Page 45 of Bite Back

DELILAH

The practice range of the Academy stretches in front of us.

After spending the last week settling into Asher’s apartment, I need to focus on training again.

But although I’m allowed to be here, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m not.

A shiver runs down my spine thinking of the wrought iron gates, with their ornate scrolls.

How many vampires have passed under them?

And of the few who did, how many left unharmed?

The Academy preaches that they have nothing against vampires as a whole.

Just the bad apples. That doesn’t stop my arm hair from standing on end and goosebumps from pimpling my flesh.

I turn at every sound, hyperalert. It was one thing to come to the library.

It feels different here, on the practice range, where the violence at the core of the Academy is more overt.

Am I foolish to come here willingly? My brain screams that I’ve waltzed into a trap. I trust Asher though.

Being here, coming onto his turf is a part of that.

Green artificial grass carpets the floor of the range, and painted white lines mark the lanes.

Currently, at twenty minutes to midnight, all the other lanes are open and empty save ours.

Blue, red, and white bullseyes hang at the end of the range, wooden boards suspended on tracks.

Asher taps at a control panel, situating the bullseye closer to us.

I train my gaze on the center. Block out where we are.

Ignore the worryingly human—well, vampire-shaped—target in the lane next to us, gouged and peppered with wooden wounds.

I’m here to hunt, not to be hunted.

Asher sets down a metal tub of stakes next to us, the wood rattling and clattering.

He picks one up, hefting it in his hand.

I’m struck by the methodical, almost reverent way he grips it, hands notching into place on the wood, as his body lines up into position, feet angled forward, back shoulder thrown back.

Smoothly, he looses the stake, and it arcs through the air, landing dead center on the target.

I gulp. I have to copy that.

“Your turn.” His voice is gentle but firm. More serious than what I’m used to from him.

Asher gestures to me to copy his stance. I do my best to assume his pose, lining up my legs and my arm.

He clucks at me. “Not quite. Here.” He draws up behind me, arms slotting over mine. I inhale sharply. His calloused palms rub rough against my hand. His beard scratches against my neck, and his breath caresses my ear. “Like this.” He adjusts my body fractionally, aligning everything just so.

Every inch of me feels electric, alive, each point of contact singing.

Slowly, he draws my arm back and then moves it forward. With a rocking motion, I twist my ass into his front. My breath catches.

He steps back, gaze raking up and down my body. He nods. Okay, let’s do this.

I draw back my arm and then propel it forward, releasing the stake. It hurtles through the air and embeds in the target a mere inch from the bullseye. I lift my arms skyward.

“Not bad, huh?”

He shakes his head. “Not good enough.”

I pout. “We can’t all be Van Helsing.”

A faint hint of a smile peaks through his stoic expression. “Again.”

So, I try again. And again and again. I unleash stake after stake until the bucket runs empty and sweat beads across my brow.

Discarded stakes litter the lane. I wipe my forehead while Asher grabs another bucket.

I can hit the target with an impressive velocity and am consistently hitting the innermost circle.

But I still haven’t matched Asher, landing it dead center.

And, apparently, it’s not good enough until I do.

I grab a stake from the fresh bucket and grasp it in my palm. I will excel at this. Do what I need to kill Luka. And, although I hate to admit it, I want to prove to Asher I can do this.

I squeeze one eye shut, focusing directly on the center of the target, taking care to line up the stake. Not taking my gaze off the center spot, I heft the stake backwards before releasing. It zings through the air as the pointed tip finds its way home.

Bingo. Dead center. A rush surges through me. I spin around. Asher surveys me, a satisfied-looking smile spread across his face. He walks down the alley to the target, yanking out the stake.

“Dead center.” I did it. I really did it. “Good girl.”

I melt right then and there. Asher saunters up to me, sliding the stake into his back pocket, and hooks his thumbs through the loops of my jeans, pulling me close.

My thigh slots between his legs, and I feel exactly how much he appreciates my prowess.

And exactly how much of him there is to appreciate.

His mouth meets mine, and my body melts against his. His hands bracket my waist then drift lower to knead my ass.

A gasp escapes me, and I press myself closer. Asher’s breath hitches, and I love it.

“What about you? Are you a good boy or bad boy today?”

He chuckles in my ear.

“Right now?” He backs me up into the wooden wall of the range, his body caging me in. “Right now, I’m a very bad boy.”

He’s right. This is a bad idea. Very bad.

We’re smack in the middle of the freaking Academy. Anyone could walk in. Anyone could be watching on the security cameras I’m sure litter this space. He’s at his workplace. This isn’t appropriate. We should stop.

We should.

But I can’t. I’m drawn to him as though pulled by gravity. And if the way he crowds me towards the wall is any indication, he’s as much caught in my path as I am in his. Spinning out towards our inevitable collision course when things come crashing together. Or crashing down.

His thigh slides between my legs, granting me friction where I want it the most. His lips capture the sounds of my moans.

“We shouldn’t do this.” His voice comes out in a low gravel. There it is again. Shouldn’t. “But I can’t get you out of my head.” There it is again. Can’t.

His hands quest between us, sliding along the waistband of my jeans to fumble with the button and slide down the zipper. Heat surges through my core.

His head rears back, eyelids fluttering shut.

My mouth slides down, drifting over his throat.

I inhale his musk. I press a kiss to where his pulse throbs against me.

