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My breath hitched, fear and arousal swirling inside me. Nash chuckled darkly, pulling away.
"Drink your coffee, Little Shadow. We have much to discuss about your new...arrangements."
"What else is out there in the monster manual? Werewolves? Witches? Boogeymen?"
"Actually, yes." Nash's tone turned serious, his brown eyes darkening. "There are werewolves—beings with a ferocious strength tied to the lunar cycle. Witches who can bend reality to their will. And many more creatures that roam this earth, each with their own stories and powers."
"Shit," I muttered, the reality of his words sinking in. "That's a whole lot of freaky to process before breakfast."
"Indeed," he said, a hint of something unreadable in his voice. "But now that you're part of this world, Celeste, you need to understand what you're up against."
"Part of this world..." I echoed, letting the weight of his words hang between us. My life had become a dark canvas, splattered with the impossible and the terrifying; and here I was, caught in the middle of it all with a vampire who could snap me like a twig—or worse, seduce me into forgetting why I should be afraid.
"Remember, knowledge can be both a weapon and a shield," Nash added, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that sent shivers down my spine.
I leaned against the cool marble countertop, trying to appear nonchalant as Nash prowled around his kitchen like some kind of domesticated panther. The scent of brewing coffee was rich and heady, but it did little to soothe the restless energy that crackled between us.
"Okay, so vampires, werewolves, witches," I rattled off, ticking them on my fingers. "What's next? Ghosts with vendettas? Goblins running Ponzi schemes?"
Nash's movements stilled, and he turned to face me, the playful glint in his eyes replaced by a shadow. "There's more at stake than mythical mafias," he said grimly. "There's a killer in Chicago."
"Jesus," I swore under my breath. "What, like a serial killer kind of deal?"
"Exactly. And they're targeting the LGBTQ community. The attacks... they're brutal."
"Fuck," I breathed out, feeling the room spin. "Supernatural?"
"Potentially." Nash's jaw clenched. "The methods are too vicious, too inhuman. It's personal for me—I won't stand by while my city bleeds."
"Your city?" I scoffed. My mind raced, connecting dots I wished stayed apart. "Wait. My nightmares. The paintings..."
Nash's gaze snapped to me, sharp and assessing. "What about them?"
"Shit," I muttered, my hands trembling as I remembered the violent swirls of paint, the screams that echoed in my dreams. "They're not just random horror shows. They're crime scenes."
"Damn," he cursed softly, and I could see the gears turning behind those calculating eyes. "That changes things."
"Changes things?" I asked, incredulous. "It fucking flips the whole script! I've been painting murder galleries in my sleep and you're saying I'm what, psychic?"
"Or something else entirely," Nash mused, approaching me with a predator's grace. "If there's a connection, we need to explore it. You could be key to stopping this madness."
"Great," I said, voice laced with venom. "No pressure or anything."
"None at all," he agreed, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "We'll bring justice to those lost souls. Together."
"Damn right we will," I vowed, my fear twisting into a fierce determination. I was no damsel in distress; I was an avenging angel with a paintbrush. And hell hath no fury like an artist scorned. I slammed my fist on Nash's marble countertop, the clatter of my outburst ricocheting off the high ceilings like a gunshot. "Teach me," I demanded, my voice a blend of rage and resolve.
Nash turned from the hissing coffee pot, an eyebrow arched in cool appraisal. "Teach you what, exactly? The finer points of espresso?"
"Very funny," I shot back, rolling my eyes. "No, teach me how to fight—to defend myself."
"Are we talking a crash course in Krav Maga or full-blown vampire combat?" he joked, but I could tell behind the jest, he was taking me seriously.
"Whatever it takes," I growled, fed up with feeling like a porcelain doll in a world of steel and shadows. "I won't be your damsel in distress. I want to help, damn it. And not just as some psychic paintbrush-wielding sidekick."
"Alright." He nodded once, decisively, moving closer. His scent—leather and something darkly metallic—filled my senses. "You've got fire, Celeste. I admire that." A half-smile tugged at his lips. "But for the record, I'm impressed by more than your… spirit. Training begins tomorrow. We'll start with the basics and work our way up."
"Basics? Please, I'm not starting at 'how to punch without breaking a nail,'" I scoffed.
