My feet stepped over the threshold of the place that had been my home for most of my childhood. Memories of jam cookies in the back seat of an old Citroën came rushing back—doing my homework to the background sounds of French news, tools clinking against metal, and my dad's muttering. 

The heavy smell of motor oil filled the workshop, the lighting was dim except for a few flickering, half-broken fluorescent lights and a spotlight shining directly onto an open hood. There he was—my dad. A slightly overweight man in snug blue work pants and a gray, oil-stained T-shirt. He leaned over the bumper, his belly resting against the radiator as he worked. His breathing was heavy, and it was obvious he was battling the aches of old age. His arms moved frantically as he struggled to loosen a stubborn bolt, a steady stream of curses pouring from his lips. I couldn't help but smile. "

Pass me the socket wrench!" he muttered to Conor, who had stepped up beside me and now stood closest to the car. Dad waved vaguely toward the toolbox as he spoke. 

Conor's puzzled expression flickered between my dad's waving hand and the overflowing toolbox, but his hands stayed firmly planted in his jeans pockets. 

"He doesn't speak French, Dad," I teased, stepping past Conor with a grin. 

I found the tool my dad needed, but instead of handing it to him, I moved directly to the hood and took over. The bolt he'd been fighting with twisted loose easily with my vampire strength, and I silently prayed he wouldn't start asking too many awkward questions. "

Well, then, you'll just have to translate, boy!" he laughed, pulling me into a hug and kissing my cheeks one at a time. "You've grown!" 

A warm, indescribable feeling spread through me, and I smiled tenderly at the little man with gray hair and lively eyes. There was no doubt I took after my mother, in every way. But my dad was the one who had fought as a single parent to give me a good upbringing, doing his best to raise me ever since the day my mom passed away. Even though I'd always felt at home in the garage with him, he often reminded me that I belonged somewhere else, teasing me endlessly about my fascination with books and far-off worlds. 

"Maurice," he said, extending his hand to the wolf, who shook it without hesitation despite the oil stains and grime from the workshop. 

"Conor," came the polite reply, followed by my dad leaning up quickly to plant a light kiss on both his cheeks. 

"Welcome to France," he chuckled, amused by the wolf's slightly uncomfortable reaction. 

I hurried to explain that it was just the way we greeted people here. Conor nodded at my explanation, glancing around the workshop before his eyes met mine. 

"Does he need more help?" 

"Probably," I replied with a shrug, tying my hair into a bun and rolling up the sleeves of my white shirt. Switching to French, I said, "Take a break, Dad. We're hungry, and I've been craving your cooking for years." 

A relieved sigh escaped the old man, and I watched him wince as he straightened his back. His expression soon softened into a broad smile. "Thanks, boys. I'm a bit behind," he admitted, glancing around the workshop with a deep furrow in his brow. 

"Breathe, Dad. We'll be here for a while." 

The old man looked from me to Conor, then back to me again. "I'll cherish every second, boy. You're both welcome to stay."

I woke up with a jolt, the dream slipping away instantly, and with it, the warmth it brought. I had to fight against the tears again. How much had I cried these past few days? God, I missed my dad. Grabbing my phone, I opened the banking app. A few taps later, two months' rent was paid for him. It was all I could do from here, and honestly, I didn't need the money. With how much I'd been working lately, I'd be fine.  

But the lump in my throat lingered, and the bed felt overwhelmingly empty. My thoughts darted back and forth. Conor was at work, but his scent still clung to his pillow, so I immediately switched to his side of the bed. Instantly, everything felt a little better. He had insisted I stay at his apartment for a while, saying it would be safer that way, and I didn't mind. On the contrary, I felt safe here. We had talked a little, trying to come up with a plan. But it was difficult, and it bothered me that Conor seemed to have some sort of respect for Clock. The goal was to support a strong vampire who could take on all the crap for us—we just needed to find the right person, and I didn't have many suggestions. With a sigh, I closed my eyes again in a futile attempt to return to the dream, but instead, I drifted into a restless waiting—a waiting for the sound of a key turning in the lock. With Conor's schedule, I knew it wouldn't happen until long past the early hours of the morning.

Eventually I heard the front door slammed shut with a bang, and I could tell from his footsteps how irritated he was. 

"Someone's following me," he huffed, yanking down the blinds in the living room where I sat half-watching Jeopardy.

"A vampire?" I asked nervously, glancing up at him as he struggled to control his wolf, which probably wanted to rip the throat out of the nearest bloodsucker at any moment. Hopefully, not mine.

"What else?" he muttered, sinking onto the couch beside me.

"A rabid fox, maybe?" I offered, trying to lighten the mood. "An old girlfriend who—" 

 "No," he interrupted sharply, shooting me a look that shut me up immediately. His mood told me the situation was serious—he wouldn't be this upset otherwise. I sighed inwardly, unwilling flashes of past lives coming to mind. If someone had noticed Conor, we were both in deep trouble, and we couldn't handle this alone.  "Say what you're thinking." His words were more of a command than a suggestion, but I didn't blame him. This was about his life as much as mine.  

"I think they've marked you," I muttered, fiddling nervously with the loose threads around the hole in the knee of my ripped jeans. "Chosen you." 

 "Why?" he demanded, his tone harsh. "And what the hell does that mean in plain English?" 

 I ran a hand through my hair, turning to face him. "I've heard some rumors," I began. "Some people think Clocksworth works for me, which isn't entirely untrue. It may look like he was following my orders." 

 "Go on." 

