Page 69 of Vampire Soldier
Three weeks.
That’s how long it’s been since our lives were flipped on their heads, shaken like a snow globe, and then, somehow, miraculously… allowed to settle. Not back into what it was before—I’m not that naïve—but into something that resembles a routine. A rhythm. Nightmares have faded. Locks have held. Alarms haven’t blared. Threats haven’t materialized. The guards that Malachi stationed near our home have become familiar shadows I glimpse and then forget. At first, Charlie was glued to my hip every time we stepped outside. Now, she’s back to being a carefree child.
Everything about this new existence is strange, but not in the way I thought it would be. There’s still the stress of shows, of lighting failures, of dancers who miss cues and sound techs who are probably clinically allergic to punctuality. But my life doesn’t feel like it’s teetering anymore, ready to fall over with one wrong move.
After the break-in, Malachi had taken control of the situation with surgical precision. And for a few days, I resented that. I’m not used to relying on someone. I’ve been my own lifeline for too long. Charlie’s, too. Letting someone else take the reins of my safety—our safety—felt like admitting I couldn’t protect her. Couldn’t protect myself. But then he proved he could listen to me.
He’s stood beside me, steady and fierce, not as a jailor or commander or savior, but as someone who looked at both me and Charlie and chose to stay. Not out of obligation. Not to claim a prize. But because he wants to. Because we matter to him.
And that... changes things.
Kit seems to have apparently vanished off the face…of the earth. Malachi didn’t say it aloud, but I suspect that meant Kasar caught up with him. Or maybe someone else from the Nightshade’s clan. I haven’t asked. Part of me doesn’t want to know, not really. So long as it’s over, that’s all I care about.
What I do know is that things have been quiet. Blessedly so. No more creepy gifts. No more stalkers leaving bracelets or boxes or impossible notes. Malachi hasn’t said Kit’s name in two weeks. I haven’t let it cross my lips either.
We’ve built something like normal around the edges of the wreckage. It started simple: morning coffee and shared commutes when our schedules aligned, shared dinners when they didn’t. At first, it was just about practicality. He would pick up Charlie when something ran late at The Place and I couldn’t. Or grocery shop when I forgot something vital like mac and cheese or toilet paper. I pretend that something in me doesn’t twist with gratitude every time. Now, his toothbrush is in my bathroom. One of his jackets has made its way onto a hook in the entryway, and Charlie wrote his name on the magnetic chalkboard where we usually keep our meal plan.
“Mal— pancakes Tuesday,” spelled in pink dry erase, his name shortened by familiarity.
The board’s still that way two weeks later. To be fair, he’s actually really good at making pancakes.
He hasn’t officially moved in. Most of his things are still at the Clan House, and he disappears from time to time for business. But when he’s gone, he texts. If it’s going to be long, he calls. He’s consistent in a way that I’m not used to, and I don’t think I’ll ever be.
Even now, pulling my jacket tighter around my torso while dodging puddles on the uneven sidewalk, I can’t seem to stop smiling like some lovestruck idiot. It’s a crisp Saturday morning, early enough that the streets haven’t fully come alive yet. The Barrows always moves a little slower on weekends—more hungover musicians than tourists, more sleepy-eyed baristas than feral shifters post-heat cycle. I pass by a closed pawn shop, an empty laundromat blinking a single flickering red “OPEN,” and the sweet, yeasty bite with cinnamon sugar drifts toward me from around the corner. A second later, I catch sight of Shorty’s awning—white canvas riddled with raindrop stains and trailing ivy that’s stubbornly grown through every crack in the brick facade. There’s a chipped wooden sign bolted above the doorway with curling hand-painted letters that read: Shorty’s Corner.
A bell jingles when I enter, and warmth rushes up to greet me—sugary, buttery, and threaded with the scent of fresh basil and the herbal tea bar tucked into the corner. The sound of an espresso machine whirring to life buzzes softly in the background, layered under the gentle clink of ceramic and the low murmur of weekend gossip. The scratched, well-worn hardwood floor creaks in welcome. It’s perfect.
There’s only one table loud enough to belong to the crew I’m meeting.
It’s tucked near the window, where a slant of pale sun shoves its way past a struggling vine desperately clinging to the edge of the pane. Tonya sits at the head like some sort of brunch monarch, decked out in gold hoop earrings and a rust-red blazer that somehow matches her lipstick perfectly. Her sunglasses are still on, even though we’re indoors and not nearly bougie enough for that to be ironic. She’s stirring three packets of sugar into her double espresso with all the purpose of a woman about to conduct a war council.
Angela’s perched on one side, oversized cardigan attempting to swallow her whole while she aggressively types something into her phone with a grin so wide it borders on criminal. Penny, in a rose-print sundress and combat boots, is sipping from a massive mug that reads A Non-Zero Chance of Being Whiskey. Renée, the last to join this pastel chaos circle, has her pale pink hair pulled into twin buns and is adjusting her sparkling notebook against the table like she’s preparing to take sworn testimony.
“Ladies,” I say, sliding into the one empty chair and shrugging out of my jacket. “Do I need representation for this brunch, or can I plead the fifth preemptively?”
“You wish,” Tonya says, canceling out any sense of mercy by jabbing toward me with her stirring spoon.
“You’re fifteen minutes late,” Angela sniffs dramatically, without looking up from her phone. “I was about to stage a rescue mission.”
Renée slides the glittering notebook onto the table between us, where the cover sparkles with pitiless glee. “Operation Bite Me is now in session,” she declares, flipping it open. “Subject: Blake Taylor. Species: alleged vampire girlfriend. Status: deeply sus.”
“I cannot believe you brought your damn notebook,” I groan, pressing both hands over my face. “And ‘alleged’? Really?”
Penny snorts into her mug. “She’s deflecting. Classic vampire girlfriend behavior.”
Tonya grins. “It’s not every day my favorite girl has a glow-up courtesy of an undead mafioso with designer tastes and bottomless pockets.”
“He did not glow me up,” I grumble, sliding the laminated brunch menu in front of my face like it’s a shield. “I’m perfectly glowed on my own, thank you very much.”
“Blake.” Tonya levels me with the look. The one she gives unruly bouncers and especially dumb men. “No matter what a vibrator’s description says, it can’t make you look as well-fucked as you do right now.”
My mouth opens, but nothing—absolutely nothing—makes it past my tongue. I blink once, twice, then drop the menu to the table in surrender. The table erupts in a chorus of hoots and air-sucking laughter, Renée wheezing into her napkin like a drunk toddler and Angela beating out a rhythm on the table like she’s leading a marching band dedicated solely to my public humiliation.
“Confirmed,” Angela cackles, raising an imaginary stamp and slamming it down toward Renée’s notebook. “Stage Five Satisfi-vamp.”
I want to die. Or disappear. Or develop the ability to turn invisible. Then again, I’d miss this. Right here. My girls—loud and nosey and entirely too invested—and somehow exactly what I need. I can’t even pretend to be mad, because yeah…I do feel different.
Not just because of Malachi, either. Though, if we’re being honest, the man did rearrange my internal organs three times in the same night and still had the audacity to feed me breakfast like he hadn’t prayed over every curve of my body with his mouth.
