Page 31

“Morning,” I said, then instantly regretted acknowledging him. I didn’t want him to think I was encouraging his skin-crawling behavior.

His gaze traveled down my body—the skirt, the boots, the tank top that suddenly felt too thin—and back up to my face. The corner of his mouth lifted, but the expression didn’t reach his eyes.

“Late night?” he asked.

“That would be none of your business.” I gripped my keys tighter. “I’m pretty sure there’s some rule about loitering in the hallways.”

I should’ve kept my mouth closed until I was by my door. Just like in his apartment, I had to turn sideways to pass. The corridor wasn’t wide to begin with, and his body blocked half of it.

The smell of stale cigarettes and sour mustiness clung to his clothes, making me gag as I squeezed by.

His voice followed me down the hall. “Nice skirt.”

“Fuck off, Lurch.”

I didn’t bother turning around. My mouth was brave, but my hands trembled as I jammed the key into my lock. I cursed under my breath when it stuck the way it always did. The door finally swung open, and I slipped inside, slamming it shut behind me. The deadbolt slid home with a satisfying click.

Holy. Fuck.

Leaning against the door, I forced myself to breathe. The encounter had lasted maybe thirty seconds, but my skin crawled like I’d walked through a spider web.

“Weirdo,” I muttered.

Pushing off the door, I kicked my boots toward the corner and headed for the bedroom. The suit bag still hung there, a dark rectangle propped against the wall. But it wasn’t alone anymore.

A small box sat on my bed.

It was white, tied with a black ribbon, the kind of packaging that screamed money and obligation. No delivery label. No note taped to the outside. Just the box, sitting on my comforter.

My father’s key. He still had one. He never visited, never called, never acknowledged my existence beyond rent payments and command appearances—but he had a key, and he used it to leave things in my apartment when I wasn’t home.

The invasion of his presence made my jaw clench. He could invade my home, but couldn’t have a conversation with his only son that didn’t end in a screaming match and slammed doors.

I didn’t open the box. Didn’t untie the ribbon or lift the lid. Fuck him. Instead, I picked it up, walked to the closet, and shoved it onto the top shelf behind a stack of old fashion magazines. Let it gather dust like my hope of ever having an accepting and loving father.

The suit bag got the same treatment. I grabbed it by the hanger, dragged it to the closet, and shoved it in beside the box. The zipper caught on a stray shoelace, and I yanked it free with brutal force.

“There,” I said to the empty room, swiping a few stray tears from my eyes. “Buried.”

Stripping off my clothes, I headed for the bathroom. The shower took forever to heat up, the old pipes groaning in protest before finally spitting out something approaching warm. I stepped under the spray and let the water beat against my shoulders, washing away the smell of the creepy neighbor and the faint smell of Deadeye’s sheets.

My shoulder stung when the water hit it.

Frowning, I twisted to look at the spot. The bite mark stood out against my skin—two red punctures, already darkening to purple at the edges. It wasn’t huge or gruesome. But it was definitely visible, definitely real, and definitely strange.

I touched it gently, pressing my fingertips to the bruised skin. The memory of his teeth sinking in came back in a rush—the sharp pinch of pain, the way it had tipped me over the edge, the guttural sound he’d made against my shoulder. Heat pooled low in my stomach, and I yanked my hand away.

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror after my shower, I twisted to look at the mark again. It was healing already, less red than it’d been an hour ago. But the shape was unmistakable. A bite. From a man who’d spent three days teaching me plumbing and one night taking me apart in his bed.

Why had he bitten me?

The question rattled around my skull as I dried my hair and pulled on clean clothes. Not that I’d minded. The opposite, actually, which was concerning in its own right. But the deliberateness of it. The way he’d sunk his teeth in right as I came, like it was instinct, like it was necessary, stuck in my brain like a splinter.

Maybe it was a kink. That was the simplest explanation. Some people liked biting. Some people liked being bitten. I’d never been one of them before last night, but Deadeye had a way of making unexpected things feel natural.

Maybe it was a claiming thing. Territorial. Primal. The thought sent a flush crawling up my face. He’d certainly acted possessive in the hallway with the creepy neighbor, positioning himself between us like a shield. Maybe the bite was an extension of that, a physical marker of something unspoken.

Maybe he was secretly a vampire.