"You're kidding."
"No." I almost laugh. "And when I finally looked around, I realized it had been over ten years."
"Jesus," she murmurs, eyes wide. "A decade? No wonder they didn't have much intel on you. You disappeared." She exhales smoke, thoughtful. "So that's the teaching Donna mentioned."
I nod. "She was turned violently. Lost control. Killed. Tomas was already here in Briar Hollow by then, since he couldn't go back to his family. He helped her father, the mayor, capture her." My tone drops slightly. "Told him about me. Said I might be able to help. And I did. Helped Donna reclaim her empathy. Pull back from the brink."
"And the mayor let you stay?"
"Yes. In exchange, we watched over Donna. Stayed quiet. Helped where we could. Over time, more supernaturals drifted through. Some left. Some stayed. Eira. Astrid. Others. Winston was already here. He never pushed back, just accepted us."
Sage studies me in silence for a few moments. Then, softly: "I wish more people knew that it's possible for vampires to be more than predators."
"Some do," I say. "But not all would be happy about it. Others would come with agendas. This place survives becauseit's quiet, balanced, and mostly off the radar, even from the humans who live here."
She hesitates, then looks up at me. There's steel in her voice, but her expression wavers.
"Aren't you afraid my presence will upset that balance? Destroy what you built?"
There it is. The question she's been circling.
I meet her eyes, steady and certain. "I gave you my word, Sage. I don't say things lightly. You needed help, and you still do. Balance matters, but we don't run from trouble because it's inconvenient."
I take the joint back from her, flick the ash into the wind. "This place isn't about closing the door to survive. It's about keeping it open and knowing who you're letting in."
She leans back against the wall, arms folded, her gaze angled toward the trees.
"I hope I'm worth it then," she murmurs.
Quiet. Almost too quiet for a human ear, but I hear it.
I snuff out the joint and step toward her.
She looks up, and there's uncertainty in her eyes, guarded and wary. But she doesn't step away. Doesn't flinch when I reach for her. So I take my time, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers brush the edge of her jaw.
"You are," I say, voice low. "And not because of… that."
This isn't transactional. Not a debt. Not charity. She needs to know that.
Her lips curve into a tired smile—soft, worn at the edges, but real. "Thank you," she says.
The silence that follows hums with tension. I don't move back. Neither does she.
Then her expression shifts, just enough to spark a different charge between us.
"As I'm staying here…" she says, voice teasing, "does that mean I'll have to follow the Colonel's orders?"
Oh. We're playing now.
I let the corner of my mouth curve slightly as I step closer. My posture tightens, sharpens. I let command bleed into my voice.
"Oh, absolutely," I murmur. "Every single one."
My fingers trace along her jaw, slow and sure. Her eyes flutter closed for a moment. Her lips part on instinct.
The urge to claim her burns under my skin. It's blinding.
She breathes out, "What kind of orders?"
