chapter 47

EZRA

I don’t know why I said that.

The words slip past my lips before I can think them through—“Maybe we should take this more seriously.”

And now she’s staring at me like I’ve grown a second head. Maybe I have. Because what the hell am I doing?

This isn't the plan.

She’s still standing in the ashes of her old life—heart cracked open, trust bleeding out. I should give her space. I should stay the hell away. But the truth is—I don't want to.

I want her close.

And it’s selfish. Because I’ve tasted her. Touched her. Left marks she didn’t ask for. And still—still—it’s not enough.

It won’t ever be enough.

Because Thea Carlisle, with her hurricane eyes and sharp tongue, feels like gravity. Like if I walk away now, I’ll spend eternity circling what I lost.

So yeah, maybe it’s messed up.

Maybe wanting to be her anchor when she’s still learning how to breathe again makes me some kind of sadistic bastard. But I can’t help it. She’s already broken—and I keep telling myself I’m not here to take advantage. That I can help her. Be something steady. Something real.

But who am I kidding?

I want her in my bed, in my space, under my skin.

And I know how humans think—how women like her think. It's all written on her face. She’s been through too much to be used and discarded again. She’s not the type you just fuck and claim with no clarity and expect her to stay.

So I offer her a label.

Us.

The word sounds stupid even in my own head, but I needed to say it. Not because I’m ready to carve it in stone—but because I need her to stay. I need a reason to keep her close without her bolting. And if that reason has to sound like love—or something like it—so be it.

Maybe it’s a lie.

Or maybe it’s the most honest thing I’ve ever said.

She laughs—sharp, jaded—and pushes her bag which she'd placed on the table aside like it’s a joke. But I see it. The flicker of hesitation in her eyes. The part of her that wants to believe. That maybe needs to.

And fuck, I want to feed that part. I want to make it grow until she stops doubting me—until she stops doubting herself.

Because monsters don’t just destroy.

Sometimes… we keep.

And I’m already planning how to make her mine.

No matter how long it takes.

Her mouth parts—lips soft, barely moving,eyes still wide and wild—but I don’t let her speak.

I can’t.

“Think about it,” I say, cutting through the thick silence before she can voice the doubt I’m already drowning in. “Work hours have started.”

A coward’s exit. Dressed in discipline.

Before I lose my nerve, I shove my hands in my pocket, turn and walk out of her office, not daring to look back. Not even once. Because I know that look. The one she gives when she’s calculating if someone’s about to disappoint her. I’ve seen it on humans throughout the centuries I've existed. I’ve hated it. I refuse to wear it.

And yet… I’m running.

Me. Ezra fucking Harrington.

Vampires don’t second-guess. We don't plead. We take.

But here I am, in retreat—because one syllable from her could wreck this fragile, aching thing I’m pretending not to feel. Because even though she's mine, it'll only be enjoyable if she consents to it.

I take measured steps to my office and my door clicks shut behind me with a finality I don’t like. I barely have time to exhale when Nora walks in, tablet in hand, perfect posture, war-ready smile.

She doesn’t knock anymore. 

“You’ve got a meeting in thirty minutes,” she announces. “With the new CEO of Elowen & Co.”

I blink.

No.

“Nathan Elowen,” she adds, sweetly. “Should I order coffee? Or bourbon?”

A beat of silence follows.

Ah. So that’s how we’re playing this.

The same Nathan who had the audacity to touch her—to put his hands on Thea like he had a claim, like I didn’t exist. The one who danced with her, smiled at her like she was more than a moment. Like he had a chance.

The one I wanted to snap in half.

And now I get to sit across from him like we’re equals.

Sweet ways to ruin a whole fucking week.

“Tell them I’ll be ready,” I murmur, rolling my sleeves with precision. “And Nora?”

She raises a brow, intrigued.

“If I lose my temper, I want deniability.”

She grins. “As always, sir.”

I sink into my chair, fury simmering beneath my calm, and let myself imagine just once—just once—what his neck would feel like between my hands.

.

.

Nathan Elowen walks in.

Tall. Charming and smug in that effortless way only men born into too much money and too little character can manage.

He smiles, hand extended like we’re old friends instead of inevitable enemies.

I rise slowly and shake it, grip just a bit too hard.

He doesn’t flinch. Not outwardly. But I see it. The twitch in his jaw. The way his shoulders tense.

