By the time we got back to the penthouse, it was nearly 3:47 AM.
The moment the door shut behind us, I muttered, "This world is loud, disgusting, and smells like melted metal and disappointment."
Darian, somehow still composed, replied smoothly, "I have a solution."
I raised a brow. "Does it involve removing all of Manhattan?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he stepped closer and said, "Feed on me."
Silence.
The kind that cracked through bone and rewrote gravity.
I stared at him. "What?"
He didn't flinch. "I said—feed on me."
From the moment I could speak, my guardian had told me never to drink from anyone. Never to feed on a person. It was taboo. Dangerous. Forbidden.
I told Darian that.
He just nodded. "I know. I told him to say that."
That sent my brain into a tailspin. "Why?"
"Because it's true—but not completely. Feeding on mortals is forbidden. But not because it's dangerous to them. It's dangerous to us."
He stepped even closer. "Feeding on someone creates a bond. A deep one. If you drink from me, you'll be able to sense where I am. Know how I'm feeling. And I'll be able to do the same with you. It's mutual. Which is why vampires only feed on those they trust."
I swallowed hard.
He extended his arm.
And I fed.
The next morning, I tried very hard not to think about what I did.
It didn't feel different. Not yet. Darian said it would take time for the bond to settle. But the memory burned like ink under my skin.
I got dressed for the day: a skirt with thick combat-ready boots, a black top with metallic detailing, and my usual golden necklace with the amethyst stone that matched my eyes.
Kitchen knives were starting to look like a valid weapon option in this world.
Sylas knocked on the door.
"We're ready to go, Your Bite-ness."
We walked to Bronx Community College like a trio of exhausted assassins.
Darian looked like sin wrapped in strategy—fitted black shirt, dark jeans, focused as hell.
Sylas wore a bright blue hoodie with a questionable slogan, distressed jeans, and sunglasses. He looked like chaos got lost on its way to a frat party.
Instead of heading to the student center, Darian led us to the administration building.
Inside, behind a desk, was something I'd never seen before: an elderly mortal woman.
She had wrinkles. White hair. A soft sweater. Kind eyes.
I couldn't stop staring. She looked… beautiful. Like time itself wrapped in skin.
Sylas whispered, "What happened to her?"
I elbowed him.
We asked about Luciano and were directed to Room 214.
On the way there, Sylas leaned in. "So what's the plan?"
Darian didn't even look back. "We tell him the truth, mostly. That something dangerous is coming, and we need to know what he saw. We assess if he's lying. And we go from there."
When we reached the room, Darian turned. "Wait here."
Naturally, I ignored that and followed him in.
Inside, a young professor stood by her desk, organizing papers. She looked maybe mid-thirties, elegant, polished, like someone who'd just stepped out of an academic magazine.
She turned—and her eyes landed on Darian.
"Hi," she said, smiling. "Can I help you?"
Darian gave her the smile. The yes-I'm-dangerous-and-pretty one.
"We need to speak to one of your students. Luciano Rivera."
She looked at him a little too long. "Is something wrong?"
"It's urgent," he said.
That's when I felt it. The tightening in my chest. The heat in my face. The way my hands curled like claws.
Jealousy.
I hated it.
I didn't even know I was capable of it. But when she looked at him like that, and he didn't look back? Something ancient woke in me.
And my eyes—
They were glowing.
Red.
Darian noticed instantly. Without a word, he stepped closer, arm slipping gently around my waist. Not possessive—grounding. Calming.
"Relax," he murmured near my ear. "I can feel it."
"I'm not—jealous," I said through my teeth.
He leaned closer. "She's not my type anyway."
I turned to look at him.
"I prefer blondes with long curly hair and very poor impulse control."
My soul exploded.
Before I could respond, he turned to the professor and said smoothly, "I'm sorry. We'd love to chat more, but my wife and I are on a tight schedule."
Wife.
My knees nearly buckled.
The professor flushed, flustered. "O-of course. I'll call Luciano."
A moment later, a student approached—dark curls, confused eyes.
"You needed me?"
"We'll explain in the hallway," Darian said.
Luciano nodded and followed us out.
Time to interrogate the mortal.