19

Ophelia

I wake alone and naked in an unfamiliar bed, but strangely, the immediate panic I might have expected doesn't flood through me.

At least not right away.

No, the first few seconds after waking are filled with deliciously achy muscles and bright autumn sun streaming through the windows and the absolute extravagance of the most comfortable bed I've ever slept in.

The panic doesn't come until I sit up, stretch my arms over my head, catch sight of my pants laying in a heap next to an armchair in front of a hearth, and remember exactly where I am.

Memories come rushing back in a torrent.

My van breaking down. Being thrown over Casimir's shoulder and carried upstairs, treated to a luxurious room and an even more luxurious fire lit by a vampire who only seemed to want to take care of me.

Sinking into Casimir's lap.

Begging for his bite.

Getting that bite, and so much more.

Losing my head in some unimaginable haze of want and need and pleasure.

It felt a hell of a lot like being drunk, or maybe high, though I don't have a whole lot of experience with the latter beyond the few times I've indulged with Cleo and Steph back in Seattle.

Only, if I would have been intoxicated on something other than a vampire's bite, maybe I would have been blessed with forgetting in the sober light.

But fuck me, because I remember it all.

The memories are cloaked in a dark, syrupy haze, but each one comes back in turn, tumbling through my mind in guilty, mortified succession.

I asked him to stay.

Even that last part—just before I finally sunk into sleep deeper than I can remember having in years—is terribly clear in my mind.

Tucked up against his side, with my hand over his heart and my face nuzzled close, I asked him to stay, and he did.

Not that it seems to have stuck as I whip my head from side to side, surveying the room. It's empty, nothing but a dead fire in the hearth and my rumpled clothes on the floor and all the memories of last night haunting me as I crawl slowly out of bed.

Gathering up my clothes and dressing quickly, I tiptoe to the door, taking one last look at the room around me.

This place really is spectacular.

It was hard to get a grip on the details while I was tossed over Cas's shoulder, and then I was a bit too… distracted to care much about the decor. This morning, though, I let myself indulge in a good, long look. It's the last time I'll ever be in this room, so I might as well.

Rich burgundy carpets and wood-paneled walls give the room a seductive, sensual vibe, softened a bit by the big four-poster bed piled high with pillows and a plush duvet. All the furnishings are elegant and expensive-looking—dark wood with intricately carved details, all slightly mismatched in a way that makes it obvious it's not just some set from a big box furniture store.

I take a half-step back into the room, curiosity almost getting the better of me, before I shake my head to snap me back to the present.

Now is no time for snooping.

Slipping out of the bedroom, I look left, then right, then pause and strain to listen for any sounds coming from the ground floor. There's nothing. No sign of anyone else in the house. As I creep down the stairs to the entryway, I don't catch any hint of blond hair or a low, teasing voice or anything else that would suggest Cas is still around.

Which… good. It's good he's not here.

He obviously also knows just how much of a mistake last night was and made his own early exit.

And thank god for that, because waking up naked and all over him would have been pretty much unbearable, given how awkward and vulnerable I feel as I slip out the front door.

Even if, in some idiotic corner of my brain, I can't help but feel just a bit insulted he left before I woke up.

I'm mostly grateful for it, but also… what the hell? He couldn't have at least faced the awkwardness with me?

Back in the van, I force myself into the here and now. Back to business, and to tackling the problems that feel much easier to deal with than memories of everything that happened last night.

I find my cell where I left it on the counter in the small kitchenette. Even though I didn't have power to charge it last night, it's still got enough juice for me to do a quick search for repair shops. After a couple of calls, I've got an appointment for three hours from now. I still miss my go-to mechanic, and by the tone of the man who makes the appointment, I've got a feeling I'm going to get overcharged and mansplained to the entire time. But beggars can't be choosers, and I'll take that over another night in Cas's house.

I strip off my clothes from last night and change into some workout leggings and a long-sleeved athletic tee. Hair slicked back into a high pony that I thread through a ball cap, I find my shoes in the little nook by the door. Headphones on, phone tucked into an armband I slip on over the tee, I step out of the van and shut the door behind me.

Better. This is better.

Something to do, somewhere to go, a way to burn off all the nervous energy still shaking through me.

With a few stretches and a playlist queued up, I pace to the gate and, after shutting it behind me, I'm off.

