Our foreheads rest together.
“I’ve wanted to do that,” she whispers.
“The braid?” I ask.
A laugh escapes her.
“The braid.”
“I knew that braid was going to pay off eventually.”
She smiles.
“It wasn’t just the braid.”
“No?”
“It was the toast.”
I blink.
“The toast?”
“And carrying me.”
She brushes her thumb lightly across my jaw.
“And making me feel safe.”
She hesitates.
“I think...somewhere along the way...I stopped wanting you to protect me because I was afraid.”
My heart forgets whatever job it was supposed to be doing.
“I just wanted you.”
I close my eyes for a second.
“Well,” I murmur.
“That’s inconvenient.”
She laughs.
“For who?”
“For the emotionally constipated vampire who was trying very hard not to fall for his client.”
“Oh.”
She smiles.
“So that didn’t work out?”
“Catastrophically.”
She kisses me again.
Not tentative this time.
Certain.
When she pulls back, she's still smiling.
“So…”
“So…”
“I guess we’re doing this.”
I can't help smiling back.
“I don't think either of us has been pretending for a while.”
Movement catches my eye.
Across the yard, Theo's bald head disappears behind a tree with all the subtlety of a lighthouse.
A second later, Trent reaches around the trunk, grabs him by the back of his jacket, and silently drags him out of sight.
Birdie follows my gaze.
“They’re spying on us.”
“They’re terrible at it.”
She laughs and shakes her head.
For the first time in entirely too long, I don’t feel like a monster.
I feel like a man who has finally found something worth fighting for.
Leland is still out there.
Tomorrow will almost certainly be difficult.
But for the first time since this whole mess began…
Neither of us will be facing it alone.