Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
I PEPPERONLY HAVE EYES FOR YOU
There she is.
Perfection.
The word is hopelessly inadequate. I’ve seen wonders in my immortal life, but nothing compares to the sight of her walking toward the bus stop, oblivious.
It’s for the best she doesn’t know I’m here; around her, I’m reduced to a blubbering fool. Still, I have my purpose. From the shadows between two buildings, I wait for her to make her way to the bus station so I can follow her to work and ensure she stays safe.
The Boss’ orders were simple: keep watch, protect her, and above all, don’t make yourself known.
So much for that last part. I’ve been leaving flowers at her feet for weeks. The order was doomed from the start.
I leave her white daisies, hoping she’ll understand the old-fashioned message. But perhaps women in this century don’t care for flowers. I need a more direct way to convey what I feel—one that does not involve talking.
Because when it comes to her… thoughts scatter, and the words that remain feel like ash in my mouth.
I sense her exit her building without looking, a pull so deep it feels like gravity, and my entire being already turns to follow.
I couldn’t stay away even if I tried.
Which I won’t. I feel no compulsion to live my life without her near—it would be a return to feeding in the dark, to the mechanical rhythm of centuries, each night indistinguishable from the last, the way one swallow of blood tastes the same as a thousand others.
I should send Stark a thank you gift, for assigning me this task.
Otherwise I wouldn’t have found my blooming flower.
Perhaps not a living creature, though. Boss still complains about Bruno sharing his condo.
I don’t see the problem—the dog is perfectly sweet when she’s not actively fleeing my presence.
I watch my flower pass by Stark’s pizza shop, our blood bonding business headquarters, and she hesitates a second when she sees the windows all boarded up, the neon sign turned off.
The air around it is stale, heavy with the lingering metallic tang of spilled blood.
Except it’s not ghosts of the past haunting it, but monsters of the night.
She gives her head a quick shake, as if clearing her mind, and continues on her way to the bus stop.
My hands are itching to touch her hair, just to know what it feels like.
And I want to press my face against her neck, which I’m aware sounds alarming, but the way she smells makes it hard to think straight.
I want to be close enough to count her freckles, which is a strange thing to want, and I know that, and…
I run into a garbage can left in the middle of the sidewalk and nearly eat pavement, but twist around to catch myself. I quickly wedge my too-big body into a doorway alcove in an attempt to hide.
There’s no way she didn’t hear all that ruckus.
Sneaking a peek around the brick corner, I see the bus stopping in front of her, but her head is turned in my direction.
Her vibrant violet eyes widen for a fraction of a second when they land on me, and she crooks her finger in a come here motion.
A part of me, the part still loyal to the Boss’ orders, considers using my speed to vanish. But my body has other plans. Before the thought can fully form, I’m moving, crossing the distance to stand beside her as if pulled by an invisible string.
She grabs my hand and pulls me onto the bus, scanning her pass twice on the reader to cover us both.
Her scent reaches me before she does—blood and petals, a combination that shouldn’t work and absolutely does. It pools low in my gut, stirring something I’d let go quiet over the centuries. Ancient. Absolute. Hers.
“You’re following me.” The sweet cadence of her voice pulls me out of my cotton dreams and I realize I’m now sitting beside her.
When did that happen?
Stark was right, I’m a terrible stalker.
I open my mouth to form a lie, some easy excuse, but the words feel like ash. All I can do is nod.
“Well, since I have you trapped for the next twenty minutes, I’m going to ask some questions. Try to keep up, okay, Stud Muffin?”
My head whips up at the silly nickname and she ensnares me in her sparkling amethyst gaze.
My mind forms a sentence, but my throat only manages a strangled noise, the connection between them severed.
There it is. The nickname she gave me.
Is it a sign of affection? Or is it simply sarcasm?
I cannot tell. Not that I’ve ever been great at understanding the nuances of modern expressions.
My cheeks heat the longer I stare into her eyes, and something loosens in my chest, spreading outward until even my fingertips feel warm. It’s only when I have her full attention that I remember what it felt like to be embarrassed.
I can’t remember the last time I felt this exposed. The memory of a heartbeat is a ghost in my chest, a rhythm I can recall but never feel. With her, I am an echo of the man I used to be.
“I’m Kallista. But call me Kallie.” She holds a small hand out to me, her plump luscious mouth tilted up in a smile.
I close my own mouth, which was still agape, and reach out a hand to shake hers.
Her hand disappears inside mine, swallowed so completely by my larger one that it seems impossible she could ever pull free.
I close my fingers around hers slowly, the way I might close a door on something I have no intention of letting out again.
I’m so lost in the thought that I don’t realize I’m staring until she lets out a small, tinkling laugh.
