Page 101 of Fang Fatale

Daisy opens the register and counts the till. “So who’s making dinner?”

“I am,” I admit, and immediately regret it.

Daisy’s face morphs into a smug crescent moon. “What’s on the menu, Chef?”

“Homemade gnocchi.”

“Oh my God.” Daisy’s voice goes up a full octave. “Do you want to borrow my apron? The one that says PASTA LA VISTA, BABY?”

“I will burn that apron,” I say, still grinning.

Daisy leans in and lowers her voice. “Is he going to bite you?”

I blink. The truth is, Alaric has been the opposite of predatory. We’ve spent a dozen evenings together, sometimes in absolute seclusion, and he’s never once hinted at the fangs. If anything, he’s respectful to a fault, like he’s waiting for me to ask first.

I shrug. “He’s barely touched me since the graveyard.”

Daisy nods, suddenly serious. “That’s a power move. He’s making you desperate.”

I snort. “He’s a gentleman, and I’m not desperate.”

But now that she’s said it, I can’t unthink it: the way his hands hover, never quite closing the distance, every look loaded like he’s holding something back. The memory of the graveyard—cold stone, wet grass, Alaric pressed against me, his lips at my temple, and the absolute, trembling control he kept.

I don’t think I’ve ever been with someone more dangerous, or someone who has worked harder to make me feel safe.

I asked him once if he was afraid he might lose control. He only smiled and said he didn’t want to do anything I wouldn’t remember in the morning.

Which is why tonight, I’m the one making the first move.

My cottage is small but mercifully soundproofed. Its bay windows peer out over a moonlit clearing, which at this hour is little more than mist and a couple of raccoons dueling with tarnished blades. I stumble home with just enough time to reapply my lipstick and nearly impale myself wrestling open a new bottle of elderberry wine.

At 8:58, Alaric texts.

Should I bring garlic bread? I’m mildly allergic, but my craving trumps the hives.

I type back, You’d better.

Then, after a beat: But try to control yourself. I don’t want you sick all night.

He replies with a gif of a gentleman performing a lavish bow. For someone who hunts horrors in the night, he’s disgustingly good at the internet.

When he knocks, I fling the door open too fast and nearly skull him. Alaric’s hair is soaked, as if he’s just stepped out of a river or, more likely, tussled with something unpleasant. He’s wearing a shirt that’s probably older than I am, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and his smile is less a smile than its pale echo.

I let him in.

He offers the bread as a peace token and does not comment on my world’s sluttiest apron. For a man with superhuman senses, his restraint is almost pathological.

The gnocchi turns into a calamity. I overboil the dumplings, then panic and dump half a salt shaker into the sauce. He eats it anyway, which is either true gallantry or the world’s longest con. He even asks for seconds, which tells me either he’s lying through his perfectly straight face or vampires have absolutely no standards where gnocchi are concerned.

“So,” he says after the second glass, “what’s next?”

I’ve been waiting for that cue. I rise, collect the dishes, and set them in the sink. Instead of turning back, I lean against the mossy counter and study him. He lounges like a great cat, legs stretched out, head cocked as if he’s hearing a joke I haven’t told yet.

Subtlety has never been my forte.

I cross the room in two strides and yank his hand hard enough to jolt him upright, every muscle instantly alert. He towers over me—a built-in intimidation tactic—but tonight I refuse to be cowed by genetics or whatever arcane potion fuels him.

He holds perfectly still.