Bryony, the vampire bane of my existence, actually leaves the house. She told me to go fuck myself, pretty much word for word, and I watched her superspeed off, into the dark of night, mere moments later. She told me that my blood makes her stomach turn and she'd rather gouge out her own entrails than subject herself to my sorry state.

Pretty typical, really. And Sam called it. If I ask Bryony for a favor, she'll do the exact opposite.

Still, I thought the whole reverse psychology bit only worked on children. And I never thought I'd be lucky enough . . . to get Bryony out of the house . . . when I need it most.

I couldn't have asked for a better outcome. After turning off the front-door camera from my phone—Halloween is a busy night at the manor and hopefully no one notices—Sam and I just go upstairs, step by noisy step. I rely on her support more than seems fair, considering our size difference and the explanations I've offered, evasively at best.

There's no playing it by ear, making up excuses on the fly. She simply guides me to the bathroom and fetches the needle-nose pliers from my toolbox. Within minutes, the shower is running and we're behind a locked door.

What did I miss? I wonder, letting the shirt over my shoulders drop to the floor. There has to be a catch...

Sam turns around and removes the oversized white T-shirt she borrowed from me. She's back to the skin-tight leggings and flimsy black bra, except now, there's actually light.

I don't blink, absorbing every detail of her backside every instant I can get away with it.

It isn't a big bathroom. There are few other places to look. Still, I make myself try. As soon as her head swivels toward her bare shoulder, my eyes flick to the shower curtain. I get in, wisely or regrettably, with my jeans still on. It's too soon to tell. At the foot of the tub, Sam follows me in there, still somewhat clothed as well. For now, I'll vote wisely.

Her scent, in this enclosed space, hits me immediately. The Tierney residue has faded beneath the dirt, sweat, and blood—mine—but surfacing above all that, is the lingering, fresh, fruity scent of her hair, and the intoxicating chemistry of her body. She hasn't yet bled in my company—I would have noticed—but I'm almost certain she will soon.

She takes a step closer to me, her forearms shielding her chest out of modesty or to preserve heat. I turn toward the showerhead and rinse off some of the blood, dirt, and debris, hoping, all the while, the chill will sink in where it matters most.

Unfortunately, until the bullets are out, the water has to be cold. We are both feeling that, and it's something fierce.

When I pull the dime from my shoulder, it's the second blow to my desire. I bite back the urge to keel over and vomit and turn to face Sam with a wince.

She's shivering, too. I can feel it when she brushes against me. She struggles to keep her hand steady as she picks at my shoulder wound, trying to fish out a bullet from a hole that keeps resisting.

There should be nothing racy about this moment. I can't detach it from our interaction, though. My senses are sharpening, dulling, drowning, freezing and on fire, depending on the instant, what she's doing, where she's looking—the wound—and touching—my lower back for some support and leverage.

She doesn't seem receptive, in that way. Not today, anyway. And certainly not now. When I tally all the reasons I've given her to turn that off for good, it's no surprise.

I shouldn't be receptive either, but this is an extreme situation, and, well, a certain uninjured part of me seems immune to the surrounding pain and overwhelming uncertainty.

There is no fixed point in my life right now. Everything I have—which isn't much—could be gone tomorrow. I could be gone tomorrow.

The lightheadedness makes me teeter, on the brink of collapse. She secures her grip on my back with more of her arm and strength.

There's a slightly more aggressive poke, and then the first bullet drops to the tub floor with a jarring clack. Before the relief has a chance to set in, before I'm ready for her obvious next move, she's on her knees in front of me. She looks up at me with those wide, beguiling blue eyes of hers. They're nervous, playful, but they have this veil of sadness that never quite dissipates.

She sets a hand on the thigh of my injured side and gives me a slight, closed-lip grin, opening and closing the pliers, reminding me why she's actually down there. Hard to believe, but yes, for a moment it slips my mind.

When it finally comes to me, I attempt to do too many things at once—remove the underwear wadded by the wound, unbutton my jeans with my stiff, wet fingers, and keep myself down and out of her view, as much as humanly possible. I'm going to fail at something, though. And then she'll know. How weak I am. My lack of control. What a sham my "disinterest" has been.

I whirl around and adjust myself without her watching. Once the button is open, I pull the dime from the inner side of my hip with a grunt and return to her gaze and the pliers. I keep one pant-flap open at the wound and the other pinned down with my fist. Then I hold my breath and stiffen everywhere, pointing my gaze at either the ceiling or the backs of my eyelids.

"You were just a few inches away from a really bad night," Sam comments while she digs into my body, and not in a way that is at all pleasant.

