Page 71 of Vampire Soldier
“He what?”
“Oops,” Wren mutters around a mouthful of cereal. “That was a surprise, remember?”
Eloise waves a hand. “Whatever. It’s like he’s nesting. It’s adorable.”
I press my hands to my face. “I can’t decide if this is sweet or incredibly overbearing.”
“It’s both,” Wren replies without missing a beat. “But it’s also hot, and you should enjoy it.”
“He’s trying,” Eloise adds, voice softer now. “In vampire speak, hovering and making your life more livable is like… proposing. He’s not just keeping you safe. He’s trying to build something.”
That sobers me a little. He’s told me I was his, that he’d protect me and Charlie. This isn’t the first time Eloise mentioned the word mate, but Malachi hasn’t. An ache builds behind my sternum. Is that what he’s really doing? A vampire ritual or version of proposing for matehood?
Charlie looks up at me from the couch. “I like it,” she says simply. “All of it. Even if he still thinks pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza.”
I laugh, throat tight. “That might be his one flaw.”
From the kitchen, Malachi calls, “I heard that.”
Wren raises her spoon. “You were meant to.”
The laughter eases that ache in my chest, and it disappears completely when Malachi comes in to join us, carrying another box of cereal. He drops it off beside Wren before taking a seat on the floor in front of me, saying something about the sanctity of pizza.
My phone buzzes and I roll my eyes at the name on the screen. Whenever I think my life is too good to be true, Sam comes around like the pinch I need. Except I don’t wake up from a dream, and not even him asking to swing by and borrow money for his rent can ruin my mood. I even agree to loan him the five hundred, knowing that thanks to my new job I won’t be putting us at financial risk if he takes forever to pay me back.
“What do you think, Blake?”
Malachi’s tone is light and humorous and I ignore Sam’s reply in favor of the man responsible for turning my life upside down. Maybe he is doing a slow proposal, and maybe, just maybe, I’m considering saying yes.
ChapterTwenty-Eight
BLAKE
The buzz of The Place is quieter than usual, a kind of solemn hum instead of the wild thunderclap it was during opening weekend. I step through the main doors and pull in a breath laced with scent: warm stage lights, soft dust, the faint spice-and-vanilla blend that’s everywhere backstage like an unspoken signature of movement. It’s the fourth weekend of shows now, and though the crowds haven’t lessened, the frenetic energy has sharpened. It no longer vibrates out of control; it thrums—tense, precise, practiced. Like we’ve all become a part of the same living machine, and I’m still surprised that the machine is mine to steer.
The air tingles with the pre-show ritual. Music filters faintly from behind the curtain. Laughter echoes down the corridor from the dressing area. The dancers are effortlessly easing into costumes now, their jokes less brittle with nerves and more rib-poking and warm. My clipboard rests light in my hand instead of clenched between white knuckles.
Joséphine has Charlie tonight, and the knot in my chest pulls a little looser knowing it. They’d already been elbows-deep in cinnamon sugar when I left, the kitchen clouded with warm spice while Charlie rattled off her list of cookie goals like they were blueprints for architectural masterpieces. Joséphine had given me a wink over her glasses and promised me flour would stay off the ceiling, “probably.” It’s not just trust I feel when I leave Charlie with her—it’s relief, sharp and undeniable. There’s something ageless in Joséphine’s presence, something solid. A kind of sanctuary wrapped in linen and lavender, forged over centuries of command. When she says my daughter will be safe, I believe her. And that belief is growing easier, night by night.
I move fluidly through the pre-show checklist: costumes are pressed and hung on the correct racks, fan-feathered bustles accounted for. One of the lighting gels from stage left was swapped too late for last night’s rehearsal, but it’s back now, fixed, and Perry already signed off on the corrected set.
When I pass through the tech corridor into the alcove off-stage, I take a silent moment to glance at the showlights. Every color channel is moving just right, the cross beams not too hot, and there’s something about it all that soothes the part of me that still panics, still waits for it all to fall apart. I tell that part she’s being ridiculous. And for once… she listens.
“Blake.” Perry’s voice draws me out of my thoughts as I swing toward the narrow corridor between the costume racks and his still-open clipboard. “We’re golden for tonight. Minor hiccup with Erin’s mic, but she’s already got the spare.”
“Perfect,” I say, sliding neatly into the spot beside him as he taps through a checklist. “You know, it’s weird not feeling like I’m about to throw up before every show.”
Perry gives a soft chuckle under his breath, the kind that makes his shoulders shift just a little without making him look away from the screen. “That’s because you’ve built us a damn war machine. Its ammunition just happens to be cased in rhinestones and tassels.”
I snort. “We aim to sparkle, not to miss.”
“Exactly.” He tilts his head in my direction, then gestures subtly toward the office between the private boxes above. “You’ve done a decent job keeping things under wraps. Shame the boss stares at you like HR isn’t a thing.”
“Youare HR.”
My laugh is softer this time, quieter, because it stirs something deeper. That sharp, sweet ache that comes from picturing him—Malachi, standing in his suit, golden eyes lifting the color right out of me. I hate seeing him put the colored contact lenses to disguise those eyes of his; how he avoids laughing or smiling too much around everyone to avoid displaying his fangs.
“You’ve seen him?” I ask, glancing upwards toward the darkness hidden by the stage lights. Even with the house lights on, it’s impossible to see through those dark, tinted windows. He’s up there somewhere—I can feel it. Like his presence lives in my bones, tugging gently at the marrow.