It warms my bones and squeezes the hollow space in my chest, and I instinctively reach to rub the ache there.
“This is the part where you tell me your name, so I can stop calling you Stud Muffin in my head.”
I clear my throat before responding, “Alek.”
That’s it. Nothing else comes out.
Way to go, you fool. Now she’ll think you’re an idiot.
But I see no judgment in her expression, only a playful curiosity that makes her eyes dance.
Her smile broadens to reveal a flash of perfect white teeth, and her eyes light up with a mirth that borders on mischief.
Oh, she’s trouble. Without a doubt. I should get out of here.
I drop her hand, my instincts screaming to find an exit. But every escape route would mean leaving her side, and the thought is more paralyzing than any physical barrier. I’m not trapped by the seat; I’m trapped by her.
“Tsk tsk, don’t you try to escape from me this time, Mister. I still have questions for you.”
She wags a finger at me teasingly and I find myself settling back into my seat.
There’s no escape. And a strange calm settles in my chest at the thought. A surrender.
“You’re not really a cop, are you?”
Shit. She’s coming straight at my throat.
I press my lips into a firm line. I can’t trust myself with words, not with her.
“How did you know about the pizza shop attack then?”
Ah, hell. How do I respond without name-dropping Stark?
“I was… tasked with investigating the attack.”
There. The truth. Just not all of it.
“But not by the human police.”
Her use of the word “human” hits me like a physical blow. It’s not a word people use unless they know there’s an alternative.
My composure cracks; how much does she already know?
I can only manage another helpless shake of my head.
“So, you know about the… fangs? Who are they? What are they?”
She whispers the word fangs and glances around, leaning closer to me and giving me another intoxicating wave of her delicious scent.
My nostrils flare to gulp as much of it as possible, before the question registers in my brain.
Saints preserve me, what do I say?
And what will she do when she realizes that I am also one of them?
I remember trying to compel her, the warm haze of my influence sliding right off her mind as if it were glass. Bluffing is not an option.
Thankfully, the bus stops. She grabs my hand and pulls me behind her, leading me out into the business district.
The world rushes in at once. Sunlight, sharp and blinding to my night-adjusted eyes, makes me squint.
The roar of traffic and the chatter of people create a wall of noise.
I’m so disoriented by the sensory assault that I barely register she’s still towing me along until a coffee shop door opens.
The rich, overpowering scent of roasted beans and a dozen clashing perfumes hits me, making my nose scrunch in protest.
The wealthy always cover their human scent with chemicals. It’s an old, irritating habit I’ve endured for centuries.
“Sit,” she says, pointing at the same table I occupied the first time we met.
And, like a trained poodle, I obey.
No wonder she’s so successful at dog walking. No hound would be able to resist her.
I expect her to take the seat beside me, but instead she slides into the one opposite, facing me directly.
“So. I’m guessing there are things you can’t tell me. Tell me this instead, why white daisies?”
My eyes widen and I curse myself for forgetting sunglasses again. I can’t hide my foolish reactions behind them today.
I clear my throat and mentally try to find a reason that won’t make me sound like a creepy stalker, when I notice, in the other corner of the coffee shop, a figure who does not blend in with the rest of the rich patrons here.
Thinning dark hair, a sickly-sweet scent of old blood clinging to him… He has the telltale signs of being one of Angelo’s bloodhounds. I have no doubt his eyes are blood red behind those thick shades.
Too much blood makes a monster of us all. A husk. Stark keeps his territory clean of such filth, but Angelo cultivates it, weaponizes it—and he’s just pointed his weapon straight at Kallie.
The husk seems to sense my attention. Its head twitches in my direction before its nostrils flare, catching Kallie’s scent. Its focus snaps to her, pupils dilating with raw, mindless hunger.
Fuck no.
Nobody touches her.
Nobody.
I stand up abruptly, a low growl rumbling in my chest. Kallie flinches back, her hand flying to her throat, and the playful light in her eyes is replaced by a flash of genuine fear.
The sight hits harder than any blade. Fear is the last thing I ever want to see in her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Kallie. Another time.”
With my eyes fixed on the husk, who has gotten up and started for the exit, I reach into my trench coat, place a white daisy on the table, and stride toward the door.
I can’t lose him. I need to know why he’s here, and stop him from reporting back to that worm Angelo.
But just before I push the door to leave the coffee shop, I hear someone call my name.
I turn toward the sound—toward her. She’s standing there, holding my gift to her heart. The sun shines brightly behind her, so bright it seems to emanate from her.
“Thank you for the flower.”
She presses the daisy to her chest.
That’s when I know I’m a goner.