I manage to get out a brief, airy snicker. I'd like to have the breath and gumption to tell her how many inches we'd both be from a really good night, but, alas, I have neither. It will now and forever remain just a dirty thought.

"Almost there," she informs me. "Unlike the other one, this one went in straight."

I nod. There's an immediate and excruciating pinch, tug, and tear. Then the clack, and I can breathe again.

My chest is still heaving when I turn around, button up, and jack up the hot water. I let it wash away the last of the blood and grime and rub a hand over my face.

Without delay, I swivel Sam into the hot water. She emits a tiny yelp from surprise and overcomes our tangled feet by setting her hands on my biceps. Once the warmth sets in, she gasps with relief of her own.

Her hands go to her ponytail. She removes the elastic and sweeps loose strands of hair from her face and into the stream with the rest.

My hands refuse to move. They remain on her bare waist. If she notices, she doesn't mind. And if she doesn't mind...

After a brief touch by my fast-healing shoulder, she pulls me closer at the shoulder blades, placing us both into the hot water as completely as possible. We settle into an embrace, her ear to my heart, her body against mine.

In comfortable silence, we both take a moment to recover from the night's horrors. I don't know about her, but for me, it seems to go a lot smoother with her in my arms, steam all around us. It's a far cry from freezing, bleeding, bickering, naked in the woods, all of which I deserved. She didn't leave me there, though. Or give up when I collapsed.

My fingertips graze her bra clasp. "You did good tonight," I tell her out of a lack of anything better to say.

I feel the jerk of her laughter. It stirs something in me that's been waiting to come out, for a while now, I admit. I'm not sure I can contain it for much longer. It's a beast, and it's hungry for her flesh.

"What?" I respond. "You don't think it's true? Or you didn't expect to hear it from me?"

She removes her head from my chest to look up at me. "I didn't expect to hear it from anyone, ever." She shrugs one shoulder.

"You should give yourself more credit." I lightly pinch her sides and then drop my hands. "Small doesn't mean weak. Maybe you haven't found your true strength yet. If tonight is any indication, you may be looking in all the wrong places."

"Is that your way of saying I should be with you, in your world?" Her eyes are smiling up at me.

I shake my head, not even knowing why. It's not the right answer to her question. Together, I'm now confident, we'd get by. She works hard. She's not squeamish and can handle the elements and hardship. The running away idea is still ludicrous for all that we'd be up against, but it's a tempting possibility all of a sudden.

Bottling up my breath, clenching every muscle I have, I close my eyes. I'm not touching her anymore, but she's still touching me—grazing my back, stroking down the back of my sopping wet jeans, which are so heavy, mostly with my desire to be free of them.

The pressure. The constraint. The chafing. It's just maddening.

While I'm about to implode, she rises to her tiptoes and places a kiss on my collarbone. "Do you realize you're shaking?" Her mouth climbs, grazes, and bounces up to my ear.

I lower my head and nuzzle into it, and then clench with regret. "It takes a lot of strength to resist you."

"Then stop."

She persists. And I . . . I...

Snap. Every remaining tether to caution, and tact, and self-preservation—it all breaks when I explode. I take her mouth, body into mine, one frantic bit at a time, everything I can mouth or touch.

"I wish I was taller," she mutters through a gasp while I'm devouring her neck.

Wish granted. With my strength back and the pain subsiding, I hoist her up underneath her legs and press her against the tile beside the water stream. We resume our deep kiss at the mouth, her hands in my hair.

She isn't heavy. It's hot, exhilarating, damn near inspiring that I could pull off a good, hard pounding without much strain, except where it counts. Even so, she plants her feet on the opposite side of the tub, freeing my hands, if I so choose, and I don't let the opportunity go to waste.

I cup her face, giving her our deepest kiss yet. My hands then drop down and slide back up her waist. They converge at her bra clasp. I get it unhooked on my second eager attempt. The straps slip from her shoulders, and I dive in, headfirst, taking a few nips of the sweetest flesh I've ever tasted. I mouth my way back to her lips and reach for the button of my jeans. That's when she squeezes my biceps and I get a whiff of her fear. It's enough to stay my hand.

"I, uh, I'm sorry," Sam gets out, her chest still heaving.

I dial the fervor down about twenty notches and give her one gentle kiss on the collarbone. "You don't have to be sorry."

"I know, it's just, well, in the past—"

"It's none of my business," I cut in.

I don't want to know the details right now, and I peck her lips, over and over again, so she doesn't have a chance to continue. If I let her talk, I might learn the big truth. And what Sam and I have will be over, regardless of what that truth may be. I'd rather idle in the before than cope with whatever comes after.

