I exhale. Every instinct in me screams yes. Every ounce of training warns otherwise.
But there's a narrow path in between. And maybe—for her—I can walk it.
"All right," I say. "But not without precautions."
I step back, cross the room, and shift a painting aside. Behind it, a hidden safe clicks open beneath my touch. Inside: old identities, emergency cash, a tarnished medal I never talk about. A handful of keepsakes from lives I no longer live.
And a gun.
I retrieve it and hand it to her.
She frowns. "Really?"
"If I lose control, shoot me. It won't kill me," I say. "But it'll snap me out of it."
"And if it doesn't?"
"Then keep shooting. It hurts more than it should. That's the point." I pause. "Do you know how to use it?"
She answers by flipping the safety, checking the slide, and readying the grip like someone who's done this before.
I let the corner of my mouth tug into a smile. "Not such a defenseless forest creature, are you?"
I sit on the sofa and nod for her to come closer. She approaches with the gun in one hand and settles onto my lap with far too much grace. Her weight, her warmth, the shift of her thighs against mine—they fray my control instantly, though it's not the bite that flashes through my mind first.
My hands skim the sides of her waist. I guide her hand with the gun until it's resting against my ribs—close enough to disable, not kill. Just in case.
Her green eyes meet mine. Wide. Luminous. There's something in them—anticipation, maybe. Or nerves. Or both.
"Are you sure?" I ask again.
"Yes." A small and steady nod. "And I'll try not to put a hole in your side without a reason."
"I appreciate that," I say dryly. "I'll be gentle. But itisa bite."
She nods once more, then shifts her hair over one shoulder, exposing her neck. The movement is unguarded. Trust, in its purest form.
My gaze lingers on the delicate curve of her neck. I let go. Let the instincts rise. My breath deepens. My fangs descend with the familiar, aching snap.
The predator in me wakes. Not unchained, but unleashed.
My hands slide over her waist as I draw her closer. Her scent wraps around me, rich and dizzying. I can feel the staccato rhythm of her pulse beneath her skin, rapid and alive.
There's the gun at my ribs. A cold reminder of consequences.
I press a line of kisses against the soft column of her throat. Her breath catches, but instead of fear, she shifts against me, hips grinding ever so slightly. That sound she makes—a breathy gasp laced with desire—lights me up like a fuse.
Then I bite.
The moment my fangs sink into her skin, sensation explodes. It's not just taste. It's heat and clarity and everything I've been denying. Her cry, a moan of surrender, cuts through me. I'm instantly, painfully hard. The rush of her blood, the sound of her breath, the feel of her body pressing closer.
I want more. Need more.
But I hold the line.
And the taste. Gods, the taste.
It's drinking sunlight. Not heat, not fire, but light itself. Pure and golden, liquid sun that does not burn me. Laced with softer notes: dew, nectar, something ancient and green. It blooms in me slowly, spreading from my chest outward, wrapping around my ribs like warmth after a long winter.
