Page 24 of Bound in Blood (Vampires of Boston #1)

Chapter

Sixteen

MARCO

T he rooftop was near silent, save for the distant hum of the city twenty floors below.

It was cold, not quite spilling into freezing territory but just towing the line.

The air was full of that not-quite-icy mist that accompanied these in-between days, but Marco was relatively unaffected by the weather lately.

He wore a coat, but it did little to affect his internal temperature, which remained the same.

A reminder that his body no longer followed human rules.

No shivers, no breath fogging in the air, no warmth stolen by cold weather.

Next to him, one of the others that had taken he and Mateo in ( vampires , they called themselves), Jiro, was going over a grammar book designed for children in red pen. His brows furrowed in concentration as he crossed out another one of Marco’s mistakes.

Speaking English, Marco was learning, was not an easy task.

The rules made no sense, and Americans talked so fast , and they had no shortage of names to call you if you asked them to slow down.

The community of vampires he was living with refused to allow him or Mateo to speak Italian to them, even though Isabella, Eleanor, and Alexei all could speak it.

Isabella said the only way to learn a new language was to be submerged in it, and Marco definitely felt ‘ submerged .’

Drowning was probably the better term.

The city was alive below Marco, in a way it only ever could be on New Year’s Eve.

New York never really slept, but tonight it thrummed with something else entirely.

Excitement, celebration, anticipation. Marco was told that there would be a ball dropped at midnight, something that hadn’t happened in two years because of the war, so the humans were extra excited.

How big could this ball be if the entirety of the city was going to see it?

He’d wanted to venture out to sate his curiosity, but Isabella had informed him that most people began lining up for it during the day, and Marco, of course, wasn’t able to do that.

He exhaled sharply through his nose as he watched the humans below, their movements blurring together as they all made their way toward Times Square.

While a lot of Marco’s humanity was slowly slipping through his fingers as the years passed, he certainly could hold onto their emotions. Jealousy, mostly.

Jiro crossed out and corrected another mistake, his neat and careful handwriting a stark contrast to Marco’s chicken scratch. “You keep sighing.”

Marco barely glanced at him, hypnotized by the crowd below. “No, I don’t.”

Jiro hummed noncommittally, the closest he ever gave to an argument.

Silence stretched between them, interrupted only by the sound of pen on paper and the pedestrians below, but Marco didn’t mind it.

Out of the entire group, Jiro was the one Marco liked best. He was quiet, unlike Eleanor and Alexei, who spoke too often and too fast for Marco’s liking.

He didn’t force Marco to speak, and he never pushed Marco to do anything he wasn’t ready for.

Most of the time, they would sit in companionable silence, either reading or doing English lessons, like today.

Jiro never had a problem slowing down his English so Marco could understand, and never made Marco feel dumb for not picking up on the language as fast as Mateo had.

Mateo, who started with English swearing, and had made his way from there.

He’d made fast friends with Alexei, if ‘friend’ was the word you could use.

Mostly, they would go to the bar together.

He still never smiled, but Eleanor was determined to get at least one out of him.

Marco had never felt so distant from his brother in his entire life.

Mateo seemed more relaxed, however, so Marco kept his thoughts to himself.

Jiro tapped the pen against the grammar book, drawing Marco’s gaze away from the crowd and his attention out of his thoughts. He handed Marco back the grammar book, which was covered in red ink.

“Better,” he offered. “Try the next page.”

Marco frowned at the page, and the childish drawings that accompanied it. An American ten-year-old had better grammar than he did, and it was embarrassing. Why did English put the nouns after the adjectives? They talked so fast but took forever to get to the point.

“Always better. Never good, ” Marco huffed, shooting Jiro a sideways glance.

Jiro’s mouth twitched in a way that Marco was learning was his way of showing that something had amused him. “When it is good, I’ll tell you.”

Marco scoffed but didn’t argue. He wouldn’t get any pushback, even if he did. Jiro wasn’t one to fight back, not really. Jiro rarely said something definitively unless he knew he was right, and you’d argue yourself exhausted before he’d engage.

