Chapter 29

EZRA

I don’t take her back to my place.

I can’t.

Not when I know I won’t be able to control myself if she stays.

So I take her home.

Her real home.

The one she doesn’t tell me about, but I know it. I’ve always known it. I know when she called for a place near H&V after her divorce, I know how she decorated the place with furniture she didn't really like just so it wouldn't remind her how she decorated her ex husbanld’s. The second bulb on her porch that flickers when it rains. The way she keeps her every-day shoes in a straight line just outside her door like order is the only thing holding her together.

I carry her inside, her body limp in my arms, her skin warm and flushed, the smell of her and blood still clinging to her like a second skin.

God, her scent.

It punches me right in the lungs.

It always does.

I hold my breath.

If I inhale… I’ll devour her.

The lights are off. Quiet. Just the ticking of a clock somewhere in the dark and her soft, shallow breathing against my neck.

Her pulse is faint. Thready. Weak.

Too weak.

That’s when I stop pretending this was anything other than dangerous.

I almost killed her.

Almost.

I carry her upstairs like she weighs nothing. My hands don’t tremble, but my chest does. With guilt. With need. With something I can’t even name because it’s too fucking terrifying.

Her room is soft. Feminine. The kind of sanctuary someone like me doesn’t belong in.

I lay her down carefully, like porcelain, on the bed.

She stirs, barely, head rolling to the side.

“Water,” she whispers, voice hoarse.

There’s a glass already waiting by her bedside table.

Of course there is.

She’s the kind of woman who plans for her weakness.

I pick the glass and sit on the bed before pulling her closer softly. Then, I hold the glass to her lips. “Drink,” I murmur, helping her sip. “Easy, firecracker, Don’t drown on me.”

She drinks—slow, shaky sips—then sinks back onto the pillow, already fading again.

I set the glass down and pull the covers up over her. My hand lingers on her cheek.

Flushed. So warm.

Too warm.

I sit on the edge of her bed and stare at her like an addict stares at his last fix. Like I don’t know how to let go.

“You should forget this,” I whisper, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “But I won’t make you. You always hate being controlled.”

I lean down, just enough for my lips to graze her temple.

“I almost lost it tonight, Thea.”

She doesn’t answer. Just breathes. Shallow. Trusting. Unaware.

“I wanted to be good. Gentle.” I laugh softly, bitterly. “But I’m not built for softness. And you… you taste like every sin I’ve ever wanted to commit.”

She shifts slightly, lashes fluttering. I still.

“Maybe I shouldn’t come back. You deserve better. But…”

Another pause. Another breath.

“But if you call me…”

I swallow, then stand.

“If you call me, I’ll crawl. If… if I see you in my space, I won't let go.”

I walk out before I stay and ruin her again.

Down the stairs, out into the cold night where my driver waits, eyes politely forward like he didn’t hear the moan that shattered me earlier.

“Drive,” I mutter, my voice raw.

He nods and pulls away from the curb.

But I don’t go home.

I go hunting.

Because I’m still thirsty.

Because no amount of blood fills the space she’s carved out of me.

And I know—no matter who I sink my fangs into tonight—they won’t taste like her.

They’ll never taste like mine.