Page 74 of Vampire Soldier
Icatch the scent of Ashe’s agitation the moment before the door slams into the wall.
His scent—cutting through the hush of postcoital air and blood—slices under my skin and lances deep. It rides the charged weight of the room and settles like a blade into my spine. He didn’t knock again. Didn’t announce himself properly. That tells me more than any report could.
“We have a problem.”
And the world stills.
Across my lap, Blake stiffens. Her heartbeat, already slowing after what I just did to her against the desk, picks up again. Not in pleasure this time. Fear. Embarrassment too, the flush creeping up her throat like a bloom of wildfire. She tries to twist modestly, subtly drawing the hem of her shirt down. Her scent, a mix of sweat and satisfied desire, curls like incense in the air. Heat clings to her skin, to mine, mingling in a way that would normally drive me into another round of hungry worship.
But not now.
Not with Ashe’s face carved from stone. Not with the electric roar of danger snapping my instincts awake.
Blake’s voice falters as she starts to lift herself out of my lap, instinct trying to piece dignity back together. But I anchor her with one arm around her waist, the other bracing against the armrest of the my chair as I meet Ashe’s golden stare straight on.
“What kind of problem?” I ask, my voice quiet, too quiet. It’s the calm of an experienced soldier; the breath before bloodshed, the stillness before the charge.
Ashe closes the door behind him and steps in with the measured control that tells me how bad it actually is. He’s one of the steadiest men I know. But even now, I can feel it: something sharp, dangerous, hanging off him like blades of ice hanging from a snow cornice.
“Joséphine was incapacitated at Blake’s home,” he says, each word clipped, surgical-like. “Charlie’s gone. Kit took her.”
Each word hits with the violence of a bullet. For one breath, the world narrows to a single point—an impossibly fine edge of disbelief before the torch in my gut ignites—to fuel.
Gone.
The word detonates behind my eyes, raw and sick and echoing like a scream swallowed too fast. My hand clenches against Blake’s hip before I realize what I’m doing, fingers tightening around her like I could hold the panic at bay with brute strength. Her body jolts against mine.
“What?” she breathes, pressure rising in that one syllable, brittle and breaking. I feel her heart stutter then race. This time I’m not able to hold her back, because I’m standing up too. Mechanically, my hands go to my zipper and belt to right them.
Ashe nods once, grim and absolute.
“No forced entry,” he continues. “No signs of struggle on the exterior. We found her house quiet. Joséphine was unconscious but alive—drugged, we think. We’ve locked it down. Lan’s combing for residual traces now. But—” Ashe stops, jaw flexing. “There’s no question. It’s him.”
The only reason I don’t punch the desk is Blake. Her breathing is sharp and shallow; her fingers now grip the front of my shirt like she can’t find air. I turn her fully into my arms, pulling her so her chest is against mine, her face buried above my heart. Her hands clutch the sides of my shirt like holding me might keep her from disintegrating entirely.
“Charlie,” she whispers, so soft it shouldn’t reach me. But it does. And the sound slices deeper than any blade.
“How the fuck did this happen?” My voice breaks, not from volume, but from a rage so cold it’s calcified already in my veins.
Ashe’s gaze never flickers, not even when my fangs punch fully free. He knows. He’s seen it before.
“The guards didn’t catch it on the cameras. We’re reviewing the security footage now. We’re running facial recognition programs. Kit must have masked his scent. Cassandra is certain he paid a witch to spell him to look like Sam.” Blake stiffens against me at her twin’s name, and Ashe’s gaze goes to her even though she doesn’t look at him. “Your brother met him at his residence. He left. But it wasn’t Sam. Sam was still there, sitting on the couch playing video games.”
“What do you mean he was still there?” Blake’s voice is hoarse—raw disbelief cutting through the ragged edge of grief blooming in her ribs—but it holds. I feel that tremble echo beneath my hands, still pressed firm to her hips, anchoring her to the only steady thing in the room.
Ashe doesn’t hesitate. “Kit glamoured himself. Wore Sam’s face to get close. Got Joséphine talking. Walked in the front door and charmed his way past her like he belonged there.” His expression hardens. “Once he was in, he got the jump on her. Knocked her out with some chemical. Then walked right out with Charlie.”
“Fuck,” I hiss under my breath, jaw tightening to the point of pain. “Is Joséphine okay?”
Ashe nods, shoulders taut. “She’s awake and furious. She wants to track him down herself, but Ambrose won’t let her. She’s with Eloise and Cassandra now.”
The breath I was holding leaves me in a slow, silent exhale. Relief that Joséphine is still breathing battles with the wildfire of fury clawing through my chest. No one touches my family. No one.
“She’s blaming herself,” Ashe says. “But you know as well as I do—whatever he used wasn’t off the shelf. No average chemical could put Joséphine down for as long as it did.”
My hands tighten against Blake’s back, pressing her more firmly to me even as her body trembles like something just barely strung together. I can feel her mind spinning out—can feel the moment she hits that internal avalanche and starts falling.
“This is my fault.” Her voice fragments mid-thought, near silent, near breaking. “If I hadn’t been so—so distracted—if I hadn’t let myself believe we were safe—if I’d—I’m the one that demanded you make the guards leave—” She chokes on her next breath.
