Wonderful. Two vampires. One furious, one calculating. Both ancient. Both with reasons to hate me.
If I'm going to survive this, I need to stall. Think.
I shift my gaze to Asher, avoiding Kayden's entirely. "Where am I? Why am I here?"
"You're in our home," he says, voice level. "We found you unconscious in the hands of men who clearly didn't have your best interests in mind. We intervened and rescued you."
"Rescued," I repeat, flat.
From going back to Darius, to a certain death-by-vampire is not much of a 'rescue,' but I keep that part to myself.
"Oh, sure," Kayden says with a cold smile. "We specialize in rescuing damsels in distress. Though not all of them have a record of luring vampires into traps, do they?" The words come out low and sharp. My stomach knots.
Wrapped tight in the warm blankets, I'm unable to move, have no control over my own body. I start to peel them off, careful not to rush, only reclaiming space. As I do that, I slide to the far edge of the couch.
Kayden leans back, grin widening. He's enjoying this—watching me retreat like a cat with a cornered mouse. Not lunging, savoring the game.
In the supernatural world, there's a hierarchy. Creatures of life, like me, sit low on it. Vampires, especially old ones like these, are natural predators. We're prey. Unless we organize and strategize together. But I'm alone now. So alone.
Worse. I'm fairly new to all this, weaker and less trained.
I can't take on two ancient vampires head-on. But maybe I can outthink them. Edge into some leverage. Stall long enough to figure a way out.
Asher's voice cuts through the crackle of the fire. "The ones who chased you weren't human. What were they?"
I consider for a beat. Then give him just enough. "Leshy. Forest spirits."
Asher's brow furrows, already working through what that means.
Meanwhile, Kayden cocks his head, arms folding across his chest, a brow lifting with mock curiosity. "And what does that make you? A tree sprite? A walking bouquet?"
That's a question I shouldn't answer.
I deflect instead, moving off the couch. My feet hit the floor, and immediately I freeze. I'm not wearing my clothes.
I'm in someone's oversized shirt, hanging just long enough to brush mid-thigh, the hem swaying above bare legs inked with vines and wildflowers. I catch the scent as I move—clean, faintly masculine, some old brand of cologne that clings to the fabric.
I frown. "What the hell is this? Where are my clothes?"
"You were freezing," Asher says evenly, eyes pointedly turned away. "You were going into hypothermia. I had to get you out of the wet ones."
My back straightens. My arms cross. "Do you always undress unconscious women you bring home?"
I back up a step. Then another, positioning the sofa between me and both of them.
Asher holds up his hands in a maddeningly calm way. "Your clothes are in the washer. Nothing inappropriate was intended."
I hesitate. The logic doesn't track. Why wash the clothes of someone you plan to kill?
Kayden laughs, low and sharp. "Oh, please. Don't start playing the innocent card now. Bit late for that, sunshine."
He prowls a step closer, his gaze raking over me slow and unapologetic. There's heat in it. Hunger. Something darker tucked behind the glint in his eyes.
"A tragic reversal, isn't it?" he murmurs. "The predator turned damsel. Quite the plot twist."
His eyes linger on the tattoos that wind over my thighs. His voice drops, rougher. "Though I have to admit, the ink does add a certain charm. You're quite the canvas, sweetheart."
I grit my teeth. The urge to snap is strong, but he's not finished.
