The plan was simple.
Get some of his blood.
Easy, right?
Except... I didn't factor in one tiny detail: he probably doesn't have any in his veins right now.
Centuries buried under consecrated dirt and coffin rot? Yeah, he's probably drier than a dead cactus in a desert funeral. Any normal vampire would be a shriveled mummy by now.
But of course, this one had to be gorgeous as hell and fully, obnoxiously, intact.
Thankfully, I had planned ahead. Sort of. That's why I had a freezer down here in the basement stocked with pilfered hospital blood bags. Don't ask how I got them. Let's just say I have a friend who works in "biomedical storage" and doesn't ask questions if you bribe her with moon salt and a bottle of enchanted tequila.
So here's the master plan:
Step one: feed him three blood bags—no more. Just enough to let it mix with his ancient, probably dusty system.
Step two: give it 24 hours.
Step three: draw enough blood to bottle up that vampire mojo.
Step four: knock him back out and re-stake him so he can go back to his creepy eternal nap.
Beautiful. Clean. Efficient. Totally not terrifying.
The only problem? I now had to dress the ancient naked vampire first. Then feed him. Then not get myself murdered in the process.
All that had been running through my mind like a spell-induced checklist while I descended the stairs… completely unaware I'd already reached the bottom.
And there he was.
Still as naked as sin, lounging like he owned the damn cage—one arm draped casually on the coffin, the other resting near the discarded linens I had so thoughtfully draped over his… assets earlier.
Gods help me, the man had no shame.
I slapped a hand over my eyes immediately, because no, we were not doing this. I did not need to see the V-shape below his abs again. It had already imprinted itself on my memory like a cursed screensaver.
Was it normal for someone buried for centuries to still look like a fitness model? Shouldn't he be skeletal or at least have, I don't know, wrinkles?
But no.
This vampire had abs sharp enough to slice my self-respect and dark brown eyes that pulled me in like some kind of demonic black hole of desire.
And when I looked at his face—just his face, thank you—I was gone.
My brain melted. My body moved.
I walked toward the cage.
His eyes locked onto mine, his voice low and dry but soaked in temptation.
"Come. Open the cage for me."
Yes. Of course. I would. I will. Why wouldn't I? It made sense. Everything in my existence narrowed down to this one moment, this one command. I didn't need a name or a plan. I just needed him.
I reached for the lock, hand already closing around the key, my body no longer under my control when—
"I fucking knew it. Snap out of it, you brainless chicken."
Salem.
The cat.
My talking cat.
That snapped me back faster than a slap to the face with a wet broom.
It wasn't the "brainless chicken" insult that did it (rude), but the sheer horror that there was another voice in the room. One that wasn't supposed to be there.
My protective necklace was supposed to guard against compulsion and vampire bite. It should've worked. Mostly. Kinda. But clearly, it was only working at half-battery, and I was the idiot who'd enchanted it myself—so of course, it sucked.
Lesson learned: don't rely on bargain bin spellwork from a witch who flunked three out of five enchantment classes.
I staggered back from the lock, heart pounding, shame setting in.
Salem was perched on the last stairs, glaring at the vampire like he wanted to poop in his shoes.
The vampire, for his part, looked... annoyed. Not ragey. Not murderous. Just annoyed. As if the cat had interrupted his favorite song right at the good part.
He glanced at me, then down at the linens on the floor, and I realized what happened.
That manipulative undead bastard had dropped the linens on purpose. He knew I wouldn't want to stare at his, uh, vampire bits, so I'd look up—right into his eyes.
Classic predatory distraction. Exploiting my innocence.
Great.
I tossed the clothes—my ex's old hoodie and joggers—through the bars with as much aggression as I could manage.
I sucked in a breath, steadied myself, and without saying a word—because Rule #1: Don't talk to the vampire—I tossed the clothes through the bars.
I made my way toward the fridge.
I walked over to the fridge, ignoring the fact that the undead guy in the cage still hadn't moved to put on the damn clothes. I guess modesty wasn't a thing for him. Maybe after living in this world for too long, clothes had become meaningless—just another vanity for mortals. Or maybe he was just a full-blown psycho. That would explain why he'd been buried deep and slapped with a "do not resurrect" warning.
And guess what? I didn't care.
I wanted revenge.
So I dug up the forbidden.
Sue me.
I pulled out two blood bags from the freezer. I had originally planned to give him three, let the blood circulate and reawaken all those vampiric perks—then draw some of it for my revenge. That was the plan. A nice little exchange. But plans change when you realize the vampire you resurrected still has his mojo intact and managed to partially compel you through a protective charm. That necklace was supposed to make me vampire-proof. Clearly, I underestimated his strength. So yeah, he was getting two bags until I figured out what the hell I was dealing with.
I walked back toward the cage, holding the blood in one hand. I pointed at the clothes with the other. Then pointed at the blood.
The message was clear: Get dressed or stay thirsty.
My fragile mortal heart couldn't handle another round of peek-a-butt and episode of full-frontal undead perfection. Seriously, it was like trying not to stare at a walking thirst trap, thank you very much.
He smirked.
"Are you mute?" he asked, his voice dry and cracked from centuries of silence—but still sinfully sexy. Just hearing it made my spine shiver.
He was thirsty, but it didn't dull the smooth, dangerous silkiness in his tone. If anything, it gave him that cracked, raspy allure. Like every forbidden thought you shouldn't have but can't stop having.
I didn't respond. Just pointed at the clothes again, then the blood. I wasn't about to play games with a creature that could charm your soul out of your body with just a few words. Vampires were smooth talkers—masters of manipulation. Serpents with fangs and bone-deep seduction. The stories always warned about their voices. That once you spoke to them, once you engaged, it was over. Like Eve with the serpent in the garden—tempted, tricked, and doomed.
Vampires.
Cunning creatures.
Silver tongues dipped in poison and honey.
One conversation is all it takes to dig your grave.
I'd read the warnings: Vampires are the snake's bloodline. The voice of temptation. One word can unravel you. Avoid the voice. Avoid the eyes. Avoid the name.
And I? I had been fooled before. I wasn't doing that shit again.
So yeah. I was not talking to him.
Not today, Satan.
He looked at me funny, like I was an unusually dumb goat that wandered into his lair, then sighed dramatically. Picked up the sweatpants. Slid them on like it was beneath him. Then—finally—he threw the T-shirt over that chiseled chest and turned back to me.
"Can I get a drink now?" he said, baring those unnaturally white fangs in a smile that wasn't really a smile.
No charm this time, but the temptation was still there.
My fingers twitched.
I tossed him the two blood bags through the bars.