I've got no route, no mileage goal, nothing but a punk rock track blasting in my ears and a stretch of unfamiliar sidewalk before me.

The neighborhood rushes by in a blur of more impressive houses and autumn trees arching over the roadway. Peaceful, quiet, serene, the kind of place that oozes money and class and makes me feel like one of Cas's neighbors is about to yell at me from behind their own fancy-ass gate and ask me what the hell I'm doing here.

It makes a small, satisfied smile curl at the edges of my lips thinking of the firmly middle-class neighborhood where I grew up in central New York—the humble, hardworking, pragmatic roots of my mom and my grandparents.

Oh, how far I've come.

Well, at least in a sense.

In another sense, I'm a somewhat aimless thirty-year-old living in my van who got bitten and fingered to orgasm by an incredibly hot vampire last night.

Which might also be coming pretty far by whatever definition you want to use.

Forcing myself to abandon those thoughts and concentrate on my run, a mile disappears under my feet, then two, before I decide to call it a loop. It's a short run compared to when I'm actually training for a race, but also the longest I've done since I've been here in Boston. I've fallen off any kind of regular training schedule, which isn't too out of the ordinary while I'm on assignment, but the way even this short jog seems to be kicking my ass isn't exactly encouraging.

How the hell have I fallen so far out of shape in… seven weeks?

Funny how time's flown while I've been here, spinning my wheels on this case and getting absolutely nowhere.

But, like with any other disappointment or worry I might come up against, my solution is right in front of me. Open pavement and a few more miles to go. Slow miles or not, I let myself slip into that place where the rest of it doesn't matter. The steady rhythm of my feet and the up-tempo track blaring in my headphones, the drag of breath in and out of my lungs and the sweet ache of my muscles.

It's better than any kind of meditation I've ever tried. It focuses my mind in the best way, narrowing the rest of the world to right here, right now—nowhere else I need to be and nothing else I need to be doing.

By the time I make it back to Cas's place, I've worked up a decent sweat, but my good mood only lasts as long as it takes me to remember I'll have to go back inside and take a shower. Unless I want to show up at the mechanic's shop smelling like the inside of a running shoe, which I don't, or climb in the van and drive all the way across the city to the gym I need to cancel my membership at, Cas's bathroom is my best bet.

Towel and clothes in hand, I creep in through the front door and strain my ears, trying to pick up on any sound from further inside the house. Hearing nothing, I ease the door shut… and promptly run into the metal stand next to the door holding a couple of umbrellas.

It clatters to the floor in a spectacularly noisy crash that would absolutely let anyone who might be in the house know I'm here. But standing in the echoing silence, no one appears.

Satisfied I'm here alone and not about to run into any vampires who might want to stop and talk about just what the hell happened last night, I hastily pick the stand up and hightail it to the bathroom.

After the world's fastest shower, I pull on some jeans and a t-shirt and slink my way back out to the van. As soon as I'm done tossing my dirty clothes in the hamper, and just as I'm about to climb into the driver's seat, my phone rings with an incoming video call.

My heart stutters a beat as I scramble to pick it up, and my stomach inexplicably sinks when I realize it's not, in fact, Cas calling to check in on me.

"Cleo, hey," I say as my sister's face fills the screen.

"Lia. What the fuck is on your neck?"

Too late, I realize the shirt I'm wearing does absolutely nothing to hide the vivid red bite. I reach my free hand up and slap it against my throat, covering the marks and drawing even more attention to them.

" Lia. Please, for the love of all that's holy, don't tell me you got that from—"

"It's nothing," I insist, dropping my hand and angling my phone to the opposite side so the mark isn't on such prominent display. "It was just… a little undercover work."

"A little undercover work? And what kind of undercover work makes it necessary for Casimir to bite you?"

"Some stuff with one of the covens. Philippe's coven."

That gets her attention.

Cleo's brow furrows and her mouth tightens into a thin line. "What have you found out?"

"Not a whole hell of a lot."

I give her a brief rundown of our progress. Or, maybe more accurately, non -progress, with all the dead-ends we've been running into. When I get to the part concerning Audra's tip about Devin and tailing him across campus, Cleo perks up.

"She thinks Haverstad's got something to do with it?"

"It's a theory," I hedge, even though my own instincts are still telling me there's absolutely more to it. "And I'll let you know as soon as we have anything concrete."