"He made it your business, didn't he?" She cradles my head as I begin mouthing her neck and ear again. "The gunshots and all. And the damage he caused..."

"I'm over it," I come up for air to say and I toss in a smirk.

"I also meant me," she admits softly, her eyes down.

That gets my attention. My head lifts. I'm sure all the pleasure drains from my face. "What did he do? What else did he do, I should say?" The black eye, the stalking, the taillight, the abduction attempt. All are known. It's what she's not telling me, about the "damage" I can't see, that has my blood about to boil.

She shudders at my tone. Or the memory. I don't know which. Then she forces a sad smile, gives me a slow, sweet kiss—a well-timed distraction that almost works—and tags on a "forget it," when she's through.

"I can't," I persist, as much as it pains me. "And you're right. It is my business. I'm sorry I cut you off. You were about to explain why you felt the need to apologize for saying no, and I'd like you to continue."

"I didn't say no to you," she informs me. "I wasn't going to say no. Or afraid to say it if I changed my mind. But, I thought you had the right to know, that, in the past, no was a source of conflict. And, as you can probably figure out, it didn't end well."

"Didn't end well, how?"

"It's not what you're thinking," she divulges, her head clunking against the tile, her eyes off in space somewhere to her left. "But. . ." She takes a shallow gulp. Her eyes flounder toward mine, but they ultimately drop. "It was a close call. There was an unfortunate incident with a belt, and I completely freaked out, well beyond what must have seemed rational at the time. If I seem uneasy right now, it's because I am. I have some experience, but it's not good experience. I don't know what I'm doing, and if that's obvious and a dealbreaker. I know it isn't for everyone..."

"So, you're telling me you're a virgin?" I attempt to confirm. I'm genuinely not sure, and at this point, I feel I should know.

She cringes. "I hate that word, but yes, technically."

I don't get a chance to absorb that. The range of emotion is probably a kaleidoscope in my eyes. Everything from kill Ted, to oh shit, she's the one they're looking for.

Then there's a thump on the roof that has us both looking up.

"What was that?" she asks me.

"I don't know," I lie, helping her down from the wall.

I quickly wipe off the saliva from my face and chest, and any lingering essence of what was about to happen or almost happen, to any degree she was comfortable with, and I stumble out of the shower.

Removing my sopping wet jeans, I replace them with a towel. My wounds are sensitive to the touch, but they've at least healed over. It'll be one less thing to explain.

"Should I be concerned?" Sam peeks out to say, re-clasping her bra around two of the most delectable tits I've ever sampled.

I wish I had more time to fully appreciate this fetching creature. Her insecurities and innocence only add to the effect.

"Just. . ." I run a hand through my hair and shake the moisture off a limb that's shaking already. "Lock the door behind me and finish up. Don't open it unless you hear from me and only me."

She knows there's more to it than that, but she manages a nod after only a beat of hesitancy.

I step out and close the door, but I don't leave the area until the lock clicks behind me.

***

Ivy is gripping onto the back of my computer chair like she's trying to melt the plastic. If the fury in her eyes is any indication, this is not an exaggeration.

Bryony is leaning against the wall by my window. Her stance is casual. She's feigning boredom. At my arrival, the sneer that snakes its way over her "perfect" face tells me a different story. The fun is about to begin at my expense.

Like a psycho in a horror movie, heavy footsteps close in from behind. I catch a whiff and then a glimpse of Rollin in the doorway. He readies his fists by cracking his knuckles.

"What is this? An intervention?" More like an ambush... "Can I at least put some clothes on first?" I ask Ivy.

She pulls out her phone and her attention moves there. "How was your shower?"

"Never better," I growl back.

"Yes, I can see that." She turns her screen around. The picture is small and hazy, but it's still fairly obvious that Sam is against the shower wall and my head is buried in the crook of her neck. I'm just a blur of hair and lust. Sam, however, doesn't need good lighting or a pose. Water suits her. Her eyes are closed. She looks at peace. Only her slight pucker would suggest she's at all aroused.

"You have a camera in the shower," I comment. It's not even a question. I should be surprised, but instead, I feel like an idiot. Of course there'd be surveillance that I don't have access to, in highly inappropriate places.

Ivy continues to scroll through her reel. "What were you two talking about for so long?"

"No audio? I'm almost disappointed."

Her glare shoots to mine and hits like an icepick, demanding an answer for the question she doesn't bother to reiterate.

A "nothing!" bursts out of me under the weight of her scrutiny. "I still don't know anything. I need more time."

