“Anything.”
“It’s a vampire question.”
His mouth curves. “Those are my favorite kind.”
“You said you have enhanced senses. Hearing, smell, sight. But earlier, you said you memorized my breathing patterns. My pulse.” I tilt my head. “Just how much can you hear?”
“How much do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
He considers this. “I can hear your heartbeat from across a room. When you’re calm, it’s steady—around seventy beats per minute. When you’re nervous, it jumps to ninety. When you’re...” He pauses. “Excited. It goes higher.”
“Define excited.”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
I do. My cheeks warm. “What else?”
“Your scent changes with your emotions. Fear has a sharp edge. Happiness is warmer. Attraction...” His eyes darken. “Attraction is unmistakable.”
“So you always know what I’m feeling.”
“Not always. You’re remarkably good at controlling your physical responses when you want to. That night at the cocktail party, when Damien approached—your heart was racing, but your face was perfectly composed. Most humans can’t separate the two.”
“Years of influencer training.” I smile. “Smile for the camera even when you’re dying inside.”
“It’s impressive. And occasionally infuriating.”
“Good.” I step closer. “What about strength? You carried me into the ocean like I weighed nothing.”
“You do weigh nothing. To me.” He reaches out, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers are cool against my skin. “I could lift a car if I needed to. Bend steel. Break through walls.”
“You’re like Superman. That’s...” I search for the word. “Hot. That’s actually really hot.”
He laughs—a real laugh. “That’s not the usual response.”
“What’s the usual response?”
“Fear. Concern. Questions about whether I might accidentally hurt them.”
“Would you? Accidentally hurt me?”
“Never.” The word is absolute. “I’ve had 257 years to learn control. Every touch, every movement—I’m always aware of exactly how much pressure I’m applying.”
“Even when you’re...” I trail off, suddenly shy.
“Even then.” His voice drops. “Especially then.”
The air between us shifts. Thickens. I’m suddenly very aware of how close we’re standing. Of the way his eyes have gone darker. Of the slow, patient rhythm of his breathing—breathing he doesn’t need but does anyway, because it makes him feel more human.
“I have more questions,” I say.
“I’m sure you do.”
“But right now, I don’t want to ask them.”
“What do you want?”