Cleo, in her infinite annoyingness, doesn't miss a single syllable out of my mouth. " We , huh? Since when is there a we in this equation?"

"Wasn't it you and Blair who wanted us to work this case together?" I grumble.

"That was firmly Blair." Cleo frowns. "And since he's not here anymore, we could reevaluate this whole assignment if it's not something you want to—"

"No." The denial comes out a little more forcefully than I intended, and I clear my throat. "I mean, there's no reason to change things now. I'm good. We're good. Me and Cas… Casimir. We're getting somewhere with this."

I fight a wince at the clumsiness in the explanation, and Cleo presses a little harder.

"You're sure? I didn't know if… if me becoming Director would have caused any trouble for you."

My mind flashes to Cassandra's hesitance, to the notice I've drawn from Marcus and Philippe, to my wobbly intuition and that unshakable feeling of being watched.

"I'm sure." I hope my words come out more certain than they feel. "It's not a problem."

It's uncanny, how seen she can make me feel even from almost three thousand miles away.

Cleo's gaze drifts down to where I've let my head tilt idly to the side while we've been talking, completely forgetting about the mark on my throat.

For just a moment, her eyes flash with something that looks a lot like disappointment. Or worry, maybe doubt, or some combination of all three.

If I felt seen before, I feel all of two feet tall now.

The very last thing I want is for Cleo to be disappointed in me. Or worried for me. Or doubting me.

Even though I've given her plenty of reason to.

If I look at this whole situation through her eyes, it's easy to guess why she'd be having second thoughts about giving me this assignment. I'm in a city I've been avoiding for half a decade, partnered up with a centuries-old vampire I was barely on speaking terms with a week ago, making absolutely no progress on the case, and then answering her call with a bright red bite on my throat.

It's a goddamn miracle she hasn't pulled me off the assignment already.

A clawing, desperate sort of panic lodges itself in the back of my throat.

"You can trust me, Cleo."

The doubt doesn't leave her eyes, but she nods. "I know I can, Lia. I just want to make sure you're alright."

"I am."

I'm not sure if she believes me, and I'm not sure exactly where we stand as we say our goodbyes and hang up.

What I am sure of is that I'm done messing this up.

I'm done messing around with Cas, wasting time, and getting any further into… whatever it is we did last night.

I'm here for a reason, and I'm not going to let Cleo down. I'm not going to let myself down.

I can handle this. I'm strong enough. Just like always.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and climb into the driver's seat, ready to put the rest of it behind me.

After a long day of being condescended to by a mechanic who took twice as long as he should have to fix the electrical issue on the van, and missing my usual guy—missing all of Seattle, really—I make it back to Cas's place. I park in my temporary spot, plug in, and make sure everything is working how it's supposed to be working.

It is, despite the unpleasant mechanic, and I should be happier about that.

I've got my place to stay back up and running, I'm not going to freeze my ass off out here tonight, and Cas will have no excuse to come kidnap me again and drag me inside.

All good things. All things to be happy about, given my conversation with Cleo.

Back in the van, I hover awkwardly in the middle of the living space.

If you can even call it that.

Spending the night in Cas's giant house has absolutely spoiled me, because I can't remember the last time the van felt this small.

I sit down on the padded bench seat that serves as a sofa, and I can barely stretch my legs out at all before my feet bump up against the counter on the opposite wall. I stand and have to crouch to keep my head from hitting the ceiling.

Irrationally, a sharp, frustrated lump raises in the back of my throat.

"Get a fucking grip," I mutter.

Oh, sure, I get used to having access to a chef's kitchen and spend one night in a huge, comfortable bedroom, and now what? I'm going to be a big baby about my own living situation?

I need to buck the fuck up.

I open my mini-fridge, only to find a single can of sparkling water, a few condiment packets pilfered from gas stations and fast-food joints on the drive I took across the country to get here, and not a whole hell of a lot else. My stomach takes the opportunity to rumble, reminding me I've been making most of my meals in Cas's kitchen, and storing all my leftovers there as well.

Leaving to go get something to eat would be an option, but I'm feeling far too irritated and broody to want to go back out. That run this morning must have also kicked my ass more than I realized, because I've been run-down all day. I'm sluggish and tired and ready to crawl into a nest of blankets and pillows and put this whole mess of a day behind me.

But first, food. Absolutely food. Because even though I'm exhausted, I never sleep well on an empty stomach.