So, Marco focused back on his book, flipping to the next page. A short story about a boy and his dog, if the pictures gave any indication. The boy and the dog run. The dog fetches the red ball. The quick, brown dog runs with the boy. They ran all day. Simple, but unnatural on his tongue.

He tried his best to work out what the book was asking of him. Find the adjectives, use these words in a sentence, what was happening in the picture, but his eyes kept drifting to the city below. A new year still meant something to these people. Marco wanted to scream.

“You want to go down there,” Jiro said, more observation than question.

Marco didn’t answer right away, but God, yes, of course he did. He wanted to stand in the crowd without the desire to harm the humans in it. He wanted to feel the warmth of thousands of people pushing around him. He wanted to be a part of something.

“It is nothing,” he muttered, accent making the English words nearly unrecognizable.

Jiro was quiet for a long moment, watching Marco in a weighted way.

He wasn’t prying or pressing, because he already knew.

Marco said two words, and Jiro had determined exactly how he felt.

How he hated being on the outside looking in, knowing he could never have his humanity back.

Marco would have been thirty years old this past year, but instead, he never really got his twenty-fifth birthday.

“You don’t have to lie,” Jiro said finally, his voice steady. Beyond him, the clock ticked closer to midnight, closer to ringing in Marco’s sixth year as a monster.

Marco’s jaw tensed. It wasn’t a lie , not really. It was nothing. He wanted to go down there, but as a human. Marco wasn’t a human, therefore he didn’t want to go. So, it was nothing. Useless to dwell on. Stupid to care about, really.

“I don’t lie,” he muttered finally, trying hard to focus on his book, grip on the cover tightening in frustration.

He clenched his teeth as he forced his eyes onto the page, but the words blurred together until nothing made any sense.

Useless, childish book. He wasn’t a child.

Shouldn’t be forced to start from scratch.

He felt like he’d been reborn into a world where everything reminded him how small he was, how little he was worth.

Like a child, he had no control, no home, nothing to his name.

Just a rooftop, a children’s grammar book, a war he was an ocean removed from, and a world that no longer made sense to him.

“I don’t lie,” he repeated, but he wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince.

Jiro nodded, eyes never leaving Marco’s face.

There was no judgment there when there definitely should be.

Jiro was a second-generation American, and Japanese was nothing like English.

Marco, at least, had the advantage of already knowing the Roman alphabet, while Jiro grew up with two sets of characters to learn.

And yet, he never made Marco feel lesser than, even when he had every right to.

“Then tell me the truth,” Jiro said simply.

Marco’s first instinct was to turn to anger, like his brother had. To say something cutting, to push the other man away, but the words wouldn’t come. How could he hurt the only non-family that never asked him to be something he wasn’t?

He swallowed hard, tearing his gaze away from the book, eyes leveling with Jiro’s. “I… miss getting older,” he settled on finally, quietly, voice barely audible over the street noise. It was the only way he could accurately describe what he was feeling.

Jiro nodded once, the motion deep with understanding, like Marco had said the most obvious thing in the world.

“I was nineteen when my humanity was stolen,” he said. “My siblings, my parents, my extended family all told me never to grow up, that it was a trap.” He exhaled, looking out to the crowd. “I believed them then. I don’t now.”

Marco’s throat felt tight. He clenched his jaw, looking away.

Jiro had been the youngest of seven siblings, he had told Marco once.

He’d been turned a few years before Marco.

They’d be nearly the same age before the immortality set in.

Marco tried to imagine Jiro’s forever-teenage face lined with the appearance of a thirty-year-old man.

It would suit him, Marco was sure. Age would only enhance his features.

If they were two human strangers on the street, he would turn Marco’s head, at least.

“We still change,” Jiro offered, and Marco felt a little guilty for staring at his face for so long. “We don’t age, not like them. But our minds do.”

Marco scoffed, shaking his head. “Not the same.”

