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“I’d be a fool to leave you alone.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can, but I’m not taking any chances.”

Separating now would be foolish. Dangerous. And despite everything rational in me saying I should keep her at arm’s length—for her safety as much as my sanity—I can’t deny the selfish relief I feel at not having to let her out of my sight.

“Don’t make me compel you,” I add in a mock threat.

“The only thing that compels me is your dick,” she says, making me laugh.

We dress quickly. I’m grateful for the clean clothes I find folded on a chair—Lena must have brought a bag from my apartment. As I button my shirt, I catch her watching me in the mirror, her expression unreadable.

“What?” I ask.

She shakes her head slightly. “Just…trying to reconcile all the different versions of you I’ve seen. The detective. The man. The vampire.”

“Yeah? And which one do you prefer?”

Her eyes meet mine in the reflection. “They’re all you, Callahan. All parts of the same whole. And I don’t want just one piece. I want it all.”

Something shifts between us in that moment—an acknowledgment of the bond that’s been forming since the night we met. Despite the danger, despite the complications, despite the monster inside me I’m still learning to control, she sees me.

All of me.

And inexplicably, impossibly, she’s still here.

She turns away to put on her shoes, but I close the distance between us in two strides. My hand catches her arm, gently turning her to face me. Questions flutter in her eyes, but I don’t have answers, only the overwhelming need to connect, to affirm that something real exists beneath the horror and manipulation.

I kiss her, not with the ferocious hunger of our first time, not with the drugged abandon of last night, or the possession of a few moments ago, but with deliberate tenderness. For a moment she’s still, surprised, then her arms wind around my neck, drawing me closer. The kiss deepens and I fall deeper.

When we break apart, I rest my forehead against hers. “I don’t know what’s happening to me,” I confess. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be whole again. But, somehow, you fill the gaps inside me, Lena. You put me back together. This—you—it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

She touches my face, her fingertips tracing the line of my jaw, her thumb sliding over my mouth. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

“Together,” I repeat, the word feeling like solid ground in a world that’s crumbling beneath our feet.

The morgue is housedin the basement of the county hospital, a sterile maze of tile and fluorescent lighting that does nothing to mask the pervasive smell of formaldehyde and death, thescents stronger than they’ve ever been to my sensitive nose. As Lena and I navigate the corridor, I find myself hyperaware of her presence beside me—the slight rhythm of her breathing, the subtle shift of her weight with each step. Even in this clinical setting, surrounded by the aftermath of violence, she infiltrates my mind like a virus I’d gladly succumb to.

Coleman is waiting for us outside the autopsy room, leaning against the wall with a cigarette burning between his fingers despite the prominent NO SMOKING signs. His eyebrows lift fractionally when he sees Lena.

“Ms. Reid,” he acknowledges with a nod before turning to me. “Didn’t realize you were bringing company, Victor.”

“Lena is helping with my investigation,” I tell him.

Coleman studies us both, his detective’s eyes missing nothing—the way Lena stays close to my side, the protective angle of my body toward hers. “Must be some help,” he observes dryly.

“What’ve we got?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Jeanne French. Forty-five. Army nurse.” Coleman pushes away from the wall, leading us toward the autopsy room. “Found in a vacant lot off South Norton Avenue early this morning. Everyone’s calling it the ‘Lipstick Murder’ because the killer wrote on her body.”

“Wrote what?” Lena asks, her heels clicking as we walk.

“Fuck You P.D.in her own lipstick,” Coleman says grimly. “Press got word, thinks it said B.D. for the Black Dahlia. They’re having a field day with that theory.”

“But is it the same killer as Elizabeth Short?” I press.

Coleman’s mouth tightens. “Different method, similar ritual elements. She was beaten to death, not cut in half, but her body was nearly drained of blood. And there are other markings—symbols carved into her torso that match what we found on Winters and Short.”