Celeste
White male, early 30s, hasn't touched his coffee in 15 minutes. Keeps glancing over.
Can you get a photo without being obvious?
The image arrives moments later. Casual angle, her phone positioned like she's just scrolling, but the man at the counter is clearly visible in frame.
I pull up the file on Clara's referral. David Preston, the donor who vouched for her. The photo matches.
The relief that floods through me is disproportionate. Absurd. He's not a threat. Just an overprotective friend who should have notified Elena but didn't. A minor breach of protocol, nothing more.
My hands are shaking.
I stare at them, these hands that have killed hundreds, that have held power over life and death for six centuries. Shaking. Because for thirty seconds, I thought someone might be watching her with hostile intent.
David Preston. The referring donor. He's in our network. Not a threat, but find out why he's there.
I set the phone down and grip the edge of my desk hard enough that the wood creaks in protest.
This is a problem.
Not her. She's not the problem. She's capable, intelligent, learning faster than anyone I've trained in decades. She held her own against attackers her first week here. She provides tactical insights that my inner circle, with their centuries of experience, had missed entirely.
The problem is me.
The problem is that I can't think clearly when she's involved. Can't calculate risks objectively. Can't maintain the cold detachment that has kept me alive and kept my people safe for longer than most vampires have existed.
I've sent operatives on dangerous missions hundreds of times. Watched them leave, knowing some might not return, and accepted that calculus as the cost of leadership. I've made hard choices, sacrificed pieces to protect the whole, and done what needed to be done without letting sentiment cloud my judgment.
But I can't do that with her. The very thought of her in danger makes something feral rise up in my chest, something that doesn't care about strategy or acceptable losses or the greater good. Something that would burn the entire city to ash if it meant keeping her safe.
That terrifies me more than Konstantin ever could.
My phone buzzes.
Celeste
Confirmed. Clara was nervous about meeting alone, asked him to come. He should have notified Elena but didn't think of it. Not a setup, he actually verified her story from his end.
I exhale slowly. Read the message twice. Let the professional tone of her report anchor me back to something like rationality.
She's fine. She handled the complication perfectly. Identified the anomaly, reported it properly, waited for intelligence before acting. Good instincts. Sound judgment.
She doesn't need me hovering over her like a protective shadow.
But I want to be there anyway.
Another message arrives.
Celeste
Clara checks out. Genuine interest, understands the terms, has reasonable motivation (needs money for nursing school). David confirmed his original referral. No red flags. Recommend bringing her into vetting pipeline.
Professional. Concise. Solid assessment.
I should feel satisfaction. Pride, even. I'm training her well, and she's exceeding expectations. This is exactly what I wanted when I brought her into the inner circle.
Except it's not what I wanted at all. What I wanted was to keep her close. What I wanted was an excuse to spend hours in the training room with her, correcting her stance, my hands on her body under the guise of instruction. What I wanted was to watch her grow stronger and know that I was part of it.
