Page 37 of Bound in Blood (Vampires of Boston #1)

The words hung in the air, thick and suffocating, pressing against Marco’s ribs like a vice. His breath stuttered, the world around him blurring at the edges. “What do you mean?” he asked slowly, pronouncing every word. Surely, something was lost in translation. Surely?—

“After you went to sleep last night, Mateo and Alexei stumbled back in.” Jiro scoffed in slight disgust. “Drunk, as usual. They were talking about train tickets. Mateo said there were no good times tonight, so if Alexei could be ready in half an hour, they’d ‘just go.’ I’m sorry, Marco.”

No.

No, that wasn’t… wasn’t possible.

Marco would have known. Would have felt it.

But he did, didn’t he? He knew something was wrong the second he woke up.

“Did you hear where they were headed?” Marco asked, pleaded. “Please tell me they mentioned a city.”

“Yes,” Jiro paused, as if in thought. Marco knew it was bullshit, because Jiro didn’t display his thinking on his face like that. “But I’m not going to tell you.”

Marco’s vision blurred at the edges, rage curling hot and vicious in his gut. “What do you mean, you’re not going to tell me?”

Jiro tilted his head, all cool amusement. “Why do you need to know? To chase after him? Like a dog? Do you need to find him, to kneel at his feet?” Jiro rolled his eyes. “Face it, love. He made his choice, and you’re both much better off this way.”

Marco stumbled back like he’d been burned. “He didn’t even say goodbye.”

Jiro laughed humorously. “Why would he? Mateo cares about nobody but himself.”

“That sounds like projection, Jiro. You know how much I love my brother. Did you try to stop him?” Marco was shaking with rage that he had no outlet for. Mateo would punch Jiro. Marco had never hit anyone in his life.

“No, I didn’t. Because I care about what’s best for you. I’m not projecting, Marco. I love you. More than he does, anyway. Would you give a bottle of whiskey to an alcoholic?” Jiro sounded so calm, so levelheaded compared to Marco’s anger.

Marco didn’t reply. He just moved. Fast enough to make Jiro flinch, but Marco wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hitting him.

He reached for his coat, yanking it on in quick, jerky movements, fingers fumbling as he buttoned it.

He had no time to pack, but it didn’t matter.

Mateo wouldn’t go somewhere where there were no shops to buy new clothes, and who cared about these books?

They would just remind him of Jiro. Jiro, whom Marco was in love with yesterday, and was now pretty sure he never wanted to see again.

“Where are you going?” Jiro’s voice was flat and unimpressed.

Marco didn’t answer. Mainly, because he didn’t know.

“Marco. Think about this. Mateo left, not you. Maybe you should consider the fact that you’re the only one trying to hold onto something that’s already gone.” Jiro looked at Marco with something bordering on pity. “You can’t keep hurting yourself trying to fix something that’s beyond repair.”

“Where did he go, Jiro?” Marco’s voice was harsh, demanding. He didn’t need Mateo to speak up for him, not this time.

“I’m not telling you. And you should know that’s for your own good.”

Marco’s jaw tightened. “Jiro.”

“No, Marco. I will not enable this.” He shook his head. “This devotion you have to him… it’s unnatural.”

Marco froze, turning to look at him. Jiro smiled, sharp and knowing.

“Willing to leave the man you’re fucking to chase your beloved brother to God knows where? Are we sure this isn’t romantic in nature?” Jiro’s lips curled.

Marco’s vision blurred with fury. “You’re fucking disgusting, Jiro.”

Jiro shrugged, perfectly at ease, still naked in their bed, like he hadn’t just said the most vile thing he could think of to upset Marco. “Just an observation.”

Marco couldn’t do this. He wouldn’t do this. He spun on his heel and stormed toward the door. Vaguely, he heard Jiro call out to him, but the blood was rushing too fast in his ears for him to listen.

On his way out the door, he caught Eleanor out of the corner of his eye. Eleanor, who’d always had a weird way of knowing everything, even if nobody had ever told her.

“Boston,” she’d said as Marco opened the door. “Careful with the sun.”

“Thank you, Eleanor,” Marco replied. Fuck the sun. If he were reduced to a pile of ash in the pursuit of his brother, so be it. “Do you know where in Boston?”

“Not sure. Caught the name of a bar, maybe? Red Dragon, I think.” She blinked. “Hurry, your train will leave soon.”

What a weird woman. Marco wished he’d gotten to know her better. “Thank you again. Come visit us, okay?”

“We will. Not for a while.” She smiled, handing him an umbrella. “I’ll send your things when you get settled.”

With a quick nod and one last thank you, Marco was out the door.

To Boston.

To Mateo.

It didn’t take much time, really, to find the tavern Eleanor had spoken about.

It was, apparently, quite a historical place in Boston’s history.

He stepped inside, and the air was warm and smoky, packed with bodies.

Humans everywhere, the low hum of conversation buzzing around him, laughter punctuating the noise, the occasional clink of glasses.

Some song Marco didn’t know played from the jukebox in the corner, but he barely heard it.

Because there, across the room, looking as miserable as ever. Mateo.

Marco was only about a day removed from the last time he was in the same room as his brother, but having his eyes on him now felt like instant relief. Like coming back inside after you’ve stood in the sun for hours.

Mateo was sitting next to Alexei, their heads dipped together in conversation, and Marco just… watched. Stared. His breath caught in his throat.

Marco inhaled sharply, steadying himself.

He looked the same. He looked different.

The anger, the weight of New York, his ever-present readiness for a fight… it was still there, but it was quieter. Worn down around the edges. Like a day removed from New York—from Marco—had started to smooth him out, just a little.

