POV Avery
It’s been a month since I left the pack and Natalie got banned from vampire society, and honestly? Best decision I’ve ever made. We found this little cabin about three hours from anywhere important, tucked into the mountains like the world’s most perfect hideout.
The place came furnished with decades of questionable decorating choices—floral wallpaper that’s definitely seen better decades, a kitchen with appliances that probably predate the Clinton administration, and a bathroom mirror that makes everyone look like they’re starring in a horror movie. But it’s ours. No pack politics, no vampire hierarchy, no ancient assholes telling us who we’re supposed to be.
Natalie’s different now. Lighter. Like someone lifted this massive weight off her shoulders and she’s still figuring out how to walk without it. She laughs more, argues less, and only threatens to murder me when I leave dishes in the sink.
Progress.
I’m different too. Not constantly worried about disappointing people or living up to impossible standards. I wake up when I want, eat what I want, spend my days hiking with my girlfriend instead of training for a position I never wanted.
The first week was weird as hell. We’d both catch ourselves listening for footsteps that weren’t coming, expecting doors to slam with authority figures demanding explanations. It took me three days to stop automatically checking my phone for pack updates. Natalie spent an entire afternoon just sitting in direct sunlight because she could.
“You know what I love about this place?” Natalie says, sprawled across our couch like a cat in a sunbeam. We found the furniture at a thrift store, and it’s hideous but comfortable. The couch is this aggressive shade of brown that clashes with literally everything, but it’s perfect for lazy afternoons.
“The complete lack of homicidal relatives?”
“That, and the fact that our biggest problem is whether to have pasta or pizza for dinner.”
“Revolutionary concept. Food choices based on preference instead of political strategy.”
She grins, and it’s the kind of smile that makes my chest do this stupid fluttery thing. “Wild, right? It’s like we’re actual people instead of weapons.”
“Speak for yourself. I’m still a weapon. Just a weapon with better taste in girlfriends.”
“Debatable.”
I throw a pillow at her head. She catches it without looking up from her book because apparently banned vampires still have supernatural reflexes. Show-off.
“What are you reading?” I ask, settling into the armchair that’s become my designated spot. It’s positioned perfectly for optimal girlfriend-watching while maintaining access to the side table where I keep my coffee and whatever book I’m pretending to read.
“Cookbook. Figured I should learn to cook something other than ‘whatever I can catch in the woods.’”
The mental image of Natalie stalking deer through our tiny kitchen makes me snort. “Ambitious. What’s on the menu?”
“Something called ‘chicken parmesan.’ Apparently it involves cheese and not drinking the chicken’s blood.”
“Groundbreaking stuff.”
“I’m a renaissance woman.”
She’s been obsessed with cooking shows lately. Last week I caught her taking notes during a Gordon Ramsay episode like she was studying for finals. Yesterday she spent forty minutes at the grocery store just staring at the pasta aisle, overwhelmed by the concept of choosing noodles based on personal preference rather than survival necessity.
We’ve been having conversations like this for weeks. Stupid, mundane, absolutely perfect conversations about grocery lists and laundry detergent and whether we need new curtains. The kind of talks that would have bored me senseless a year ago but now feel like the most precious thing in the world.
“You know what I realized?” Natalie says, setting down her cookbook.
“That you’re domestically challenged?”
“That I spent fifty-three years trying to be the perfect Nightshade, and you spent twenty years trying to be the perfect Shadowmere.”
“And?”
“And we’re both way better at being perfectly us.”
“Cheesy,” I say, but I’m smiling. Because she’s right. I spent two decades trying to fit into a mold that was never designed for me, and she spent over five decades starving herself to maintain some impossible standard of vampire purity.
“But true.”
“Still cheesy.”
“You love cheesy.”
“I love you. The cheesy comes with the territory.”
She grins and stretches, looking more relaxed than I’ve ever seen her. There’s this looseness to her movements now, like she’s finally comfortable in her own skin. “In that case, prepare yourself for a lifetime of sappy romantic nonsense.”
“Bring it on.”
“Good, because I’ve been practicing. Want to hear my latest masterpiece?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Nope.” She clears her throat dramatically, sitting up straighter like she’s about to deliver Shakespeare. “You are the moon to my darkness, the blood to my heart, the—”
“Oh my god, stop,” I say, but I’m laughing. “That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard.”
“The fangs to my bite, the howl to my—”
“I’m actually gagging. You’re making me physically ill with your poetry.”
“The fur to my—”
“NATALIE.”
She dissolves into laughter, and I realize this—this stupid, perfect, absolutely ridiculous life we’ve built—is worth every sacrifice we made to get here.
Even if her poetry could kill small animals.
The afternoon sun streams through our mismatched curtains, turning the dust motes into tiny dancers. Outside, the mountain air is crisp and clean, carrying the scent of pine and possibility. No patrol schedules, no blood quotas, no arranged marriages or family disappointments.
Just us. Just this. Just finally being free to figure out who we are when nobody’s watching.
“What are you thinking about?” Natalie asks, probably noticing my expression.
“How perfect this is.”
“Even with my terrible poetry?”
“Especially with your terrible poetry.”
She grins and tosses her cookbook aside. “Come here.”
I don’t need to be asked twice.