Page 5

Amari

Downtown Detroit—Medina Corp

T he wind whips across my naked skin as I stand on the balcony of my penthouse, forty floors above the Detroit River.

The city lights twinkle like fallen stars, Ontario’s glow reflecting off the water’s surface.

The height doesn’t bother me—nothing about being this high makes my immortal blood quicken.

If I fell, I’d simply land with the grace of the predator I am, unbroken, unchanged.

I wipe the blood from the corner of my mouth with my thumb, savoring the metallic taste as I slip it between my lips. The woman’s blood still lingers—a hint of wine, exhaustion, and something artificial that speaks of too many late nights and not enough real food.

Behind me, she’s sprawled face-down on my bed, the black silk sheet barely covering one ass cheek.

Her back is bare, marked with the evidence of our encounter—scratches from my nails, bruises from my fingers gripping too hard in the throes of passion.

Her dark hair fans across the pillow, and she’s dead to the world, worn out from the hours we spent tangled together.

I feel nothing looking at her. Less than nothing. The hollow ache inside me grows wider, a void that no amount of fucking can fill. It’s been this way for over a thousand years—meaningless encounter after meaningless encounter, each one leaving me emptier than the last.

These women do nothing for me except take the edge off, just enough to calm my dick down for the time being. There’s no connection, no spark, no recognition of anything greater than the physical friction we create. I keep waiting for something more, but it never comes.

That’s what brought me to Detroit, if I’m being honest with myself.

Something’s been pulling me here for months, a magnetic tug I can’t explain.

I tell myself I came here to stick it to Brookstone and Blackburn Enterprises, to take down the corporations that fuel anti-supernatural propaganda while enslaving humans under the guise of “fair employment.” And that’s part of it—I have plans for those bastards that would make Machiavelli proud.

But the real truth? I think my fated mate is here.

After more than a millennium, I can finally feel her pull, faint but constant, like a compass needle trembling toward magnetic north.

King Amir and Damon don’t understand how these corporate entities work, how they spread their poison through society.

They think destroying the board members ends the threat, but corporations are hydras—cut off one head, two more appear.

The true way to destroy them is from within, turning their people against them, bankrupting them slowly until they collapse under their own weight.

I grin into the night wind, relishing the thought of watching those fuckers burn.

A familiar skittering sound makes me step back against the balcony wall. He’s here—my little friend, my constant companion for over five hundred years. I found him on the hillside above Granada, a lost creature watching his world burn just as I watched mine. We’ve been together ever since.

He appears at the balcony’s edge, his massive form easily the size of a dinner plate.

His body glows with that unnatural black sheen, like polished obsidian, and his bristly hairs outlined by the city lights.

Eight eyes, dark and intelligent, fix on me with what I can only describe as ancient wisdom.

He’s grown over the centuries. When I first found him, he was barely larger than a human hand.

Now he’s a magnificent creature, his legs spanning wider than a man’s outstretched arms. His body is covered in coarse black hair, with markings that resemble constellations across his abdomen.

Multiple eyes like dark jewels, and his fangs are capable of puncturing steel if necessary.

What makes him truly special isn’t his size, though.

He feeds on the lost souls trapped in limbo, cleaning the spaces between worlds of the restless dead.

I’ve watched him feast on spirits that would drive mortals mad, consuming them in a way I envy.

He has a job, a reason for existing beyond survival.

He moves over to me with that fluid grace that defies physics, his legs finding purchase on the smooth glass and steel. But when he gets close enough to scent me, his legs tighten up, and he steps back, glaring at me with all eight eyes.

He doesn’t like the scent of the woman on me.

“I know she’s not my fated mate, little friend,” I tell him, my voice rising steadily over the wind. “I’m still waiting for her, and when I find the woman I’m meant to spend eternity with, she will have my undying loyalty.”

He taps his legs against the balcony railing, a rapid staccato that I’ve learned means he’s calling bullshit. Images flash into my mind—him communicating the only way he can. I see myself with other women, sense his disapproval, his frustration with my inability to simply wait.