 "This is just what I think, okay?" Unconsciously, I bit my lower lip, chewing it nervously before continuing. "We have rules in my world, but everything's so different here compared to France," I rambled, my eyes fixed on my hands. "But I guess there's some kind of hierarchy in Noxwood." 

"Which is gone now," he noted, and I was relieved to hear his voice had calmed somewhat. 

 "So now it's open season to take the top spot, and some idiot probably sees me as a threat, someone in their way." I paused, sneaking a glance at him and suddenly feeling a little embarrassed. "And you're my Achilles' heel." 

 "So they're going to come after me to get to you," he muttered, leaning back into the couch and rubbing his face with his hands. 

 "Maybe you should warn your fami—your pack," I mumbled, twisting a strand of hair around my finger. 

 He said nothing. I waited for a reaction, but none came. The silence grew unbearably heavy, and soon it felt like I was waiting for a verdict. Like he was weighing whether I was even worth the trouble. I desperately hoped he understood this was beyond my control. As the gravity of the situation sank in, the wolf stood up from the couch without a word and left the room, not sparing me a glance. 

 My heart shattered when I heard the apartment door slam shut. God, how I wished he'd never gotten involved in this mess. I curled up on the couch, frantically trying to come up with a solution—one that wouldn't involve Clocksworth. Digging my phone out from between the couch cushions, I scrolled to the number of a friend I'd always been able to rely on. I hated dragging more people into my problems, but what other choice did I have? I sighed and tapped the French number, letting it ring.  

It was all Clocksworth's fault! That's what I kept telling myself, but the guilt easily took over, and my mind filled with "what ifs." What if I had never gone to that idiot to buy blood? What if I hadn't had so many damn feelings and had just settled for a bit of sporadic sex? What if I had never left New York? Then he wouldn't have gotten involved. 

 I let out a heavy sigh and leaned against the bus station building. The sun was extra warm today, and everyone else on the platform crowded into the shade, but I didn't care that the sunlight was beating down on me—vampires didn't get sunburned, and I wasn't in the mood for company. 

I pulled out my phone to check the time—ten minutes until the bus arrived. I opened my messaging app and scrolled to Conor's name. Maybe it was time to send a; hey or a heart emoji? Or perhaps a; are you okay? Are you alive? would be more appropriate; there was a chance he was—. Damn it, get it together, Belmont, I scolded myself sharply and sent a simple "I miss you." 

 It had been three days since he left the apartment. I stayed for a few hours, waiting, but when he didn't come back, I packed my things and went home. 

The next day, he called and yelled at me, "I told you to stay in my apartment!" he roared on the other end, forcing me to pull the phone an inch away from my ear. 

 "I thought you wanted some space," I had replied, lacking any confidence in my voice. 

 After a moment of silence, he responded in a steadier, much calmer tone, "I need to think. And it's easier if I know you're okay." 

Just then, my phone chimed as the bus rounded the corner to the stop. The message; Where are you? flashed on the screen, and I quickly replied; At the bus station, before I was suddenly bombarded by kisses and giggles from a hyperactive Marianne.

"Beeelmooont! Ceeeeriiieeee...!" 

 "Bonjour, Marie," I laughed, lifting her up into my arms. Her legs instantly wrapped around my waist, and she hung on me like a mischievous monkey, her bright blue eyes sparkling with excitement. 

"I've missed you, sweetheart!" she squealed, her wild hair bouncing as she ran her fingers through my long hair, practically vibrating with energy. "What kind of trouble are you getting into out here?" 

 "We can talk about that when we get home?"

 "Or now!" she insisted, her eyes wide with playful defiance. 

I quickly gave her the short version of me leaving Clocksworth. "Can we save the rest for home?" I grumbled, adjusting her to get a better grip. 

 "Sure, cutie," she replied with a cheeky smile, kissing my cheek before jumping down onto the asphalt and taking my hand with a dramatic flourish. 

 I turned to show her the way but barely took a couple of steps before I spotted the wolf standing a short distance away, hands in pockets, watching us expectantly. 

 "Wait here," I muttered to Marianne and walked towards him. He waited patiently, holding my gaze steadily. "Hey," I said, a bit surprised when I was close enough. 

 "Did you suddenly drop your phone under the bus? Did the battery die? Or are you too damn busy to answer when I call?!" 

 I looked up, surprised, into his irritated but also slightly worried eyes. "What?" I pulled my phone from my pocket and saw several missed calls and a voicemail on the screen. "I just answered you..." 

 "I thought you were about to leave." 

 I couldn't help but smile at his response. "So you... you came after me..." 

 "Don't get any ideas," he muttered, but he didn't stop me from pressing my lips against his and reluctantly returning my kiss. 

 "I'm not going anywhere; I was waiting for someone," I grinned, letting my hand slide into his and waving for Marianne to come closer. 

 "Bonjour!" she called, waving one hand with an exaggerated twirl of her wrist. 

"This is Marianne; she's going to help us." 

 "Her?" he asked skeptically, studying the petite girl from head to toe. She was 155 centimeters tall, with icy blonde hair styled in wild pigtails that stuck out in all directions, bright blue eyes that seemed to shimmer with mischief, and enough makeup to start her own beauty line. 

 She tilted her head, chewing on her thumbnail with an impish grin. "Don't judge a book by its cover, wolf-boy," she shot back, her voice playful yet confident. 

 I squeezed his hand a little tighter and nodded reassuringly. "Marianne is all we need." 

 "If you say so," he replied uncertainly, leading us toward the car. "I hope you're right." 

A/N - Marianne is back! How do we feel about that? ❤️

Aaaand... thoughts on Conor?