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"Fine, we'll skip the manicure tips," Nash fired back, his tone laced with that bitter edge. "But don't mistake my offer for a lighthearted jaunt. You'll train hard, and it will be brutal. Are you prepared for that?"
My stomach knotted at the thought of what 'brutal' entailed in Nash's world. But there was no backing down—not when my nightmares had flesh and were hunting the streets of Chicago.
"Train me to hit them where it hurts," I insisted, meeting his gaze with a defiance that echoed the chaos in my heart.
Nash studied me like he was seeing me for the first time—really seeing me. The artist who wielded her brush with the same ferocity she wanted to wield her fists. "Very well," he conceded, his voice low and even. "We'll build you into a weapon, Celeste. A beautiful, deadly one."
"Deadly beauty's my specialty," I murmured, a smug satisfaction curling inside me like smoke. Here I was, standing my ground with a vampire—a creature who could snap me like a twig—and yet, I felt powerful.
"Tomorrow, we start at dawn," Nash said. "And trust me, you'll wish it was just about keeping your nails intact."
The silence between us was a living thing, thick with the scent of espresso and unsaid words. I traced the rim of my coffee cup, each swirl of steam curling like a secret whisper against my skin. Nash leaned back against the counter, his gaze as piercing as the knives hanging on the magnetic strip behind him.
"Tell me something," he started, breaking the quiet with the kind of confidence that came from centuries of existence. "How do you feel about Italian food?"
I choked on a sip, coughing as I tried to process his angle. "What the actual fuck, Nash? We're talking combat training and killers, and now you want my opinion on pasta?"
"Combat training starts tomorrow," he said, his voice smooth as velvet and twice as dark. "But tonight, I want to show you something different. Something... normal."
"Normal?" I snorted. "Look, unless you've got a fetish for garlic bread, I don't think?—"
"Go out with me, Celeste," he interrupted, his eyes holding mine in a steady lock. "One evening to see the side of me that isn't covered in death and darkness."
My attraction to this vampire was a dangerous dance—a seductive push and pull that left me breathless and wary. But there was more than just fear twisting in the pit of my stomach; it was an unbidden thrill, a curiosity that clawed at my insides, hungry for the taste of the unknown.
"Is this some weird-ass courtship ritual for bloodsuckers?" I asked, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. "Because I gotta tell you, I'm not exactly debutante material."
"It's not a ritual," he replied, the corner of his mouth quirking in amusement. "It's a date, Celeste. A chance for us to step outside these walls—and our roles within them."
"What are you, a fucking Boy Scout trying to earn his chivalry badge?" Despite my words, a part of me warmed to the idea. What would it be like, to see the city through his ancient eyes? To peel back another layer of the man who had both terrified and intrigued me?
"Consider it an olive branch," he offered earnestly. "Or, if you prefer, call it a tactical engagement. Know your ally, Celeste."
"Ally, huh?" I mused aloud, scratching at the surface of the counter. The concept of Nash being anything other than a captor—or captivator—was foreign, but wasn't that what I craved? Something genuine amidst all the deception and pain that had colored my world?
"Fine," I said, throwing caution to the wind. "One date. But if you try any funny business, I swear I'll shove a breadstick where the sun doesn't shine."
Chapter 35
Celeste
The moon hung heavy over the sprawling Italian mansion, casting a silver glow on the manicured gardens as I waited. My fingers traced the hem of the dress Nash had chosen for me—a scandalous little number that felt like it belonged in the bedroom, not a five star restaurant. The breeze picked up, whispering secrets across my exposed thighs, reminding me how little there was between the night air and the parts of me he seemed to own.
A roar in the distance signaled his arrival before his sports car even crested the hill, sleek and predatory, just like the man behind the wheel. Nash Rigby—my tormentor and savior rolled into one devastatingly handsome package. He pulled up beside me, the engine's purr giving way to silence as he killed the ignition.
"Get in," he commanded, his voice a low rumble that reverberated through my bones. It wasn't a suggestion, it was an order—one I found myself all too eager to obey.
The door opened at his touch, a silent testament to his ever-present control. He didn't need to help me, he did it to remind me that he could be both a gentleman and a beast. His brown eyes locked onto mine, dark and unfathomable as the night sky above us.
"Nice outfit," he remarked, a smirk playing on those sinfully full lips.
"Thanks, I stole it from your closet," I shot back with a rebellious tilt of my chin, masking the tremors his presence caused.
His laugh was soft, appreciative of our game. Nash understood the dance of defiance and surrender better than anyone. Getting into the car, the leather seats cool against my skin, I prepared for whatever twisted pageantry he had in store tonight.
The drive was a blur, the streets of Italy nothing but streaks of color as we raced toward the restaurant. My heart pounded, anticipation curling inside me like a serpent waiting to strike. With Nash, every moment was laced with the promise of darkness and pleasure.
He parked in the shadows, away from prying eyes, his movements precise and deliberate. Before I could process our arrival, his hands were on me, pulling me down, my back against the plush seat, legs thrown up on the dashboard in an unceremoniously lewd display.
