I feel alive.
The word is ironic—I'm technically dead, heart silent, lungs still—but with Vincent's blood still singing through my veins, I've never felt more vital. More real. More myself.
"You're smiling," James observes as I arrive at his place, and there's something careful in his tone. Like he's trying to gauge whether I've broken or transcended.
"I am." The admission tastes like freedom. "I want to see Emily. I want to show her—" I stop, reconsidering. Not show her what I am. Not yet. But show her who I've become. "I want her to see me like this."
"Like what?"
"Not afraid." I turn to face him fully. "Come with me?"
His expression shifts—surprise mixed with something darker. Possession, maybe. The pleasure of being claimed publicly rather than hidden. "Are you sure?"
"Yes." And I am. I want him beside me. Want to walk into that space of power and desire with a man who matches me, who sees what I am and isn't afraid.
We drive in comfortable silence, my window cracked to let in the night air. By the time we pull up to the club, my body hums with anticipation that has nothing to do with blood.
Emily's at the bar when we enter, and her head snaps up immediately. Those sharp eyes sweep over me once, twice, and I watch recognition war with confusion on her face.
"Tess." She crosses to me, and I see the exact moment she registers the change. The way I stand. The way I meet her gaze without flinching. The confidence that wasn't there a week ago. "You look—"
"Different?" I offer.
"Fucking radiant." She pulls me into a hug, and I have to concentrate not to crush her with vampire strength. When she releases me, her dark brown eyes are suspicious and warm simultaneously. "Sex looks good on you."
Heat crawls up my neck—not embarrassment exactly, but awareness. She's right, though not in the way she thinks. It wasn't just sex that transformed me. It was death. Rebirth. Murder. But I can't tell her that.
"Emily, this is James." I gesture to where he stands slightly behind me, deliberately giving me space. "James, my best friend Emily."
Emily's expression shifts the moment she looks at him properly. I watch her catalog details—expensive suit, controlled posture, the way he watches me like I'm the only thing in the room worth observing. And then recognition slams into her face.
"Your boss." Her voice goes flat. "Is he the guy from the auction?"
The accusation hangs in the air like smoke. James doesn't flinch, doesn't make excuses. Just nods once, acknowledging the truth.
"My office." Emily's tone brooks no argument. "Now."
She stalks toward the back, and I follow with James close behind. The club's atmosphere presses against my heightened senses—bodies moving on the dance floor, heat and sweat and underneath it all, the maddening pulse of blood. I force myself to focus as Emily shuts the office door with more force than necessary.
"You bought her." Emily wheels on James, fury radiating from every line of her body. "You bought her virginity on that fucking website."
"Yes." No hesitation. No softening.
"You're her boss. You had power over her. And you used it to—"
"He didn't use anything," I interrupt, stepping between them. "I made a choice, Emily. I put myself on that Exchange. He bid. He won."
"A choice?" Emily's eyes flash. "You were desperate. Your brother was in the hospital. You were terrified and vulnerable and he took advantage—"
"He gave me what I needed." My voice comes out harder than intended. "Not just money. Freedom. A way out that I chose for myself."
Emily stares at me, and I watch her process—the transformation in me, the way I defend him, the absence of victim in my posture or voice. Her anger doesn't disappear, but it shifts, redirects.
She turns to James. "If you hurt her," she says quietly, dangerously, "I will find a way to kill you. I don't care how rich you are or how powerful. I will end you."
"Fair," James responds, and the simplicity of it—no defensiveness, no justification, just acceptance—makes something in Emily's expression crack.
Silence stretches between the three of us. Then Emily exhales and drops into her desk chair. "You're really okay?" she asks me.
"I'm better than okay." The truth of it rings in every word. "I'm finally myself."
She studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. "Okay. But if that changes—"
"You'll be the first to know."
The tension breaks, and Emily waves us out of her office. "Go. Enjoy the club."
Back in the main space, the music pounds through the floor, vibrating in my bones despite my lack of heartbeat. I experience everything differently now—the heat of bodies amplified to the point where I can track individual temperatures, the scent of arousal sharp and distinct, the pulse points visible on every exposed throat like targets I'm actively choosing not to hit.
James stays close, his hand occasionally brushing my lower back, and I feel his attention like weight. When I glance at him, his gray-blue eyes are dark with hunger that has nothing to do with blood. He's watching me move through this space—confident, powerful, unafraid—and the desire radiating from him is almost tangible.
"You like seeing me here," I observe quietly, leaning close so only he can hear.
His jaw tightens. "Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you're in control." His hand settles more firmly on my hip, possessive and reverent simultaneously. "Because everyone in this room can see what I see—that you're dangerous and beautiful and entirely yourself."
The words sink into me like heat. I turn to face him fully, bodies close in the dim light, and see the restraint it's taking not to touch me more, not to claim me publicly the way his instincts demand.
"Take me home," I say, and watch his pupils dilate with hunger.
We're moving toward the exit when my phone buzzes. I almost ignore it—almost let the euphoria carry me straight into James's bed—but something makes me check.
Alan's name lights the screen: "Can we talk tomorrow? I need to see you. Something important."
The words slice through my power-drunk haze like a blade. My brother. The reason I sold myself. The person I killed for. Who has no idea what I've become or what I've done in his name.
Reality intrudes on my blood-soaked sanctuary, cold and unforgiving.
"Everything okay?" James asks, seeing my expression change.
"Alan wants to meet." I stare at the message, dread curling in my stomach. "Tomorrow."
And just like that, the weight of what I am—what I've done—settles back onto my shoulders like a familiar burden.