Chapter 5: First Contact

Three weeks passed like water through my fingers.

Three weeks of late nights at Volkan Manor, my Stradivarius singing beneath my fingers while Alexander listened in that terrible, beautiful silence. Three weeks of watching him feel—really *feel*—for the first time in centuries. Three weeks of growing addicted to the way his eyes softened when I played, the way his lips parted, the way his chest rose and fell as if he were learning to breathe all over again.

Three weeks of pretending I didn't think about him constantly.

My mother noticed the change in me. "You're glowing," she said during one of my visits, her frail hand gripping mine. "Is there a man?"

"No, Mama. Just work. Good work. Well-paid work."

She didn't believe me. I could see it in her eyes—the same knowing look she'd worn when I lied about finishing my homework as a child. But she let it go, too tired to push.

The money helped. God, the money helped. For the first time in years, her medications were fully stocked. The bills were paid. I bought groceries without calculating every penny. I even slept through the night sometimes, my dreams filled with gray eyes and cold hands and music that never ended.

But tonight was different.

Tonight, I'd arrived at the manor with my usual anticipation humming through my veins. Alexander had greeted me at the door—he always did now, as if he couldn't wait another moment—and led me to the music room. I'd played for an hour, maybe two, losing myself in the music the way I always did here.

And then, packing up, it happened.

The cello case had a small nick in its ancient brass latch. I'd caught my skin on it before, but never deeply. Tonight, my finger slipped, and the metal bit into my flesh like a tiny predator.

Blood welled up, bright and red and shockingly warm against my cold skin.

"D*mn it," I muttered, bringing my finger to my mouth—

And then he was there.

Alexander materialized beside me so fast I didn't see him move. One moment, he was across the room, his back turned as he poured himself something dark at the sideboard. The next, he was inches away, his nostrils flaring, his eyes—

His eyes were black.

Not gray. Not storm-colored. *Black*. Pure, liquid darkness that swallowed light and reflected nothing. His pupils had dilated until they consumed everything, leaving only that terrible, hungry void.

The blood on my finger glistened in the firelight. I could smell it now, too—copper and salt and something sweet, something that made my head spin.

"Alexander?" My voice came out small.

"Don't." The word was a growl, rough and torn. "Don't speak. Don't move."

I froze.

His chest heaved. His hands—those elegant, ancient hands—curled into fists at his sides. Every line of his body screamed tension, control stretched to its absolute limit.

"The blood," he rasped. "I can smell it. I can *taste* it from here."

My heart pounded so hard I thought it might break my ribs. Fear—yes, fear—but beneath it, something else. Something that heated my blood more than any fire could.

"What's happening to you?" I whispered.

"I'm trying not to kill you."

The words should have sent me running. Should have shattered whatever spell had kept me here for three weeks. Instead, they rooted me to the spot, my eyes locked on his, my bleeding finger forgotten.

"You won't," I said. "Kill me, I mean."

"Don't be so certain." His voice cracked. "I haven't fed in days. I do that sometimes—fast, to feel something, anything. And now your blood is in the air, and it's—" He broke off with a sound that wasn't quite human.

"It's what?"

"Sweet. So sweet. Like honey and wine and everything I've forgotten." His eyes squeezed shut. "Luna. Please. *Go*."

I should have gone. Every survival instinct I possessed screamed at me to run, to flee, to never look back.

But I'd spent three weeks watching this man come alive to my music. Three weeks seeing past the monster to something wounded and ancient and desperately lonely. Three weeks falling into something I couldn't name.

I took a step toward him instead.

"No," I breathed.

His eyes flew open—still black, still hungry, but something else flickering there now. Desperation. Fear. Not fear of me, but fear *for* me.

"Luna, I'm begging you—"

Another step. Close enough now to feel the cold radiating from his body. Close enough to see the tremor in his jaw, the way his fangs—*fangs*, my mind supplied, and oh God they were real—had extended past his lips.

"What happens if I don't go?" I asked.

"I'll lose control."

"And if you lose control?"

"I'll drink from you. I'll take too much. I'll—" He broke off with a sound of pure agony. "I'll *kill* you, Luna. Is that what you want? To die in this room, drained by a monster?"

I thought about it. Really thought about it.

I thought about my mother, alone in that hospital bed. About my father, who'd died empty and broken. About the crushing weight of survival that had been my entire life until three weeks ago.

And I thought about Alexander. About the way he'd cried to my music. About the centuries of loneliness in his eyes. About the fact that he was fighting *now*, fighting with everything he had, to protect me from himself.

"No," I said quietly. "I don't want to die. But I don't want to leave you like this, either."

His whole body shuddered.

"There must be another way," I continued. "You don't have to kill me to drink from me. Right? You can... take a little. Just enough."

"Luna—"

"I'm offering." I held out my hand, my bleeding finger extended toward him. "Take what you need."

The sound that came from his throat wasn't human. It was desperate and hungry and broken, the cry of something that had been starving for centuries.

But he didn't move.

"Please," I whispered. "I trust you."

Something shifted in his eyes. The blackness didn't recede, but something else joined it—wonder, maybe. Awe. The look of a man who'd forgotten what trust felt like and was remembering for the first time.

Slowly, so slowly, his hand reached out.

His cold fingers wrapped around my wrist, gentle as a prayer. He drew my hand closer, his eyes fixed on the tiny bead of blood still welling from my finger.

And then his mouth—those lips I'd dreamed about, those fangs I'd never seen—closed over my skin.

The sensation was like nothing I'd ever experienced. Not pain, though his fangs pierced me. Not pleasure, though my whole body ignited. Something in between, something beyond, something that made me gasp and sway and grip his shoulder for support.

He drank.

Only for a moment. Only a heartbeat. Then he pulled back, his eyes still dark, but his expression—God, his expression.

It was the same look he wore when I played. The same raw, naked emotion. But deeper. More. Like my music was a candle and my blood was the sun.

"Luna," he breathed. "What have you done to me?"

My knees gave out. He caught me, of course—his arms wrapping around my waist, pulling me against that cold, cold chest. I should have been afraid. Should have pushed away.

Instead, I looked up into his eyes—gray again, slowly returning to gray—and smiled.

"Feel better?"

A laugh escaped him. Real laughter, surprised and warm and utterly human.

"Better?" He shook his head. "I haven't felt this alive in four hundred years."

"Good." My head was spinning, but in the best way. "Then it was worth it."

"Worth risking your life?"

I reached up and touched his face—that beautiful, impossible face—and felt him lean into my palm like a cat seeking warmth.

"Some things are worth the risk," I said.

And in the firelight, with the taste of my blood still on his lips, Alexander Volkan looked at me like I was the first sunrise he'd seen in centuries.