2

Casimir

A fool.

That's what I am.

A godsdamned fool to have looked at this woman and wanted. To have breathed her intoxicating scent deep into my lungs and hungered. To have thrown care and caution to the wind and gotten close to her.

A shiver wracks Ophelia's frame, and the immediate instinct to shield her from the bite in the night air, to put my body close enough to hers that no breath of wind would touch her, is another damning failure.

I should have known better.

How many nights have I spoken to her, seen her across a crowded room and been drawn to her like a moth to a flame?

I'd taken the racing of her heart and the flush of her cheeks and the hungry, pupils-blown-wide way she looked at me as interest, as an echo of everything I'd felt when I looked at her. Instinctual, irrational, undeniable, a pull of bone and sinew and soul, a tug like I'd never felt before.

Foolish. So completely, utterly foolish.

How determined she was to see this through, to push past whatever fear or nerves or conscience she felt and join me here on the roof.

Not that such a thing is entirely unexpected.

She wouldn't be the first human to have looked at a vampire's bloodbond as a means to long life, regardless of the vampire it comes from. And I wouldn't have been the first to be tempted, to be taken by a beautiful face and a fang-tingling scent.

On both accounts, she's more exquisite than anyone I've ever met.

Beautiful, with her slim curves and deep brown eyes and soft waves of mahogany hair. A lovely face that captured me from the first moment I saw it, and a scent that could seduce me from all the way across a room as it drew me in like a siren's song.

But I've certainly lived enough centuries to know how to resist such temptation.

"I am no means and no end, sweet Ophelia. I am no thing to be used, even for a creature so beautiful as you."

"Casimir," she breathes. "I didn't—"

I don't like the sound of my name on her lips. Not tonight. Not like this.

"If it's a bloodbond you're after, I would suggest looking elsewhere."

"That isn't—I'm not—" Ophelia stumbles over her words, chokes on the lie she won't admit to.

"Then what, may I ask, so enthralled you about dear Marcus? I can't imagine it was his sparkling conversation and wit."

I've known the brute for four centuries, and can't imagine a single thing about him that would have drawn sweet Ophelia in, beyond what he might give her with his bite and blood.

But what do I know? Perhaps she likes them muscled and arrogant, even bigger fools than I am.

"I can explain."

I don't particularly care to hear her explanation. Not now, as steeped in self-loathing and disappointment as I am.

Gods, I didn't know I was still capable of such emotions. After all these long years, it's a bitter, unwelcome surprise to know I can still feel the sharp sting of hopes dashed.

"I do not blame you, Ophelia. And I commend you on the valiant effort."

The words are biting, indulgent, cruel. Beneath me. And by the flash of indignation in Ophelia's rich brown eyes, I know they've found their mark.

Magnificent, her anger, in its oh-so-human way. Blazing and razor sharp, I watch as she girds herself with it. Arms crossed, eyes bright with righteous ire, I imagine her as she might have been in centuries past.

A warrior queen, perhaps. A beautiful, brilliant, courageous saint. A heroine for the ages.

But here, tonight, she's simply a woman. A young woman who's meddled where she shouldn't have, stepped right to the edge of a darkness she can't even begin to understand.

And I was the careless fool who met her there.

"I never meant to—"

"Use me?" I supply, ready to be done with the conversation, deliver her safely back to the club, and retreat home to tend my wounded pride in solitude.

"I didn't." Ophelia's voice is thin now, brittle, liable to crack and shatter with the next stiff breeze. "That was never my intention."

How I wish I could believe her.

But I spoke true. I will never be used. Never again. Not even for so great a temptation as Ophelia, with her blood scented as rich as the finest vintage of deep red wine, and her fierce, defiant spirit.

"Come," I say, gesturing to the door leading into the building. "I'll escort you back downstairs and—"

"That's not necessary. Goodbye, Casimir."

Without waiting for me to reply, Ophelia turns on her heel and retreats.

Something small and pathetic in me aches to see her go, but it only lasts as long as it takes to remind myself exactly what she saw when she looked at me, what she'd have used me for.

A bloodbond. A tying of life to life, soul to soul. The sharing of a long vampiric existence with a human.

I've never been tempted to search for a bloodbound partner to call my own, never even considered it in all my centuries. The idea of tethering myself to another for eternity has never held much appeal for me.

Far below, the lights of Boston glimmer. Streetlights and headlights, so many windows lit up bright against the night.

I knew the world before such marvels of modern invention, back in a time of candlelight and horse-drawn carriages, back in a time when I was powerless against the powers that made me.

I shake my head to chase away the memories.

I am not powerless now. I am exactly what I told Ophelia. No means and no end. No thing to be used.

Staring out into the night, I try not to despair in the hollowness of that conviction. Powerful and free I might be, but as the last tendrils of Ophelia's scent carry away on the star-kissed breeze, there's also no denying the lonesome ache in my chest.

I try to ignore it, to swallow past it. When that fails, I pull my phone from my pocket and scroll through the missed calls, the messages, the business waiting for me even at this late hour. I dial a number I know by heart, and am bolstered by the gruff, char-edged voice that answers.

"Blair."

"Such a cold greeting for one of your oldest friends."

The dragon chuckles on the other end of the line. "You got my message?"

"All four of them, yes."

"And?"

"And I think you'll find the senator amenable to your request," I say. "Once I remind him of the … discrepancies in his campaign financing, of course."

Another chuckle, low and satisfied. "Excellent. Let me know as soon as you're able to confirm we have his vote?"

"Expect the call by tomorrow."

We hang up, and I head for the door back into the building, happy enough to have some purpose. Some task to distract me and keep the memories at bay.

But when the elevator doors open, it's another scratch at the open wound in my pride, another hit to my resolve when I inhale and catch Ophelia's scent again.

Gods, but it's tempting.

The essence of her, all the rich strands of it that reach out and wrap themselves around my throat. Almost enough to make me forget the rest and go after her, to damn myself and pursue her anyway. But I can't, I won't, and the scent fades away as I wait too long and the elevator doors close.

I choose the stairs instead.