Page 65 of Claimed

I stiffen before I can hide it.

His chest is beneath my cheek, hard and cool and marked with old scars, ink and secrets. His body is relaxed in the aftermath, but I know better now than to mistake stillness for peace.

Lean fingers pause at the nape of my neck. ‘You are thinking too loudly.’

I huff into his skin. ‘That’s tragic for both of us.’

My fingers trace the outline of the mark, unable to stop thinking about what happens if the bond isn’t secured. Valentin dies. His Twelve fall after him. Then New York fractures, and his blood brothers pick at the pieces like vultures over warm meat.

And I may be the one holding the key to this ending differently.

I shove the guilt down, because guilt is a luxury I’m still not sure he deserves. This is Valentin Moretti. Ruthless ruler of New York. Mafia vampire king. A creature who could kill without blinking if purpose required it.

Sure, he made the mate-bond sound like velvet, immortality, luxury and destiny. But what happens if something goes wrong?

What happens if I refuse? What happens if the cure is me, and I decline to become medicine?

My heart wants to say he would never sacrifice me. My brain, shaped by survival, refuses guarantees it hasn’t tested. He craves my blood and enjoys fucking me. Probably won’t admit he gets a kick out of my mouth and my defiance and the way I touch him. None of those things prove mercy or guarantee that I won’t end up on the wrong side of his immortality.

So now I’m stuck at my own crossroads. Self-preservation… or risk coming clean?

Or… I latch greedily onto the third option – wait for Selphine’s diagnosis.

Then decide.

‘Tell me what you’re hiding.’

‘No.’

‘Eira.’

‘No,’ I repeat, lifting my head. ‘It’s unlawful to sex me into a puddle and then demand emotional transparency like a post-coital tax.’

His mouth twitches, but the amusement fades when our eyes meet.

Something brushes against my mind.

Emotion, not words. Hot. Possessive. Almost hungry.

Then something deeper. The briefest ache of longing, so raw and profound it washes through me like a flash of colour in a storm before vanishing.

I blink. ‘Wait. Did I just feel your emo⁠—?’

‘No.’

My eyes narrow even as my heart begins to thump. ‘That sounded like a pre-emptive strike against a sticky can’t-lie situation.’

‘You are getting insolent.’

‘You love it.’

His gaze drops to my mouth. ‘Careful, little hunter, or I will shut you up with screaming.’

I should stop pushing. Carve out actual time to examine everything happening between us: the blood cravings, the mind-thread, the way pieces of his emotions are starting to slip through mine like smoke under a door.

But…

Fear needs somewhere to go, and talking is safer than looking directly at the thing I might be considering.