All the windows in the house are dark, and I don't see Casimir's car in the driveway, though that's not a sure bet. It could be pulled into the three-car garage at the back of the property, and he could already be inside.

But when my stomach rumbles again, my choice is made.

In and out. No fancy meal tonight. No lingering.

I'll get my food and go, and with any luck Cas will be home late and our paths won't cross and we won't have to deal with… any of it.

Getting back inside goes much more smoothly this time. No umbrella incidents, and as I tiptoe across the hall, I don't hear any sounds from inside the house.

I poke my head into the kitchen, but it's empty, too.

With a shameful mix of relief and disappointment sitting heavy in my chest, I make a beeline for the fridge. There's a box of leftover pizza from a couple nights ago that's got my name written all over it.

Cracking the lid, I pull out three slices, then find a plate in the cupboard. I forgo the microwave—cold is the superior way to eat leftover pizza, anyway—and am just about to make my escape when—

"Ophelia?"

I nearly shoot through the damn roof at the sound of a familiar voice, and spin around to find Cas on the opposite side of the room, standing in the secondary kitchen doorway that leads to a set of back stairs.

"Jesus, Cas," I breathe, with one hand pressed to my chest and my plate clattering onto the island while I try to calm the spike of adrenaline coursing through me.

It's followed quickly by embarrassment, and an awkward tension that seeps through the room like a living thing. Little mortified tendrils to creep like ivy and wrap themselves around my throat.

"I didn't know you were home."

"I just got back," he says, voice sounding strangely gruff.

I hum in response, ready to cut the conversation off here and retreat to the van with my pizza, when he speaks again.

"How was your day?"

My day? He wants to know about my day?

Oh, god.

I can't do this.

I really can't do this.

I can't do pleasantries and small talk with the vampire who had his fangs and fingers in me last night. Not when I've resolved to walk things back to being strictly business between us.

I especially can't do it when he's standing there with his tie loosened and his jacket off and his shirtsleeves pushed up around his forearms, one elbow propped on the doorframe as he watches me stand here guiltily with my pizza, like he caught me in the middle of robbing him or something.

"Fine," I manage to say. "It was fine. I got the van fixed, so I'm all squared away."

Cas frowns. "I'm glad to hear it, but I thought you might want…"

He trails off, like it's just occurred to him how many deeply inappropriate ways that sentence might end.

I might want to move right into that amazingly cozy bedroom he brought me to last night?

I might want a repeat performance of hands and fangs, lips and oh-so-talented fingers?

I might want even more than that?

"It's fine."

Apparently fine must be the magick word to make Cas's frown appear, because his lips turn down again, setting that handsome face of his in stern, disapproving lines.

I need to get out of here.

Seeing that frown, and all the dark, interesting angles it creates on his face, is like a giant, flashing warning sign saying Danger , and Leave , and Don't Look Too Close Or You Might Do Something Stupid Like Try To Kiss That Frown Away .

Responsible, capable freelance investigators don't kiss their partners in luxurious kitchens over plates of leftover pizza.

"Do you want to talk about what happened last night?" he asks, still with that strange huskiness to his voice.

I skirt around the island, inching closer to the doorway leading back to the entryway and to my salvation. "You mean the part where you acted like an overbearing ass and dragged me out of my van?"

The corners of his lips twitch. "We could start with that, but I'd be far more interested in talking about what happened after."

I fold my arms over my chest. "What's there to talk about?"

Cas drops his arm from the doorway and takes a step into the room. Then another. He stops on the opposite side of the island from me.

"I can think of quite a few things I'd like to talk about."

Swallowing hard, I shake my head. "I think we just needed to… get it out of our systems, you know?"

"Get it out of our systems?" he says slowly, turning the words over in that low, rich accent of his like they're some sort of puzzle to be solved.

"Yeah. Get it out of our systems. There's obviously some kind of weird… chemistry that happens. When you bite me. And maybe we just got a little caught up in it the other night outside the Raven. And last night when you… well. Anyway. We got it out of our systems."

I'm well-aware that I'm talking out of my ass, digging my own metaphorical grave a little deeper with each embarrassing syllable, but I can't make myself stop.

Besides, he left first. He could have stayed and given us time to talk this all out this morning, but he didn't.

Which is good. It is.

He made it clear where we stand, and I have no problem with it. Absolutely none.

