Page 106 of Eternal Surrender

I’m in a small space with a beautiful gift radiating the scent of blood—saying it was insane. The stark memories fresh and raw from having just taken her, made love to her, savored her in the best way possible.

My attention fixed on the digital count of each level we passed, and I willed it to go faster.

“As far as I’m concerned this never happened,” she said.

I opened my arms, and she flung herself into them. It made me smile, because even as we insisted this was not happening, we both burned to be close.

“We’re not in love, so we’re safe,” I reassured her.

“We’re not in love,” she mirrored, staring up at me.

We shared a look, knowing we had lied to each other, and worse still, to ourselves.

Reaching low, I pinched her chin, leaned low, and kissed her again, pressing my mouth to hers, as though that would undo our words.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The elevator reached the ground level.

I reached out and kept my finger on the button preventing the doors from opening.

Holding onto this moment, holding on to us.

After what felt like a decade, the doors slid open, and I followed Ingrid into the bar.

Ingrid’s face fell. “Blake?”

Blake was sitting on one of the stools, leaning over the bar, resting his head on his arms.

I didn't want this private time with her to end. I wanted to linger there with her in that fragile, stolen quiet. Had to gather every reckless hope and set it behind me, fold away this precious experience and move on.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

Blake twisted round to face us. “I have to talk with you.”

“How did you know I’d be here?” she asked.

He shrugged.

“You look dreadful,” she said. “Are you alright?”

“You have to know,” Blake said. “I can’t hide it from you anymore.”

Ingrid looked nervous. “What are you talking about?”

With a subtle glance, I told Blake he didn’t need to do this.

Tension was etched into the lines on his face. “Rumor is Orpheus has disappeared.”

“Blake, his promise will be honored.” I didn’t care how cryptic it sounded.

Ingrid tried to process our interaction. “Promise?”

Blake raised his left shirt sleeve, revealing a small circle branded on his inner forearm. “I’m a Gothica.”

Ingrid slumped onto the bar stool next to his. “And what does that mean?” Her words fell out, the intensity of her scrutiny boring into Blake.

“I’m a servant of the undead,” he admitted.