Page 86 of Vampire Soldier
And that counts for a lot, I admit.
We pull up along the curb in front of the townhouse like a ship drifting into port after being lost at sea—intact, but forever changed. The living room light glows faintly through the window, and a single porch light burns steady outside, like it’s been waiting to guide us home. The guards that Malachi placed earlier are nowhere visible, but I no longer doubt they’re there. Not after tonight. I assume every shadow has protective eyes, surrounding my home with security.
It’s almost unnerving, how normal it looks. Nothing broken. No sign that the world tore open earlier. That my daughter was ripped from me, and a man—no, a creature—bled out on stage with Malachi’s fangs to his throat.
All of me still aches with the memory of how tightly she held on. The fear in her eyes won’t leave me. I don’t think it ever will. Some quiet, feral part of me still wants to hurt Kit for what she went through, even though it’s over.
She’s safe now. She’s home.
But my heart is still catching up.
Malachi circles to open Charlie’s door before I can unbuckle myself. She doesn’t make him wait; she climbs out slowly, blinking up at the row house like she’s never seen it before. And maybe she hasn’t—not through these eyes. Not since tonight clawed trauma into the fabric of her thoughts. I’ve tried so hard to keep the darkness of the world from touching her, but Kit has stolen a piece of Charlie’s innocence that she’ll never get back.
He doesn’t reach to touch her, but he stays close, a step behind. A constant. She keeps a fraction of herself pivoted toward him, like somewhere inside her, she knows the danger’s passed because of him. And maybe that’s what steadies me the most as we walk across the threshold together.
The door clicks shut behind us with a quiet finality, and I exhale the first whole breath in what feels like hours.
She’s back. She’s alive. She’s okay.
But I’m not sure I am.
Wren is already inside, sitting on the edge of the couch with an unfamiliar vampire woman next to her. Her pale hair is twisted into a messy bun, a baby blanket tossed over one shoulder, and her year-old daughter, Emily, asleep in her arms. A faint tension still clings to the smooth line of her jaw. She stands the moment we appear, carefully shifting Emily against her chest, and her gaze locks on Charlie.
“Hey, lady. I’m glad you’re safe. You okay for now?”
Charlie gives a wobbly nod. Her lips twist inward again like she’s trying not to cry for the fifth time tonight. She hardly shifts even when Wren crosses to wrap her into a swift, warm, one-armed hug. It’s easy to tell it’s not that she’s uncomfortable, she just… is still recovering.
To Wren’s credit, she doesn’t press. From what I know of Wren’s recent past, she’s more than familiar with how okay is relative. Okay can mean one thing, then change in the next minute. She just holds her for a heartbeat longer than necessary, then backs away with a murmur: “This is Dr. Shayla Madison, the doctor on call tonight. Let’s get you looked at before your mom gets you to bed tonight, yeah?”
Charlie’s chin lifts in acknowledgment, and with Wren at her side, they walk toward the living room.
But first—Charlie turns toward me. Her hand finds mine again. Squeezes once. Not hard.
But I feel it.
I squeeze back and whisper the only thing I know to say: “I love you.”
She nods, then follows Wren into the living room. Malachi and I stay in place, the front door at our backs, air thick with the memory of too many endings.
I break the silence first. “She trusted you,” I say quietly. “Even before you were there. She said you were coming. That you’d find her.” Then a watery laugh escapes me, just as quiet. “She even cussed at him and I really don’t care.”
“I did, thanks to you,” he murmurs. Then, after a pause: “She told Kit that I was going to fuck him up.”
His voice is hoarse. Deeper than usual. Like something scraped it raw from the inside. His eyes don’t meet mine—not yet—but his fingers twitch at his side, and I catch the ghost of a smile.
I take a deep breath, watching Dr. Shayla crouching in front of Charlie, who’s sitting on the couch now. “She’s okay,” I whisper. I think I’m saying it more for me. “We’re okay.”
He nods. Once. “Yeah,” he says, softer than I expect.
But now that I’m looking closer, I notice it—his shirt clings to him in places, darkened with blood that’s mostly dried but unmistakably his. There’s a deep tear across the shoulder seam, and underneath it, angry slashes of claw marks, jagged and half-sealed. A bruise blooms along his ribs, the shape of it brutal and blunt, like something heavy landed hard. Another gash peeks out just beneath his collarbone, crusted and red. He’s hurt—worse than I thought. Not enough to keep him from fighting, no, but enough that I realize no one’s tended to him. Not even him.
“You’re hurt,” I say quietly. “You need to let her look at you, too.”
His mouth lifts, barely. “I will,” he says, then adds, “after I shower.”
He doesn’t say anything more—but as he passes, he brushes his hand down my arm. And that small touch, gentle against the raw patchwork of fear still clinging to me, is the only thing that keeps me standing.
By the time I make it over to the living room, Wren has taken the doctor aside. Charlie sits curled on the far end of the couch, a blanket pulled around her shoulders, her strawberry-blonde hair hanging loose around her face.