Bryony's scoff is outright cruel. "You're such a lousy liar, Jael. It's almost endearing."

Ivy glances at her best friend, and they share a snort of agreement.

"Tell her the truth." Rollin pushes me in the back, and I stumble a step. I was prepared for the hit, but he's a brute and an asshole at every chance. "Or I'll barge in and ask Sam, and it won't be nicely."

"Why don't you, Rollin? I'm tired of waiting." Ivy flicks her hand like a queen who doesn't need force to show power. "Jael actually abstained, amazingly enough. But if other males weren't quite so gallant, you have my permission to do your worst and get rid of her."

"What?" I yelp. "Get rid of her? I hope you mean eviction." I whirl toward Rollin when he makes a move toward the bathroom, where the water is still running. She's showering, probably naked by now, nauseatingly vulnerable, and somewhat unsuspecting. What was I thinking? A feeble door lock won't stop him. "Just. Wait," I say to Rollin, my eyes flaring. The fury and fear are practically mind-bending, room-warping. It's hard to judge distance or my chances, at anything I might attempt.

I have seniority over him. Or used to. I can't override anything Ivy says, but at least he holds off, probably out of curiosity, to see if I'll squeal, or beg, or lose my temper, all of which he'd enjoy witnessing or acting upon.

My forced breath is like fire in my lungs. It consumes more oxygen than it delivers. "Let's be reasonable," I hiss out. "We don't need to go to such extremes. I'm willing to negotiate."

"Good." Ivy crosses her arms and plasters on a fake smile, red as the blood she's after. "There's a certain sensitivity to these matters," she informs us, intentionally, once again, leaving out key details. "I was going to take my chances at this point. This girl isn't ornery or hideously ugly, and that gives me a little wiggle room. But, in general, force is not the most effective way to manipulate a virgin. I'll get better results if the information is offered sincerely. That's why you, Jael, were chosen for this job. I thought you were loyal to me, but your betrayal and self-indulgence are just as well, if it's a means to a desirable end."

"You just need a period blood sample?" I jump in, before really thinking it through. "Be specific, for once."

"Just a few drops," Ivy clips, cold and calm, glancing conspiratorially at Bryony, who looks as pleased as a cat with a mouse. "Are you admitting that she is a virgin, and she disclosed this information to you freely and in confidence?"

"Look..." I lift both hands in complete surrender. I can't take the three of them on and expect to get Sam out of here unharmed. "She knows what I am. She's halfway to figuring out the rest. I'm sure if you let me explain, she'll cooperate. And we can all move on with our lives. I trust her not to tell anyone. She understands the risk already. So, no one has to get hurt here. If you have to punish someone for all this, let it be me. I've offended you, Ivy, and I'm truly sorry, and if it helps at all, I promise I won't ever see Sam again. I admit. It's for the best." For Sam, at least. "I'll do anything. Just . . . please. I don't ask for much..."

"I'll take that as a yes," Ivy says simply, as if my plea, my dedication to her family, and overall obedience were as empty as her soul. "Rollin, you know what to do."

"Don't," I snarl. "I'll fucking kill you." The claws begin to come out. The hair. The drool. And I'm having trouble staying on two feet.

This time he doesn't listen to me. The big boots plod down the hall. Wood splinters. And then comes the gut-wrenching scream.

I fall to my knees, gritting my teeth through a whole lot of pain. Ivy has me under some sort of spell. Bryony has her stone-cold arm around my throat.

Am I wolf or man? I'm stuck somewhere in between. I have the misery of both, the advantage of neither.

"I thought, thought—" I sputter with a thick tongue and just a wisp of breath. "You, you . . . lie . . . lie, lie."

Ivy takes her sweet time mocking me, imitating the choking sounds, blubbering, and ugly facial expressions, and then her demeanor suddenly whets to a deadly point. "You thought wrong, dear. And no, I didn't lie, per se. I do need that blood for a potion, but it's just a small piece of a bigger picture. I have to consider my future, my success and happiness. And I'm so sorry to say this, my pet," she carries on, clearly not sorry at all, "but there's absolutely no way that pretty little plaything of yours will survive. I'd let you say goodbye, but I think we both know by now that I'm not that kind."

I push, push, push through the magic and chokehold until the fury of my full roar tears from my throat. Lunging for Ivy, who manages to dodge me, and then bounding around the small room for another try, breaking furniture, slashing linens, and snarling rabidly, I'm finally put to rest with a white blast. I crash to a stop against the wall, emitting a pitiful little yip, and then I'm out. I've got nothing left.