“I guess I got lucky,” I manage.
“Lucky?” Madison-or-Morgan snorts. “That’s one word for it. The way he looked at you in that video? Like you were the only person on the entire beach? I would commit crimes for a man to look at me like that.”
I think about Julian’s eyes. The way they track me across rooms. The way they soften when I say something that surprises him. The way they went dark and desperate when he told me the truth about what he was.
“It’s intense,” I admit. “And sweet.”
“Intense as in hot? Or intense as in concerning?”
“Both? Neither?” I take another sip of champagne. “It’s complicated.”
“Complicated how?”
How do I even begin to answer that? Complicated like he’s two hundred and fifty-seven years old. Complicated like he drinks blood to survive. Complicated like his oldest friend wants to destroy him by destroying me, and that friend is probably watching us right now.
“Just... complicated,” I say. “Wedding stress. You know how it is.”
Violet appears beside me, refilling my glass without asking. She’s glowing—that pre-wedding radiance that makes her look like she stepped out of a bridal magazine. Even with her hair in a messy bun, she looks perfect.
“Maddie, stop interrogating my sister,” she tells the bridesmaids—and helps me remember one of their names. “She’s entitled to some mystery.”
“We’re not interrogating. We’re curious.”
“Is that the same thing with both of you?” Violet settles onto the lounge chair beside me. “How are you doing? You’ve been quiet.”
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
“Tired or worried?”
I look at her. My perfect sister with her perfect life and her perfect fiancé. She has no idea what’s circling us right now. No idea that the sunny poolside paradise she’s enjoying is under surveillance by creatures that shouldn’t exist.
For a moment I consider lying, but no matter what, Vi can always tell when I’m worried. It’s like her “Spidey Sense.” So I try to hide it by sprinkling in some truth.
“Both,” I admit. “But it’s nothing you need to worry about. This is your weekend.”
“Poppy.” She lowers her voice. “What’s going on?”
Everything in me wants to brush it off, protect her from everything the way Julian tried to protect me.
But I don’t think I can muster up the energy to give her the performance she’ll need to get off my back.
“I’ll explain after the wedding,” I say. “I promise. Just—just trust that I’m handling it.”
“Handling what?”
“Vi.” I take her hand. “Please. Not now. Not today. Let me deal with this, and I’ll tell you everything once you’re married and on your honeymoon and too happy to care.”
She studies me, weighing whether to push and demand answers, go full big-sister mode, refusing to let it go, or get back to focusing on the biggest day of her life.
Then she squeezes my hand.
“Okay,” she says. “But if you need me—”
“I know. I know. I swear I’ll get you if I need you.” I cross my heart with my hand. “Promise.”
“And hope to die?” She doesn’t even know how close she is to the truth on that one.
“And hope not to die.”
