The apartment was finally ready—weeks later than promised. I can't fully express how ecstatic I am to be moving in. We'd been rotting in a hotel suite near Broadbeach while the finishing touches were done, and I was two towels away from impaling someone over the bathroom floor that never dried. Why don't they ever dry?
Aspen was the first to walk in. He let out a low whistle, taking in the skyline wrapped in the sunset haze. The living room opened straight out onto a sweeping balcony that curved along the building's edge, overlooking the sea from one side and the busy streets of Surfers Paradise to the other.
"The view makes up for the heat. It's like we're in a fancy oven in the middle of a Michelin-star restaurant," he commented positively. It's Aspen, so you can't get anything more positive than that.
I stepped in after him, setting my luggage near the wall. The scent of fresh paint and expensive air conditioning filled my lungs. It wasn't New York, sure, but it was a place of our own—a luxury apartment perched on the 31st floor, all glass walls and imported marble. And the highlight? Three bedroom suites accessible from the entrance, so guests that are only meant to stay a night have no reason to linger in the communal areas. This fit-out was worth the weeks of waiting, I guess. I was uncomfortable with the lift opening to the lounge.
Dom entered last, silently. He moved like mist, gliding past the both of us with his usual unbothered expression. He had a thick hardcover in his hands, thumb pressed between the pages.
"This place has decent acoustics," he murmured, walking across the polished floor. "Echoes well."
"It's an apartment, Dom. Not some gothic French cathedral," Aspen said.
Dom shrugged, settling into a low armchair without looking up. "Same thing, if you're quiet enough."
I looked around the Dracula-esque interior I had requested from the contractors. The apartment was all black steel, smoked mirrors, warm-toned stone, and had lighting with a red tinge when turned on. I stopped in front of a feature wall made of black stone where a musical instrument none of us played sat.
"I guess the grand piano in that corner's kind of overkill, huh?"
I moved toward the balcony and slid open the glass door. Heat rushed in immediately, thick and salty. The city below us was alive with tourists in boardshorts or daisy dukes, girls shimmering from their sunscreen reflecting the sunset, surfers carrying their boards back to their cars, and a bunch of loud drunks.
"We really doing this again?" Aspen asked, suddenly at my side. "New town, new school, new business?"
"Same old bloodlust we need to keep in check," I said, adjusting the cuffs of my shirt.
He smirked. "You're going to crack first, you know."
"I never crack."
Dom made a soft sound that might've been a laugh—or a cough.
"I'm not saying we have much of a choice to begin with, but I choose to restrain myself," I said, crossing my arms. "Unlike you, who almost bit the concierge at the hotel."
"She flirted with me first."
"She asked if you needed help with your bags."
"Anyway," Aspen said between bites, "we've been here nearly a week and the nightlife's still mid. Unless something changes, I'm calling it—this city's pretty... boring."
I raised a brow, keeping my face still. "You think it's boring?"
"Yeah. No chaos yet. I haven't seen anyone starting fights outside clubs. No one's spiked my drink at a rooftop rave. You haven't had any alleyway make-outs, and Dom hasn't had any near-death experiences. At the end of each night, all we talk about is overpriced beer and fake tans."
Dom didn't look up from his book. "Toph obviously has to disagree with that after last night."
I turned back toward the window, allowing the city's noise to fill the silence behind me. He couldn't have been more wrong. Because the night before had been anything but boring. That's what haunted me.
***
After I completely butchered the opening, she didn't recoil. Eleanor didn't roll her eyes and vanish into the bathroom with her friends. She flatly asked if I was trying to flirt, bite, or ask for her star sign. She stayed and played along with this casual confidence that suggested she knew exactly what I was trying to do and had already decided how to disarm it.
"Flirt," I admitted, watching the corner of her mouth twitch.
She tilted her head. "Then maybe try again when you're not limping."
It should've annoyed me, but it didn't. She was sharp. And unlike most of the people we encountered, she didn't flinch but just pushed back. I liked that far more than I should have.
"You always this blunt?" I asked.
"Only when I'm sober."
"You don't drink?"
"I do, but not beyond my limit. I like to remember what I'm saying and who I'm saying it to."
I smirked. "That makes one of us."
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling, although subtle. The smile was like a secret she hadn't decided whether to share, and that stuck with me.
I offered my hand. "Toph."
"I remember," she said, not taking it. "You said it already. Dramatically, too."
