Page 40 of Falling for a Villainous Vampire

The only difference is I have no idea if I can do that.

If I even should do it, all things considered. And not just because this is giving me some very confusing feelings. There’s also something else to consider, from the conversation we had earlier: this isn’t exactly the real him.

I mean, technically it is.

In some ways, it’s more the real him than the other guy.

Underneath centuries of vampirism, this is his actual personality.

But still, there’s this lingering sense that I’ve robbed him of something. Accidentally, of course, yet it remains the case. And he’s right—I am the kind of person who worries about that. I mean, he says this is what he wants. But how much of me agreeing is for him, and how much of it is for me? I can’t deny that having a giant vampire on my couch watching sitcoms is a lot more enjoyable than having one lob a car at me across a busy intersection.

And doubly so when he turns his face toward me and says:

“I think I may be addicted to television. Is that a possible thing?”

He just sounds so dryly funny and vulnerable, all at the same time. Like all the better qualities of the man I knew—that wit, that strange sense of humor—but wrapped around a core of sincerity so strong it makes me sit down next to him without even thinking twice about it.

And now I’m not thinking about ethical quandaries at all.

I’m only thinking of how to reassure him.

Or even about saying yes when he asks me if I would like some blanket.

Despite how nude I know he is under there. I can see the inside of his massive thigh, where the material doesn’t quite cover. A lot of one of those long, long legs, now dangling over the edge of the couch. Too much of that broad chest, his collarbone, the curve of his shoulder.

And if he should move, I would probably see a lot more.

“You know, we should really find you some clothes,” I say.

But that comes with its own can of worms.

“If you are worried, know that nakedness is not a state that troubles me.”

“Right, but it might trouble … other people. Other people who might see you.”

“Then you are soon to have company. Or wish me to leave this place.”

“No. No, I just think that we should do it in case,” I say, pleased that I’ve managed to steer things in a less fraught direction. But then he immediately stands up, and of course standing up puts a ton of stuff directly in my eyeline. I swear, one thing in particular almost bludgeons me across the face. I only manage to avoid it by lurching back against the couch and pretending the table lamp is suddenly the most fascinating thing in the room.

Though it’s still behind my eyes when he apologizes.

I suspect it always will be from now on. One day far in the future, when I’m fighting him in some post-apocalyptic hellscape, his giant horse cock will just spring into my mind at precisely the wrong moment. One second I’m about to stake him with the shin bone of the governor of Evil Town. The next he’s popping off my head with his bare hands, thanks to the memory of his mega penis making me glitch out. Of course he’s a fucking tripod, I mentally mutter to myself. Though truthfully, that’s not even the thing that’s hardest to deal with. No, it’s what he says that really gags me. “Oh, my many apologies, Sorceress. I forget how much of me there is, and how little your eyes wish to behold it.”

I get up and go into the bedroom just to stop myself saying something I’ll regret. Like: Actually, I think my eyes are changing their mind. But that doesn’t help me, either, because he follows me. And now the blanket is around his hips, like a skirt, and oh Jesus, even that looks delicious.

Why does that look delicious to me?

Is it just the extra vulnerability, like in the bathroom?

I think so. But I suspect it’s something else, too. Something I should have grasped earlier, before it blindsided me. But now it’s too late, and here it is: the sure and certain fact that nothing now is standing between his attractiveness and me being able to accept it. There is no sheer evil making him hideous to my heart and my mind. No disgust warping everything he is. There is just the simple fact of his loveliness, standing out as stark and unavoidable as a sudden layer of snow in the center of a gloriously green field.

Because it’s not just his body—that big Viking body, no doubt honed to perfection on battlefields I can’t even comprehend. It’s also his face, oh lord, that face, oh god, my friends were right. His nose isn’t too this and his chin isn’t too that and his eyes aren’t unpleasant at all.

They are great blue moons, near filling his face. Wide and haunting, where they were once forever narrowed. His skin isn’t chalky, it’s butter soft in a way I don’t know how to describe. I don’t want to describe it. I don’t want to think any of this, but then I go to hand him a sweater I think might fit him and his face is just right there. He’s even leaned a little so he’s not looming over me so much, and it means I can see the exact depth of that dimple in his chin.

The one I called ugly.

But it isn’t at all.