She stops walking. We’re in the garden now, halfway between the restaurant and our building. Lanterns illuminate the path. Somewhere, a fountain burbles softly.
“Is that what this is?” she asks. “A miscalculation?”
“No,” I say quietly. “This is not a miscalculation. This is the most deliberate thing I’ve done in a very long time.”
She rises onto her toes. Kisses me—and it’s a real kiss. Not for her family. Not for Preston. It’s for us.
When she pulls back, she’s smiling.
“Good,” she says. “Because I’m not very good at miscalculating.”
“You’re terrible at it. You have spreadsheets for everything.”
“Exactly.” She takes my hand again. “Come on. I need to take off these shoes before my feet stage a rebellion.”
We walk. And I let myself have this—her hand in mine, her laughter in the dark, the illusion that I might deserve it.
Even as I scan the shadows for Damien.
Even as my phone vibrates with another message I refuse to check.
Even as I know, with the certainty of centuries, that happiness like this never lasts.
CHAPTER 13
JULIAN
Poppy falls asleep within twenty minutes of returning to the suite.
The champagne, the stress, the emotional whiplash of the evening—it catches up with her all at once. She emerges from the bathroom in pajamas, mumbles something about setting an alarm, and is unconscious before her head hits the pillow.
I should go to my room. The suite has two bedrooms—we discussed this before arriving, established boundaries, agreed on appropriate distance.
Instead, I settle into the armchair by her door.
I tell myself it’s practical. Damien is out there. Watching. Waiting. If he decides to escalate—if he moves from psychological warfare to something more direct—I need to be close enough to intervene.
That’s the logical explanation.
The truth is simpler and more pathetic: I want to watch her sleep.
Not in a predatory way—though I’m aware how that sounds, coming from a creature who has done predatory things. In a protective way. In a this-is-the-only-time-I-can-look-at-you-without-having-to-pretend-I’m-not-falling-apart kind of way.
My phone vibrates silently. A text pops up on my locked screen. It’s from the night concierge—one of three staff members at this resort who know what I am, what certain guests require.
CONCIERGE: Your delivery is outside the door, Mr. Blackthorne. As requested.
I move to the door without sound. In the hallway, a small insulated bag sits on a silver tray—the same discreet packaging LifeSource uses for medical transports. No knock. No interruption. Just efficient service for guests who value privacy above all else.
The blood is fresh. Type O negative, my preference, sourced ethically and shipped to the resort’s private refrigeration unit before we arrived. I drink in the bathroom with the door closed, watching myself in the mirror—the monster performing necessary maintenance while the woman he loves sleeps ten feet away.
I rinse the container, seal it in the provided disposal bag, and leave it in the bathroom cabinet. Housekeeping here knows what to do with it. They’ve been trained.
When I return to the bedroom, Poppy hasn’t stirred.
Before I can enjoy this moment, I realize I should check all those other messages on my phone. There are a ton of messages from Damien, each one more pointed than the last. Four hours of surveillance, catalogued and delivered like a gift.
I scroll through them slowly, letting each one land.
