“What are you doing here?” I ask, finding my courage and straightening to my full height. His eyes sweep over me once more, but this time, they don’t linger on my bruised throat. It’s almost as if it pains him to stare at.
Which is weird because he hates me.
Sure, we partake in a good eye fuck from time to time like normal people, but we’re not exactly best friends forever. We’re partners in murder crime, though, so I suppose that counts for something.
“I followed you,” Dimitri replies unrepentantly. He shrugs his muscular shoulders, the fabric of his black shirt pulling tight over his pectorals. Is it wrong that I have a vivid image of me licking his stomach? I blame it on the hormones. They’ll make anyone a thirsty bitch.
“Followed me,” I repeat slowly, unsure if I should feel flattered or terrified. But if my asshole dad has taught me anything, it’s to be polite to murderers. They’re less likely to kill you then. With my chin raised and arms crossed over my chest, I add, “Thank you.”
Because I’m super polite and all that.
His lips twitch, as if he’s fighting off a smile. His glacial blue eyes narrow slightly. “For what?”
“For saving my life.” I wave a hand in the direction of Morgan—Bloody Mary’s son. And here I thought he was a nice guy. Shows how well I know a person.
The diminutive tilt of his lips straightens out, and he levels me with an unreadable look. Standing in the lone streetlight, light blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, he looks ravishing and beautiful. There’s a seriousness in his eyes that inherently commands—demands—my attention.
“I told you. I’ll protect you with every ounce of darkness within me.” His dismissive gaze flickers to the dead body, and he taps it with the toe of his boot.
“Why?” I blurt. He doesn’t look up from Morgan’s prone, bloody form.
“Why what?” This time, I’m positive I’m not mistaking it. There’s definitely amusement in his eyes and voice; his lips curve into a half-assed smile.
“Why protect me?”
He laughs coldly, the sound sending goosebumps racing up my arms. It’s almost as if he’s physically brushing a finger across my skin. Instead of answering, he nods towards my car. “You should get home.”
“But I…” Huffing, I stomp my foot. I know there’s no getting answers out of Dimitri fucking Gray. He’ll tell me what he wants me to know—as little or as much as he desires. I would do better taking tweezers to his pubic hair than asking questions and getting answers. “Fine.”
I want to ask him why he was following me, how he knew I was in danger, but the words get clogged in my throat. Instead, I gift him with a penetrating glare before sliding back into the car.
Almost instinctively, my hand rubs at the bruised skin of my throat. It doesn’t hurt anymore, but it serves as a reminder of how close to death I got. It was a hair's breadth away. All I had to do was reach a little further out to grab it.
And it terrifies me.
As I pull out of the parking lot and onto the street, I can feel Dimitri’s eyes on me. I don’t dare glance back at the bloody corpse or the scary assassin standing vigilant beside it. My hands are shaking so badly, it’s a wonder I can steer straight. Tears blur my vision.
I know tonight, in the safety of my bed, I’ll fall apart. Somebody tried to kill me…all because I am a vampire. That’s a kick to the nuts for any sane person.
And…
I really need to stop thinking about balls and nuts and penises. People might think I’m the one with a problem.
Chapter 3
Violet
When I arrive back at my dorm building, I’m physically and emotionally exhausted. My body feels as if it’s made of lead, and my brain is clogged with cotton balls. A cold trail of slime skates down my back as I fight off the impending shivers.
Someone tried to kill me. Again.
I’m not a stranger to death—more than once, death has knocked on my door. There’s something almost…seductive about its pull. It’s a trap hidden beneath leaves and weeds on a forest floor, just waiting for unsuspecting prey. I’m the helpless rabbit captured and killed.
I trudge up the staircase and stop in front of my room on the second floor. The halls are silent, almost eerily so, and a single fluorescent light sways overhead. Only the underclassmen are forced to sleep in the dormitories; the upperclassmen have houses a few miles away from the main academic building.
With a heavy exhale, I run the pad of my thumb over the nameplate stitched to the wall.
Violet Dracula.
The second one—the one that had previously read Cynthia Clit—is now gone. My old roommate, also known as the Woman in White, left after we got into a fight. Long story short—I accused her of buying my sex doll and, in a roundabout way, of murdering our fellow classmates.
Not my finest moment.
She retaliated by hanging my sex doll at the school’s Halloween party like a piñata and allowing students to whack it with baseball bats.
Not her finest moment.
Honestly, despite our tenuous relationship, I hadn’t actually expected her to leave.
It…stings, rotting away what little cheer remains like a caustic acid. I can feel it like a physical ache, like a wound that is only just beginning to fester.
I don’t like this feeling. At all. I don’t like the pressure on my chest that restricts my blood flow. I don’t like the loneliness that presses in on all sides of me, like a steadily shrinking vise. It feels as if I’m being displayed in a glass case. I can see the world, see the people, but I’m unable to interact with any of it. Instead, I’m gawked and laughed at like some sort of fucked up novelty show.
See Dracula’s infamous daughter. A vampire who isn’t a vampire.
A monster who isn’t a monster.
My hands clench into and out of fists as I work to control my ragged breathing. I don’t like the turbulent directions my thoughts have headed down. At all.
I’m a monster, dammit! I need to start acting like one.
With shaky hands, I push open the already unlocked door—Dracula failed to procure me a key on my first day of school. All I want to do is collapse on my uncomfortable bed and sleep the day away. Forget the last few weeks.
Diedre’s words.
Dracula’s no-show.
Frankie’s confession.
Lock all of it in a cement box and bury it thousands of miles below the earth. No amount of digging could uncover all of its secrets.
I’ve just tossed my bag onto my nightstand when I spot the silhouette on my bed.
“Mother shitter!” I scream, immediately throwing a right hook at the intruder’s face. I miss—of course—and accidentally trip over the edge of the faded, red rug in the center of the room. Before I can face-plant, a muscular arm wraps around my waist and pulls me upright.
“Careful, my precious treasure,” a rough voice cautions. I detect a hint of an orgasm-inducing British accent, sending fireworks shooting through my bloodstream.
“Hux,” I breathe as I spin towards my savior with a soft smile curling up the corners of my lips. For a brief moment, I forget my promise to swear off cock.
Hux is…