What if Jiro had been right? That Mateo could be happier here, without Marco? What did Marco do with that? If he approached Mateo, and Mateo told him to go the fuck home. Where would Marco even go when his home had always been Mateo?

His feet moved before he was ready, guiding him through the thick press of bodies, moving through tourists and locals, brushing past warm skin and cool gazes.

Mateo hadn’t noticed him, but Alexei did.

His head lifted slightly, gaze flickering over Marco’s face with that same unreadable expression he always carried. He didn’t react or warn Mateo. Didn’t do anything, really, except tilt his chin slightly upward. A barely-there shift, before looking back down at his own drink.

That was as close to hello as Marco had ever gotten from Alexei. He’d never liked Marco as much as he had Mateo. Which, Marco figured, was fair. Marco got Jiro, Mateo got Alexei. Just in different ways.

Marco tightened his jaw and pressed forward. His steps felt heavier as he got closer, like gravity was pulling harder now that he was within reach. The press of people around him felt suffocating, but Marco didn’t care. His attention was focused on one thing.

One person.

Mateo shifted. Drug a hand through his hair. Let out a low, frustrated sigh before finally lifting his eyes—meeting Marco’s wide eyes with a glare.

He knew. Of course he knew Marco was here. He’d probably known the second Marco had stepped into the city. The same way Marco knew he was gone before anyone had told him.

“Where’s Jiro?” Mateo asked, hands clenching into fists on the table in front of him.

“You didn’t say goodbye,” Marco replied stupidly, his voice wavering as tears already threatened to spill.

Mateo scoffed, shaking his head as he leaned back in his seat.

His jaw was set tight, shoulders squared, like he was bracing for a fight.

“Yeah, so what?” Mateo growled. He was putting on a brave, angry face, but Marco could feel the underlying pain.

Mateo was hurting, just like Marco was hurting.

And it was Marco who was in the wrong here. Marco who needed to fix it.

“So I followed you,” Marco said. “To fix things or get closure, I’m not sure. That depends on you.”

Mateo rolled his eyes, “Right. You come all the way to Boston so I can fix everything. I get to apologize and make amends, yes? What do you?—”

“No,” Marco cut him off, raising his voice louder than he ever had at Mateo before. The expression wiped clean off Mateo’s face. Anger turned to confusion within seconds.

“ I’m in the wrong,” Marco said, making himself as clear as he can. “ I fucked up. You were right to distance yourself. What I meant to say is if you don’t want me in your life, I’m gone. But I want to fix things, Mateo. I want to make up for everything I’ve put you through since we turned.”

Mateo stared at him. His lips parted, then pressed back together in a tight line, like for the first time in his life, he’d been rendered speechless. His knuckles were white against the wooden table, fingers tightening into a fist, relaxing, then tightening again.

Marco held his breath, waiting.

“Jiro?” Mateo asked finally, quietly. If Marco didn’t have vampiric hearing, he wouldn’t have caught it.

“Told him to go fuck himself.” Marco held Mateo’s gaze, willing him to believe him.

Mateo snorted, something almost sounding like a laugh escaping him. “How’d he take that?”

“Not well.” Marco shook his head. “Said the only reason I’d come after you is because… you know, I’m not going to repeat that.”

Mateo watched him closely, gaze sharp and assessing, waiting for Marco to crack and spill whatever disgusting thing Jiro had said.

When Marco didn’t, when he just shifted his weight and exhaled slowly, Mateo looked almost…

pleased. Not because of whatever Jiro had said, but because Marco hadn’t let it sink into his skin, hadn’t let it fester.

Marco sighed, rolling his shoulders. “Look, Teo. I know that coming here and apologizing isn’t going to magically undo eleven years of treating you like you don’t matter to me.

” He hesitated, pressing his lips together before continuing, “You don’t have to forgive me.

But let me… try, at least. To earn it. We’ve got forever, and if that’s how long it takes, I’m willing to accept that. ”

Alexei, who Marco had forgotten was even there, exhaled sharply through his nose. “Just let him sit, Mateo,” he muttered, taking another swig of his drink. “I’m already bored of the dramatics. Do this song and dance later when I don’t have to hear it.”

Mateo scoffed, rolling his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders eased.

Just slightly. His gaze flickered to Marco, sharp and wary, but something like exhaustion settled in, too.

He was just as tired as Marco. Of fighting, of running, of this manufactured distance.

Finally, he gestured at the empty seat next to him.

“Fine. Sit. I’m still pissed, but I’d like to hear all about you telling Jiro to go fuck himself.”

Marco didn’t hesitate before dropping into the chair next to him. “It’s really not that interesting of a story.”

Mateo eyed him for a long moment. “Well, then, you’re not forgiven. You’ll have to earn it some other way, and I won’t make it easy on you.”

Marco huffed a quiet laugh, something small but hopeful. “I’d be insulted if you did. What if I start by buying you another round?”

Mateo narrowed his eyes, watching Marco like he was still waiting for the trick, for Marco to let him down again. But Marco didn’t waver.

Slowly, Mateo let out a breath. His lips curled upward, and for a second, Marco didn’t even recognize what was going on.

A smile. An honest to God smile on his brother’s face.

One that was not laced with cruelty or anger or sarcasm.

Mateo smiled, and it reached his eyes, and Marco’s heart might have exploded. “You can buy the next two rounds.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Marco nodded, something like relief settling into his chest.

“And you’re still a fucking idiot.”

“Yes. I know,” he agreed.

“Welcome to Boston, fratellino. ” Mateo nudged his shoulder into Marco’s, and Marco must have felt especially apologetic, because he didn’t even remark that Mateo is only older by five minutes.

It was not perfect, and it definitely was not forgiveness, but fuck, it was something.