I'm in trouble if I'm already wondering what I'd have to do for her to let me in on the secret, right?
She turned toward the bar and ordered water, of all things. I didn't think I had a shot at unraveling anything if she stayed sober and over guarded, but clearly my charm wasn't working.
I watched the way her fingers tapped idly against the glass when it arrived. Her nails were short, clean, unpainted. She seemed practical, and nothing was fake about her—contrary to our first impression of her.
"Let me guess," she said, not looking at me. "You're not from around here."
"Did the American accent give it away?"
She finally glanced at me, eyes sweeping over my outfit. "That—and the suit. Very... dramatic accent against the Gold Coast heat. It's giving… funeral director."
I laughed. Genuinely. Partly because I'd literally planned her funeral look a few minutes earlier.
She sipped her water, eyeing me sideways. "What's your angle?"
"What do you mean?"
"You came over here like you're filming a scene from one of your episodes. What is this? The meet-cute, or the mistake?"
"Maybe a little of both."
"Ah. You're self-aware. That's rare in tall men."
I stared at her, unable to help the grin tugging at my mouth. "That was actually good."
She looked satisfied with herself. "I know. I should start a course."
She picked up her purse and slid off the stool. "Well, it was a pleasure meeting you. But I think this coach has to catch her class tonight."
As she brushed past me, the scent hit again—herby, sacred, wrong—and I flinched. A spike of nausea rose behind my fangs, and my mouth flooded with saliva. Not hunger. Instinct. The kind that kicks in when your body ingests something poisonous.
And despite all that, something else stirred in me, something traitorous. It wasn't just poison. It was like drowning in something you know is laced, but still tipping the glass. It was intoxicating.
***
I don't know how long I'd been staring out at the skyline when Dom's voice broke through. Aspen had long retreated to his room.
"You're daydreaming again."
I didn't turn. "Just thinking."
"About that girl?"
My jaw tensed.
Dom stood up with a book closed in one hand. His other hand, he rested loosely against the doorframe of the balcony. I watched as the wind tugged faintly at his silvery hair.
"I saw the way you looked last night," he said, voice low. "Like something in your head cracked open."
I let out a breath, finally facing him. "You smelled it too."
Dom nodded. "It was hard not to. The second I got near her, the headache was so bad it felt like my brain was humming. Like the static when something's short-circuiting."
"It was more than that," I said. "It was… wrong."
"But familiar," he added. "Almost ancient."
We were silent for a beat. The wind picked up again, and with it was a trace of brine and asphalt.
"What do you think it is?" he asked.
I shook my head. "I don't know. Something's threaded into it. Herbaceous, floral… and something holy… or unholy."
Dom leaned against the glass. "Do you think she's a virgin?"
I turned to him sharply. "What?"
"That's what it reminded me of," he said plainly. "That sick pull in my chest. That tightening. That craving we've trained ourselves to ignore."
"She can't be," I said flatly.
"Why not?"
"Because I could barely breathe around her, Dominus. If she truly was a virgin, we wouldn't just be drawn in—we'd be unhinged. Have you forgotten the last time?"
Dom didn't speak, but his gaze was knowing.
"She's not," I said again, more to convince myself. "She can't be. Her scent was too… repulsive."
"Repulsive?" Dom echoed.
I nodded, swallowing hard. "Like she's bathed in something to keep us out."
He didn't argue. It gave room for the silence to speak for itself.
It had been seven centuries since our pact, and as a family we were never too comfortable nor too bothered to talk about it openly. Seven hundred and seventy-seven years of restraint—of denying the hunger we were reborn into. Not out of virtue, but for survival.
The deal was simple. Only a single rule: abstain from virgin blood, and the devil's seed in us remains dormant. Feed on it… and it blooms.
The vow was binding, spiritual, and old. Passed down from the man who gave his life trying to save us from the cult that created us. If we somehow made it to the end, we'd be freed. Returned to dust, maybe. Or maybe something better, like becoming mortals again. Redemption is a long shot, but it could also be on the cards.
But after so many years, I didn't know what freedom looked like anymore. I only knew what failure would cost. And Eleanor… she smelled faintly of failure, and more strongly of temptation.
Dom was still watching me. He had been for a long moment. "Just be careful."
I met his eyes. "Always."
That was a lie.
Because even now—despite how her scent repulsed me—all I could think about was how she would taste.