“No,” Jiro agreed, “But you take what you can get.”

Marco looked out at the city. The noise had reached a fever pitch, the countdown about to begin.

Back home, with the turn of the new year, they’d reflect on goals they wanted to achieve.

‘Buoni propositi’ they called it, ‘ good intentions.’ Americans called them ‘ resolutions,’ and Isabella had encouraged Marco to make some.

He nearly scoffed aloud at the thought. Resolution One: Try to be less dead. He looked over at Jiro, who was still watching him with an intensity that made Marco squirm.

“Do you have resolutions?” Marco asked aloud, if only to keep the other man talking. To keep those deep brown eyes on him a little longer.

Jiro tilted his head, considering. “I don’t usually make them.”

Marco raised a brow. “Why not?” he asked. He knew why he thought they were useless, but he wanted Jiro’s opinion, too.

Jiro thought for a moment, his eyes searching Marco’s face. “I didn’t see a point.” Marco could have sworn Jiro’s eyes flickered over Marco’s mouth, for just a moment, “Maybe this year, I’ll make one.”

Marco nodded. “This year, I will master English,” he said, though he didn’t quite believe himself. He kept thinking of dark eyes ghosting over his lips. Had Jiro shifted closer?

Jiro nodded, offering his own resolution. “This year, if I want something, I will go for it. No second-guessing.”

Marco huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

When had Jiro ever not gone for what he’d wanted?

He always seemed to have no shortage of books to read or blood to drink or partners to bed.

It was Marco who had never pursued what he wanted.

“Bold,” was the response Marco settled on, glancing back out over the city.

The countdown had begun below, distant voices raising in anticipation.

Ten

Marco turned back to Jiro, who was still watching him. Had their thighs been touching all night, or was this a new development?

Nine

Jiro’s smirk deepened. “One last English lesson this year.”

Eight

Marco shook his head, pushing away the grammar book. “No more?—”

“Translate this to English,” Jiro interrupted, before switching to a careful, slow Italian, making sure Marco caught each syllable. “ Voglio che tu mi baci.”

Seven

Marco blinked, momentarily thrown by the request. What an odd thing to translate.

Six

“I… want you to kiss me?” he repeated in English, voice laced with confusion.

Five

Jiro’s smirk softened, expression turning serious as he inched just a little closer.

Four

Marco’s breath caught. His lips parted as the intention dawned on him.

Three

Marco had never kissed anyone before.

Two

Jiro pressed his forehead to Marco’s, and if Marco had a heart, it would have stopped.

One.

The kiss was… explosive.

Below them, the city erupted. Cheers of Happy New Year as fireworks crackled in the distance, exploding in brilliant colors over a beautiful skyline. But it was nothing compared to Jiro’s kiss.

He kissed Marco in an unhurried way, like he’d been waiting for this and he was going to savor it.

Marco was afraid his first kiss would be awkward, but it wasn’t long before instinct took hold of his senses.

He reached forward, curling his hand behind Jiro’s neck, deepening their contact.

He let Jiro lead, willing to follow wherever the other man took him in that moment, something strange and new and maybe a little dangerous flickering at the edges of his mind.

Jiro pulled back, nipping at Marco’s lip, drawing an honest to God groan from Marco. They broke apart, but kept their foreheads pressed together, eyes locked on each other and full of promise for what was to come.

The city roared beneath them, but up here on this rooftop, Marco existed in a world of only Jiro.

The other man’s voice was feather-soft when he spoke next, like he was testing the weight of his words, “Happy New Year, Marco.”

Marco swallowed, something thick and heady catching in his throat. His lips still tingled with the ghost of Jiro’s, his fingers wanting to reach out and pull him in again. Instead, he settled for taking his hand, squeezing lightly.

“Happy New Year,” he agreed, a tentative smile finding its way to his face.

For the first time since turning, since his world was ripped from him, his future didn’t seem so bleak. One kiss, and he had something in the distance to look forward to.

Why, then, was he so afraid?