I sip. The burn helps.
Across from me, Kayden raises his glass. He lifts it like nothing's wrong, but I see the wince. Barely there, but enough.
He's still got the bullet in him, and he's trying to pretend it's nothing.
"Let me help," I say quietly. "Take it out before it festers."
"It's fine. It'll work its way out. Eventually." He waves me off.
Another wince, another gulp of scotch.
"Why do you have to be so stubborn?" I mutter, crossing my arms.
He laughs. A real one this time. "Look who's talking," he throws back, eyes narrowing slightly. Amused, not angry.
Okay, fair.
I breathe out through my nose, shaking my head. "You saved me," I say, softer now. "You earned your hero star. So can you let the damsel repay the favor without turning it into a pissing contest?"
His smirk shifts, something almost fond flickering behind it.
"All right," he concedes, voice low. He nods toward the side cabinet. "Bottom drawer. Bandages and whatever shiny tools Asher left in case I get myself impaled again."
I gather what I need from the drawer and walk back over. Kayden half sits on the counter, nursing his drink, watching me with that maddening smirk of his.
"I need to…" I gesture vaguely toward his shirt.
He gives a slow nod, undoes the buttons, and shrugs off one sleeve. The motion is casual, unbothered, but the sight it reveals is anything but. His chest is all lean muscle carved to perfection, his shoulder still oozing where the bullet struck.
During my training with Darius, I studied vampire biology. Real vampire biology. Not the nonsense from myths or movies. They bleed, they breathe, they feel. Their organs function, but it's mimicry—just enough to pass. Their bodies don't produce life, they feed on it. Without a steady supply of blood, the whole illusion starts to crack.
Death imitating life is always imperfect.
What always puzzled me, though, was the pain. Why would a creature built on death and predation still feel it?
I focus on that thought, because it's easier than thinking about the proximity of his body to mine, the warmth of his skin, or the way his scent curls around my senses. It drags memories of last night right to the surface, no matter how much I try not to remember.
I dab the wound with alcohol as he takes a long sip of his drink, jaw clenched.
"This'll sting," I warn, grabbing the tweezers.
"Be my… ugh… guest," he grunts as I press in.
The bullet's deep. I have to go in twice before I catch it with the tip and yank it free. It hits the bottom of an empty glass with a metallic clink.
"Got it," I murmur, reaching for the bandages.
"You don't need to fuss," Kayden says as I start wrapping his shoulder. "It'll close soon enough."
"Better than bleeding all over my furniture. Again."
The voice makes me look back sharply.
Asher.
He stands across the room bare-chested, gray sweatpants slung low on his hips, a towel over one shoulder. His hair is still damp from the shower, tousled in a way that should look careless but somehow doesn't. Dog tags glint against his chest—a chest built not in a gym but on a battlefield. He looks like a man who wakesup expecting to go to war. Not just a soldier, but a leader. He radiates authority the way some men wear cologne.
I catch myself staring, so I blurt, "I'm back," just to say something, even if it's dumb.