Beneath his licorice and black pepper scent, his blood calls to me.

My fangs skim the surface of his skin, barely pricking him.

A single drop of blood wells, and my tongue reaches out to lap it.

I freeze.

This is wrong. I pivot my head upwards to check in with Asher, and I find him still, body stiff and face masklike. He snakes a hand up to brush away the tiny drop of blood.

I open my mouth, apology frozen in my throat. What do I say? How can I apologize? How can I fix what I’ve broken between us?

“Delilah,” he chokes out my name. A tear slips down his face before he wipes it away roughly.

I wish he’d show me his pain. Pain, I can work with, I can talk through.

But this armor, that means he doesn’t trust me.

Still. I’m someone he needs to protect himself from.

Someone like Luka. Someone who gives in to their worst instincts, worst impulses.

A monster.

A pang shoots through my chest at the thought.

I wish I could hug Asher. But one look at him tells me that I can’t. His armor’s up. I’ve hurt him, and it’s not his job to comfort me given that. It strikes me how quickly I’ve come to rely on him. That he’s the one I wish could soothe this hurt.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.” It’s important. But he raises his palm. I want to say more. As though there’s something magical that could take his hurt away and reverse what happened.

I need to respect what he wants. That, at least, I can give him. A lump forms in my throat as I choke back my sobs. I won’t make a scene. If he can wear armor, then so can I.

We clean up. I feel like I’m floating outside my body as I scoop up the stakes littering the ground and deposit them back in buckets.

Asher moves with a mechanical precision, jaw clenched and gaze downcast. Despite his body language screaming that he’d like to do nothing more than flee, he meticulously puts everything back scout-style, leaving no trace.

He remains stone-faced the entire walk back to his loft. I’m unsure if I should follow him, if I’m welcome. But I don’t want to give up so easily. He hasn’t told me to leave, so I’m going to stay.

When the door clicks shut, he heads straight for the shower. Minutes tick past, and steam curls from the bathroom through the apartment. When he finally emerges, cheeks red and moisture still beading across his bare chest, he flops onto the bed and turns to face the wall.

Should I push him to talk? No. I’ve already done enough for the evening. So instead I plunge into the shower myself. I turn the heat all the way up, but only cold water falls. I groan. That figures. Honestly, I deserve it.

I hurry through the motions of the shower.

The cold water washes over me. Soap suds pool at the bottom of the tub and swirl down the drain.

An apt metaphor. I towel off and go through the rest of my nighttime routine.

I’ve moved in here. I’ve got my own toothbrush, my own toiletries.

And, now, I might have to move out. To go back to Sarah’s or my old apartment, stained with my blood.

No. I won’t go back. Even if staying here isn’t an option.

“I don’t know how to feel about it.” I collapse back into the worn booth at Hector’s, arms flailing. I’ve rehashed last night with Asher approximately a million times now as Sarah and Kirby listen and nod. I sink my head to the table, polished wood kissing my forehead. I groan.

It’s late afternoon the following day, and I just got done with my shift.

Asher’s off at the Academy, doing whatever the hell they do there.

Technically, per our deal, I’m invited. But I need to talk things over with Sarah and Kirby.

And he needs space after everything that went down between us last night.

Kirby clucks soothingly and Sarah pats my arm.

Last night, the look on Asher’s face, closed down and closed off, repeats in my brain, an eternal loop of my failure.

Everything was going so well. For a few minutes, I’d been able to escape the swirling eddies of my thoughts, everything I’ve been fixated on. And then it all came crashing down.

Maybe I’d been focused on the wrong thing entirely. I’ve been hurt so badly I haven’t reevaluated my priorities. Because one thing’s the hell for sure: I don’t ever want to see that look on Asher’s face again.

Blank, like everything that makes him, well, him, had been wiped clean.

One little fuck up and now we’re back to square fucking one. It’s like that night in the club all over again.

“I don’t know if we can bounce back from this,” I confess hoarsely. Don’t get me wrong, I want to bounce back from this. But the look on Asher’s face told me that’s not going to be easy. I can’t stand being that person to him. He deserves better than that. He deserves the best.

“Look, I know he’s got his own shit and there are some damn good reasons he acted the way he did,” Sarah starts. “But he knows you now. He knows you’d never hurt him, never hurt anyone.” I crook an eyebrow at her. “Well, never hurt anyone who doesn’t deserve it.”

“I just feel like we’ve been kidding ourselves. Pretending what and who we are is something different. But maybe it’s not. At the end of the day, I’m a vampire. He’s a slayer.”

“If that’s all you were to each other, you wouldn’t be in this mess to start with.” Kirby’s not wrong.

Sarah leans on the countertop. “He didn’t ask you to leave. He didn’t break up with you. Stop writing off your story until you know the ending.”

Kirby nods earnestly.

“I don’t think happily ever afters are for people like me.”

“People like us,” Sarah challenges. "You don't think I deserve a big cheesy love story? You don’t think Kirby deserves a big cheesy love story?”

“Of course you do.”

“And. So. Do. You.” Sarah raps the table with each word.

I’d be lying if I said my friends fixed all my fears. But they reminded me of something else. Not every happily ever after has to be a love story.

I’m still not sure where things stand with Asher. I can’t determine that on my own. But however things end, I’m not alone. Not by a long shot.