17

EZRA 

The city lights blur behind the glass, but I don’t see them.

I’m standing by the window, phone in hand, thumb hovering over her message thread like I can will her to send a text message over the distance. It would have been even better if we were face to face. I could have hypnotized her. 

I check my phone's screen again before pressing the power button.

She hasn't.

And that silence? It's louder than Cassien's tenth call.

The screen lights up again. Cassien(11).

I toss the phone on the couch and drag a hand down my face, exhaling slowly.

He’s seen the article. Of course he has. Cassien doesn’t miss anything, especially not a scandal involving the Harrington name and a woman I'd almost talked to him about. I'm sure he's suspecting her. Suspecting us.

He’s going to keep calling until I give him something to chew on. A statement. A lie. A plan. Anything. Just so he could pass the statement to the council just like he always does every weekend.

But I don’t have a plan, not one that doesn’t involve Thea agreeing to mine. And that’s the problem.

I glance back at the phone like it might have changed in the last five seconds.

Still nothing.

I shove my hand in my pocket and walk to the bar. I pour myself a glass of scotch I won’t finish, then lean against the counter. I should be used to this waiting game. High-stakes negotiations are my daily bread. But this?

This is different.

And I don't even know why. The last time I was nervous was before I was turned. Can I even call this nervousness? Maybe it's because this isn't business.

I take a slow sip of the scotch, my eyes on the couch where the phone is. 

Will she agree?

What if she don't?

Or wait, I made it clear it's for her benefit. She'll definitely think I'm offering her my help. A sane person can't probably refuse that.

But I don't think this woman is sane. I mean, a woman that storms toward her boss and confronts him the first day they met, as if she's not scared to lose her job. Is that sane?

Or a woman that served her cheating husband divorce papers, and still keeps coming to work no matter how I push her.

She's… strong… and not sane.

Fuck.

I think I'm overthinking this.

I take another sip of the scotch just as the doorbell rings.

My eyes snap to the door.

Who's that?

No, she doesn't know my place. And knowing her, she'll never come.

I rack my brain, trying to remember if I'd invited someone but I can't even think straight.

Thoughts of her are messing with my brain.

The doorbell rings again. I let out a sigh before hopping down the stool and trotting to the door, hands shoved in my pocket. 

I inhale deeply, trying to catch the scent of the person but it's too subtle.

Don't let it be Cassien. That fucker can be so unpredictable.

As soon as I reach the door, I turn the key. The lock clicks and the door creaks open.

I freeze.

Not because it’s Thea. Or Cassien.

But because it’s Morgan.

She stands there, chin tilted up like she’s posing for a photoshoot, tight red dress, blown-out red hair, and lips too shiny to be accidental.

“Morgan,” I say flatly.

My regular hookup and walking blood bag. I should have guessed. Morgan knows I'm sensitive to high scented perfumes but she didn't know why. So, she always keeps it to a minimum. She's also one of the few people that knows the code to the elevator of my penthouse.

Her smile curls at the corners, her eyes raking my naked chest. She cocks her head. “You look like you were expecting someone else.”

I lean against the doorframe, not letting her in. Yet. “You always show up uninvited huh?”

She shrugs, brushing past me like I didn’t just ask a question. “I saw the news,” she says over her shoulder. “Figured you'd need… company.”

Of course she did.

Morgan doesn’t miss a beat when it comes to drama, especially if it means inserting herself into the center of it. That's why she's a journalist. And that's how I met her.

And maybe I would’ve used her tonight. Just to forget. To feed. To feel something else.

But right now, I only feel annoyed.

She’s easy. Predictable. Her blood even tastes like old champagne—sweet, familiar, but no bite.

I shut the door and turn to find her already perched on the armrest of my couch like she belongs here. Her eyes sweep across the room until they land on the scotch at the bar stand.

“Pour me one?” she asks, like we’re lovers.

That's the thing about Morgan. Always over crossing her boundary when we are in private. I don't try to correct her though. She should believe whatever she wants as long as she didn't publicise us.

Not that anyone will believe her. But with this recent scandal…

Fuck. 

I say nothing. Just walk past her, take the bottle, and pour two fingers’ worth.

Not for her. For me.

I tilt my head and down it, the burn crawling down my throat. 

I didn't turn even when I feel her walking to me from behind.

“You’re tense,” she says behind me, softer now. “I could help with that. You know I don’t mind.”

I turn to face her, glass in hand, my eyes raking her face.

“Of course you don’t.” I murmur, my voice low.

Her pupils dilate, already responding to the low hum of my power.

Weak-willed. Always.

I could have her on her knees in seconds. Drink. Wipe and replace the memories. Repeat.

But I don’t move.

Because even as I look at her, all I can think is—she's not Thea. She doesn't smell like her.

And I don't want her. Even though I'm tired of taking Sanguara everyday. Even though my thirst grows day by day.

So, I turn back and place the cup on the table. 

Her hands surround my waist and I hold myself back from growling. 

I peel her hands away from mine.

Knowing Morgan, even if I tell her to leave, she won't. She'll probably think a massage is going to solve this, this blood lust.

With her hands still in mine, I turn around, drop her hands and grab her face.

Her tongue peeks out to licks her lips. 

I chuckle.

“Seems like you've forgotten I don't kiss.” 

“Forgive me, daddy.” 

Hmmm. 

My lips pull up into a smile as I dip my head into the crook of her neck. She archs her neck, giving me access.

But when I inhale deeply, the lust dissipates into nothing and I pull back.

She doesn't smell like her.

So, I place my hand on her cheeks, holding her head in place.

My eyes meets hers, and I let the compulsion roll off me, willing her to leave.

I watch my eyes flash red in hers.

“Grab your things. Go back to your place. My door was locked when you came. Don't come to me except I call or send you a mail.”

My fingers drop from her skin. 

Her eyes glaze over as she turns like a mannequin and starts grabbing her things, heels clicking against the floor. Then, she walks out, never to look back.

I follow after her and lock the door behind her before releasing a breath I didn't know I was holding.

I walk back to my waiting scotch and take a large swig. My eyes dart to the couch just to see the screen of my phone light up with a message.