Good.

We sit.

The room is sleek, minimalist, sterile, just like how I always want it—but the air? Tainted. Because he’s here. Breathing her air. Stepping into my space.

Nathan adjusts his cufflinks and clears his throat. “Looking forward to the merger potential. Elowen & Co has always admired Harrington & Vale.”

“I’m sure,” I say smoothly. “You do have a history of wanting what isn’t yours.”

He pauses, catching the implication. The corner of his mouth quirks like he enjoys the provocation.

“I assume we’ll be keeping things professional?” he asks, voice just soft enough to mock.

My smile doesn’t reach my eyes. “Professional is my default. Unless someone touches what’s mine.”

Silence blooms like blood in water.

We get into the numbers—revenue streams, logistics, market alignment. We go through every bullet point of part one like we’re co-chairs at a peace treaty.

But underneath?

War drums.

I nod along to his pitch. Challenge a few metrics. Nothing overt. Nothing aggressive.

But every glance is a warning.

Every second ticks toward the moment she walks in.

Because Thea is joining part two.

And he knows it.

He adjusts his tie, trying to mask the anticipation in his expression. But I know that look. I’ve worn it.

Thea Carlisle will walk in here with her head high and her spine straight and he’ll look at her like she’s art.

And I’ll want to break something.

“Should we have Ms. Carlisle join us now?” he asks, voice a touch too casual.

Casualness brings casualties sometimes. Like now.

“No,” I say, just short of a growl. “Not yet.”

He blinks.

“She comes in when we’re done with part one.” I tap the page in front of me. “And we’re not done.”

Let him sit in that.

Let him squirm.

Because if he thinks I’ll sit here and watch him play clever little games with her, he’s underestimated me. Badly.

And I don’t take kindly to being underestimated.

A few minutes later, she walks in like she always does—graceful, elegant, collected.

But I feel it like a thunderclap.

Nathan straightens in his seat, that sickening gleam entering his eyes like he’s just spotted dessert on a silver tray. I hate that he looks at her like that. I hate even more that she’s unaware of it.

Or maybe she is.

She takes her seat opposite me, beside him.

Too close.

I clench my jaw. My hands remain folded, but only just.

The second part of the meeting is all business. She’s brilliant— My woman— cutting through proposals, suggesting modifications, seeing holes in their data the way I’ve seen her tear apart a weakness in a person’s argument with a single, surgical phrase.

Nathan watches her like she’s speaking in poetry.

I want to drag his gaze back to the spreadsheets, bloodily.

By the end of the meeting, the deal is sealed.

The contract is signed.

And I’ve never hated ink more than I do in this moment.

Because this contract—the one I approved, for my company—means Elowen & Co will be a regular fixture here for the next three months. Nathan will haunt these halls like a parasite with charm and a tailored suit. And he’ll use every damn visit to get closer to her.

Never in my wildest dreams have I expected my competition to be a human.

She’s barely capped her pen before he leans over and slides his card across the table.

My breath locks in my chest.

“You were exceptional today,” he tells her, tone rich with layered interest. “If you ever feel like collaborating on something outside this place... I’d love to hear your ideas.”

She blinks and takes the card, lips pulling into a polite smile.

But it’s still a smile.

Nathan rises, smooth and pleased with himself. He says something about looking forward to future meetings. Directs it at both of us, but only looks at her.

And then he’s gone.

The door clicks shut.

Silence.

I don’t move. Don’t speak. My fingers are curled so tightly around my pen I almost snap it.

She starts gathering her files, oblivious—or pretending to be.

I can’t tell which is worse.

“He gave you his card,” I say, low, interrupting the silence.

She pauses and looks up. “He gives that to everyone.”

“He didn’t give it to me.”

That earns me a raised brow. “Would you have taken it?”

I glare.

She sighs, standing. “See Ezra, it was just courtesy. Something you unfortunately lack.”

“No,” I snap, not minding the last part of her sentence. “It was an invitation.”

“To what?” she challenges.

Me.

To take you from me before I even got the chance to fully call you mine.

“To ruin my week,” I mutter instead.

Because that’s what this feels like. A week unraveling. My plan unraveling. Us—whatever we are, whatever we could be—threatened before it’s even begun.

So, I stretch my palm out silently.

“Give it to me.”

Maybe her heart. Maybe the card. Maybe both.