The night air hit my lungs like a bucket of icy water, clean and brutal, clearing the haze of lust and terror Darius had woven around me. The rough, cold pavement bit into my bare feet, sending shocks of pain up my legs. I didn't see the street; I saw the crimson flash of his eyes and the impossible, dagger-sharp points of his teeth.
Vampires. Are. Real.
It was the stupidest sentence I had ever thought, and yet it was the bedrock of my new, apocalyptic reality. It was more real than the burning in my chest, more real than the chill of the silver locket against my skin.
I didn't have a plan. Plans were for people who weren't running from four-hundred-year-old blood oaths and undead aristocrats. I was just throwing distance between myself and the house. Between myself and the cold, possessive certainty of Lord Darius Dreymont.
Little runner.
His voice, a low, terrifying growl in my ear, echoed over the frantic rhythm of my heart. The memory of his mouth pressed against my nape made me want to stop, double over, and scrub my skin raw.
My legs were already screaming. I hadn't run like this since track practice, and now the shards of grit and the icy temperature of the pavement were a secondary source of agony. I veered hard around a corner, praying my sudden turn would buy me a few extra seconds.
My phone was bouncing uselessly in my pocket, and the thought of calling 911 was genuinely laughable. "Hello, police? I'm running from a vampire who's apparently immune to sunlight and owns the deeds to my family's soul. Can you send a squad car and maybe a wooden stake?" I could practically hear the dispatcher rolling their eyes.
And my friends? The instant I thought of rolling up to Maya's house, my internal panic meter redlined. Darius had known the layout of my house. He'd known my parents were in the study and the kitchen. He knew where everything was. The last thing I was going to do was lead him—or whatever terrifying, invisible network he commanded—right to the people I cared about.
He is forever.
The terrible, possessive truth my body had whispered to me felt absolute. I couldn't outrun forever. I couldn't fight a monster who moved faster than thought. But I could steal a few moments of freedom, even if they tasted like sweat and terror.
I burst out onto a main boulevard, the streetlights harsh and unforgiving, the pavement giving way to smooth, black asphalt. My throat was sandpaper. My breath hitched, sounding like a dying bird. I glanced desperately over my shoulder.
Nothing. No sleek black car, no dark blur of impossible speed, no towering, aristocratic figure in a perfectly tailored suit.
And that was somehow worse.
His absence didn't mean I was safe; it meant he was toying with me. It meant I was a rat in a maze, and he was the one holding the cheese, letting me burn myself out before he closed the trap.
I tried to focus on the landmarks—anything to form a path. I was somewhere near the old factory district, judging by the smell of stagnant water and dust. A dead end for a runner.
I needed to disappear. Not just hide, but cease to exist on the grid. I spotted a narrow, iron gate leading to a darkened municipal park.
It was a stupid idea. Parks were full of shadows.
But it was better than running headlong into the street, waiting for the inevitable moment when the impossible chill would snake around my neck and drag me back.
I swerved, kicking open the gate with a desperate shove of my foot, and stumbled onto the damp, overgrown grass. My bare soles squelched on the cold earth, and the sudden change in terrain was disorienting.
The darkness enveloped me, thick and immediate. I kept running, half-blind, listening to the crushing silence that meant the game was about to change.
The gate scraped closed behind me. I didn't slow down, but I forced the panic-fueled sprint into a more controlled, silent jog through the deep grass of the park. My eyes frantically scanned the darkness.
Disappear. Hide. Fight.
The grass ended abruptly at a paved path that bordered a chain-link fence. Just beyond the fence, tucked into the shadows of a massive oak, was a small, windowless structure—a maintenance shed. The kind used to store mowers, bags of fertilizer, and maybe, just maybe, something heavy and sharp.
It was the dumbest possible place to hide, but the promise of a tool—a literal weapon—pulled me forward. I scrambled over the low fence, ignoring the tear it left in my jeans, and reached the shed door. The lock was a rusty clasp, thankfully simple and cheap. It took two swift, angry kicks to the metal frame before the hinge popped, granting me access.
I stumbled inside, the air heavy with the scent of gasoline and damp earth. I pulled the door halfway shut, leaving a sliver of darkness to peer out. My hands, still trembling, raked over the shadowy walls.
A hammer. A wrench. A pitchfork. Anything that wasn't my bare, useless hands.
I found a row of gardening tools first: plastic rakes, a rusted hoe. Useless. Then my fingers brushed against cold metal. I grabbed it, pulling it into the faint light filtering from the crack in the door. It was a heavy-duty wrench, oily and solid.
It felt pathetic. This was it. My weapon against an immortal predator who could teleport and break down doors with his mind. I could practically hear the arrogant smirk in his voice: The little runner has armed herself with a plumbing implement.
My lungs were still heaving, but the fear was settling, curdling into a fierce, cold resolve. I wasn't going to surrender on my knees. I was going to throw this wrench, watch it bounce harmlessly off his impeccable jawline, and then try to kick him in his probably-immortal groin. I was Nomi English, and I refused to go down without at least insulting him with my effort.
I pressed my back against the shed wall, forcing my breathing quiet as I peered through the narrow crack in the door.
I lifted the wrench, bracing myself, focusing on the sliver of the park I could still see.
And then the light disappeared.
The shed door slammed shut with a quiet, final thud that didn't vibrate the floor or shake the walls. It was a firm, deliberate closure—the kind of sound a person makes when they are done being patient.
My breath hitched. I didn't turn around. I didn't need to. The air in the tiny, dark space had gone instantly frigid, a cold that bit through my tank top and settled deep in my bones. He had been waiting. He had let me run, let me hide, let me arm myself with a pointless piece of hardware, just to demonstrate how utterly futile it all was.
"A wrench, Nomi?" Lord Darius's voice was a low, intimate murmur, inches from my ear. It wasn't loud, but it resonated through the small space, vibrating straight into the bone of my skull. It held a dark amusement that was far more terrifying than any roar of anger. "A resourceful, if ultimately irrelevant, choice."
"Go to hell, Dreymont," I managed, my voice a ragged, breathless squeak that was instantly swallowed by the darkness.
"I have already been to places far more interesting than your mortal hell, little runner," he corrected softly. Then, with a speed that defied logic, the wrench was gone.
My hand was empty.
I hadn't felt him move. I hadn't felt him seize the metal. One second I was armed, the next the oil and cold was gone. I let out a sharp, useless gasp of defeat.
Darius took my wrist, his grip immediate, cold, and absolute. It wasn't bruising, but it was inescapable, an iron band clamping me to reality. He pulled my arm back, trapping it behind my spine, forcing me to lean back slightly against the cool, hard expanse of his chest.
"You had your run," he murmured, his breath cool against the delicate skin of my nape. The physical contact was overwhelming, and the shameful, visceral response of my body was immediate. I hated it. I hated him for causing it.
"The rules of the game have now changed," he continued, and I could hear the satisfied, predatory curve of his smirk in his voice. "It's time I reclaim you."