I push ahead, beyond ready to be done with the conversation. "So now that it's… out, things can go back to the way they were, yeah? Just us… working this case together."

"Is that what you want?"

Is it?

My body and my blood and the bite on my neck that's gotten strangely warm and tingly ever since he stepped into the room are all screaming hell no , but I don't listen to those traitors.

"It is."

For a few long seconds, Cas is utterly still. His crimson eyes bore holes into me as they rove over my face, my… neck. I almost imagine they darken as they do, but it must be a trick of the light, and I don't have much time to examine it before he nods.

"If that's what you prefer, Ophelia."

My stomach drops, and an immediate protest lodges itself just at the tip of my tongue, but I make myself swallow it back.

"Good," I say instead. "Glad that's settled."

Another long, weighted moment passes between us, and I wonder what protests or arguments he's making himself swallow, too.

My denial's not deep enough for me to ignore the intense scrutiny in his gaze, all the silent calculations as he decides whether or not he wants to play this my way.

I hold my breath, my flimsy justifications and mental gymnastics hanging by a thread.

I hope he's stronger than I am.

Because if he's not, if he presses the issue, if he gets any closer, I'm not sure all those paper-thin excuses are going to hold.

Finally breaking eye contact, Cas looks disparagingly at my pizza and grunts—a rough, inelegant sound I wouldn't have guessed he was capable of making. "You should eat something with more iron. And water. Have you had enough water today?"

He stalks over to the fridge and jerks open the doors, searching its contents.

I just gape at him.

Is he… is he trying to play nurse right now? Doctor me up after he nearly sucked me dry last night?

My cheeks flame. "I'm fine. I've been fine all day. I went for a run this morning and—"

"You went for a run?" His head whips around, and the glower he's wearing could melt the paint off the walls. "After what I—what we—after what happened last night, you went for a run ?"

"Uh, yeah?"

Cas closes the fridge and crosses to where I'm standing. He stops right in front of me, towering over me in a way I suppose is meant to be intimidating or convey some kind of authority or something.

But now that I know the hungry, desperate sounds he makes when he's drinking from me, and now that I know just how tender he can be when he's soothing me to sleep, the big scary vampire thing doesn't really work so well anymore.

"You should have been resting, not exerting yourself. Your body needs time to recover after losing that much blood."

Well, damn. Maybe that's why I've been dragging ass all day.

Cas rubs at his temple like he's trying to soothe away an ache there, and my fingertips itch with the batshit urge to reach up and touch him.

Maybe I could soothe that ache for him.

We could head up to bed and he could nuzzle into me this time. He could lay his head on my chest and give me full access to that thick head of blond hair. I wouldn't mind running my fingers through it, tangling them up in—

Jesus , Ophelia, get a damn grip.

"What?" I shoot back, unable to keep the defensive edge out of my voice. "Like I was supposed to know that? I mean, yeah, maybe it was a little stupid not to remember the whole blood loss thing, but it's not like anyone's ever given me a crash course on recovering from a vampire's bite."

That seems to strike some sort of nerve for Casimir. His scowl fades, his expression falls, and he bows his head forward. It brings him closer, close enough that our foreheads are almost touching.

"Forgive me, Ophelia."

"For what?"

"I should have taken more time to ensure you were alright. I should have taken better care of you. I'm sorry."

The words make me feel simultaneously indignant and oddly warm. A strange squirmy heat settles itself into the bottom of my stomach, and I don't know whether to snap at him or take a step closer and tuck myself into his broad chest.

I don't like it.

I don't want it.

The disappointment on Cleo's face this morning flashes through my mind as a stomach-twisting reminder of just how much I've already fucked all of this up. Getting this close to him, accepting his bite, all of it has already gone too far.

And that was before he told me he should have taken care of me .

"I'm fine."

He opens his mouth to argue again, but I cut him off before he can.

"Really, Casimir, it's not a big deal. I'm fine."

I grab my plate and take a step back, and the thread of whatever strange alchemy that's always existed between us pulls taut in my chest.

I ignore it, just like I ignore the flash of guilt and disappointment on his face.

"Good night," I make myself say, keeping my steps even and my head held high as I leave the room, despite everything in me wanting to run as far and as fast as I can.

In which direction—toward him or away—I'm not really sure.

And I'm not about to find out as I walk quickly across the entryway and slip out the front door.