25

EZRA

I don’t think.

I react.

People part around me like waves around a storm. I don’t look at them. I don’t hear them. All I see is her in his arms.

My blood pounds in my ears as my vision narrows. Every cell in my body hums with a rage I can’t name. A hunger I thought I’d buried.

This isn’t about Nathan. It’s not even about the dance.

It’s about the fact that she let him touch her.

That she didn’t flinch. That she didn’t pull away. That she’s smiling at the bullshit he spews like she doesn’t know what she’s doing to me.

Like she doesn’t feel it too.

I should turn around. I should remind myself who the hell I am — what I am. But I don’t. Because at this moment, I’m not Ezra Harrington, CEO. I’m not the immortal, untouchable man, one of the so-called four princes of the underworld.

I’m just… a man unraveling.

Mortal’s definition of a simp.

Fuck.

Vampires aren’t supposed to think like this.

We’re not supposed to want. To feel. To burn.

But I do. I am.

And it’s not just jealousy. It’s something worse. Deeper.

Possession.

Thea Carlisle should’ve never gotten under my skin. I let her in too far. Too deep. Her voice, her scent, her goddamn defiance. It’s all there, like a drug in my bloodstream, and now I’m paying the price.

I should’ve called Malik.

I should’ve told him that something was shifting. That I was slipping. That the control I’ve spent centuries perfecting has started to crack.

But I didn’t.

I told myself I could handle it.

And now I’m here — fighting not to bare my fangs and drag her away like a rabid animal.

Because that’s what this feels like.

Primal.

It claws at my chest, black and unrelenting. Not love. Not even lust. Something darker. Something older. Something I’ve been trained to suppress.

I clench my fists as I close the distance.

Nathan laughs at something she says. His fingers move even lower.

I see red.

There’s a voice in my head — Cassien’s voice— reminding me what happens when boundaries blur. When instincts take the wheel. When monsters stop pretending to be men.

I grit my teeth.

But all I can focus on is her. The part of me that keeps whispering — she’s mine.

Then, I grab her, snatch her right out of his fucking arms.

Fucker Elowen staggers back, blinking like I just struck him, his eyes widening in horror.

Good. He should be afraid.

I nearly bare my teeth at him.

Almost.

But he’s not even worth that much.

I don’t spare him another glance.

My arms lock around her. Tight. Fierce. Final.

She gasps, but I don’t loosen my grip. I can’t.

I hold her like she’s the only thing anchoring me to this room. To this world. To this thin mask I’ve worn for far too long.

Her back presses to my chest, and I bury my face in her hair for just a second — just to breathe.

I inhale deeply, then I murmur, voice low and sharp almost growling, right against her ear.

“Why did you let him touch you?”

Her body stiffens.

“He chose you, Thea.” My voice is ragged. Wrong. Not mine. “But you let him.”

She twists in my grip, turning to face me. Her brown eyes spark with fire. Defiance.

“I’m your fake girlfriend, Ezra,” she snaps. “Or did you forget?”

That word — fake — slices into me like a blade.

I should let her go.

I don’t.

Instead, I pull her closer. One hand at the small of her back, the other capturing hers and placing it flat against my chest — right over the thunder of a heart that hasn’t beat naturally in decades.

“I don’t care,” I whisper, eyes locked on hers. “You’re mine.”

Her lips part. Her brows draw together.

“Ezra…” she starts, but the music shifts again — slower now, sultry. 

I only see her.

I pull her closer and sway with her, guiding her steps with mine as I hold her like a claim.

Her hand trembles slightly over my chest as my eyes hold hers.

Fuck. She's beautiful.

Her eyes narrow, brows knitting together as she searches my eyes. Then, she stammers, “Why are your eyes… red?”

Shit.

Too late.

I blink and look away. But the damage is done.

She saw.

She knows something’s not right.

I school my features, forcing calm into my voice even though my insides are chaos. “Low light,” I lie. “Nothing more.”

But her hand stays on my chest. And I swear she can feel it — the burn. The hunger. The truth.

And yet… she doesn’t pull away.

God help me, she doesn’t pull away.

I can hear her heart beating loudly in my ear.

Does she feel it too?

No. Definitely no. 

Her next action says so. She shifts slightly in my hold, wanting to pull her hand which I pressed against my chest away but I hold onto her tighter and inhale deeply, her scent hitting me.

Wrong move.

Because it’s not just her anymore.

It’s her — tainted.

That sickening trace of him still clinging to her like filth under fingernails. Nathan fucking Elowen. His cologne. His sweat, mixing with her scent.

White-hot rage flashes behind my eyes.

I grind my jaw, hard enough to crack. “You smell like him.”

She blinks, startled. Then, she recovers with a grumble, turning to look sideways. “Isn't that what happens after dancing with someone chest-to-chest?”

Her words slice.

But I barely hear them.

Because I’m staring at her lips.

Pouty. Pink. Soft. Open. Defiant.

And her pulse — fuck — it’s thundering in my ears like a war drum.

I can feel it. Taste it. Hear it.

The sound consumes me.

A thousand years of control.

Undone in one beat.

How will her lips taste?

How will they feel under mine?

There’s only one way to find out.

I lean in.

Slow and deliberate.

She doesn’t move.

Not away.

Not toward me.

She stands still, like a tempting mistress, like beauty waiting for the beast to taint her. Her brown eyes just watch me — wide-eyed and wild — like she’s not sure if she wants to slap me or lean closer.

But I’m done wondering.

I’m done pretending.

So the devil falls.

Hard.

My mouth crashes against hers in a kiss that isn’t sweet or sane or safe.

It’s desperation wrapped in fire.

I grip her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek, the other hand still pressing her palm to my chest like I need her to feel what she’s doing to me.

Her lips are warm. Soft, as I kiss her.

She doesn't kiss me back at first.

Then, teeth clash. Tongues tangle. She gasps, and I take advantage — deepening the kiss, devouring her like it’s the last time I’ll ever taste anything real.

I swear I hear her moan — low and raw — but I’m already drowning in it. In her.

My hand slides down, gripping her waist, pulling her flush against me until there’s no space left. Just heat. Friction. A thousand unspoken truths.

She’s trembling.

So am I.

Because this isn’t supposed to happen.

I haven't kissed in years.

I was never compelled too.

But I don't think of her as I continue ravaging her mouth with my tongue.

I don’t think of what I am.

Or what she does to me.

I just take.

Take. Take. Take.

Until her lip catches on my elongated fangs—

And the moment her blood touches my tongue, everything stops.

My body locks.

Her taste explodes across my senses like wildfire — ancient, sweet, delicious, forbidden.

I jerk back like I’ve been shot, chest heaving as my head falls on her shoulder.

I shut my eyes right, lips set in a thin line.

Jaw clenched.

I can feel the change—my pupils dilating behind my eyelids, definitely bleeding crimson. My fangs aching behind my thinned lips, fuller now as thirst claws through my spine.

I can feel her breath on my cheek, uneven. Shaky. Confused.

I don’t dare open my eyes.

Because I know what she’ll see.

And God help me, I don’t know if I’ll stop if my eyes land on her lips again.