Page 64 of Let Sleeping Vampires Lie

I tugged the blanket up to settle over my lap, suddenly aware of the fact that I was still just in a tank and underwear under the covers, and he sat next to me on top of them. The air touched bare skin on my shoulders and arms, but I didn’t feel exposed. Not exactly. Just… seen.

“How’s Raven?” I asked.

He didn’t make me wait. “Stable. The bleeding stopped. Rene’s not awake, but he’s stronger. The poison’s gone, at least as far as anyone can sense. Your little circle-and-burn trick worked.”

“Her trick,” I corrected. “I just did the heavy lifting.”

“You did more than that,” he said.

He watched me for a moment. I knew that look, counting breaths, gauging color, assessing whether I was about to pass out again.

“I’m not going to fall over,” I told him.

“I don’t trust your definition of that anymore,” he replied. His voice was calm, but the words were tight. “You said you were fine when your body was cooking itself.”

“Cooking is dramatic.”

“It’s accurate.”

I sighed, tipping my head back against the headboard. “All right. We’ll put ‘almost immolated myself’ in the column of poor life choices.”

“That’s a big column,” he said.

“Yes, well, I’m very accomplished.”

Silence stretched between us.

Not the strained kind from last night, thick with anger and restraint. This one felt heavy in another way. Like something important sat in it, waiting to be pulled into the light.

Con leaned forward, forearms braced on his thighs now, hands steepled. The posture made his shoulders look broader, his presence even more solid next to me.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured.

I turned my head toward him. “You said a lot of things. You’ll have to narrow it down.”

His gaze held mine. No humor now. No shield. Just raw honesty.

“I can’t bear watching you destroy yourself,” he said.

The words were simple. The way he spoke them was not.

They left his mouth as if they’d cost him something to drag out. Gentle, but edged. Not a threat. Not a plea. A truth laid bare between us.

Heat prickled behind my ribs, very different from the fever.

“Con—”

“I’m not talking about last night alone,” he cut in, voice still quiet. “Or the cemetery. Or the bond. I mean all of it. Every time you step between someone and a hit meant for them. Every time you decide your life is a fair trade for theirs.”

“That’s my job,” I said automatically.

He shook his head once. “No. Your job is to lead, to fight, to protect. Not to offer yourself up like you’re disposable.”

“I know I’m not disposable,” I said, more intensely than I intended.

“Do you?” he asked.

The question slipped under my guard like a blade. Not cruel. Not accusing. Just… precise.