“Little friend, you judge me so harshly,” I say with a laugh. “There’s nothing more than a physical connection between these women and me. I don’t even know if my mate exists in this timeline.”

More images flash—sharper now, showing me as an ass, a fool for wasting time with meaningless encounters when I could be searching for my true mate. His communication is like a twisted game of charades, but after all these centuries together, I’ve become fluent in his visual language.

He climbs down from the railing to the floor of the balcony, stopping at my feet. I look down at him, smiling despite his judgment.

“If I’m going to spend eternity alone, I should at least be able to enjoy my endless suffering,” I try to reason with him.

He taps his legs against my bare shin, gentler now. The touch is a comfort I’ve grown accustomed to, a reminder that I’m not completely alone in this world.

“Any luck tonight?” I ask, the question I pose every few months.

Over the centuries, he’s shared images of his birth with me—emerging from a sac alongside many siblings, losing his way as a spiderling, searching endlessly for his family.

There’s always a young girl in these visions, a girl whose face I can never quite make out, only her bare feet.

He calls her mommy in his strange way, projecting emotions of love and loss and desperate longing.

Is this girl still alive? The timeframe suggests she should be dead by now, but in our world, death and time work differently. Perhaps she’s supernatural, frozen in time like my little friend seems to be.

He shakes his large head, then taps his legs gently against mine, signaling for me to go back inside. The sun will be rising soon, but I’m not ready to leave the night behind.

I turn back toward the penthouse, knowing he’s right. The sun doesn’t hurt me like the old legends claim, but I do prefer the darkness. As I step through the doorway, he skitters past me with surprising speed for something so large.

Ten... nine... eight... seven...

The screaming starts right on schedule.

One thing about my little friend—he’s not afraid to make himself comfortable. He knows most humans fear him, and over the centuries, he’s stopped caring about their feelings. My home is his home, and there’s no arguing that point.

“AMARI!” the woman shrieks from the bedroom.

I sigh, realizing I never bothered to get her name. She had a nice ass, wide hips for me to grip during the back shots I enjoyed so much. Her pussy felt good enough, and that was all I needed. The transaction was simple—she got her rocks off with a vampire, I got a release that lasted a few hours.

She screams again, followed by the crash of something hitting the wall. I imagine her throwing the nearest object at my friend, who’s probably just trying to settle onto his favorite pillow.

I make my way to the bedroom, finding exactly what I expected. My little friend is on the mattress, making himself comfortable like he owns the place. He’s crawled up onto his favorite pillow—the one that used to be the woman’s side of the bed—and is settling down for his daytime rest.

Meanwhile, she’s clutching a lamp like a weapon, her beautiful brown eyes wide with terror and fury. The sheet is wrapped tightly around her like armor, her grip firm.

I flash across the room with vampire speed, catching the lamp from her raised arm before she can hurl it. She jerks back, pressing herself against the headboard.

“You don’t want to piss my little friend off,” I tell her, setting the lamp gently back on the nightstand.

“That’s your fucking friend?” she shouts, her voice cracking. “Who has a massive spider as a friend?”

I bend down and pick up her underwear and dress from the floor. The dress is barely more than a band of fabric; the reason I chose her at Thirst Trap. She was showing off that juicy ass, practically advertising what she wanted, and I was happy to deliver.

“Then you should leave,” I say simply. “This is his home. My little friend comes before you.”

I say it matter-of-factly because it’s true.

I won’t tolerate anyone who can’t accept him.

He may look intimidating, but he’s harmless to those who don’t threaten us.

He feeds on rodents and the lost souls that slip between worlds.

He crawled onto the bed because he was ready to sleep, nothing more.

She scoffs, running a hand through her sex-mussed hair. “You fucking vampires are so weird.”

She drops the sheet without shame—I respect that—and steps into her panties. I take a final appreciative look at her ass as she pulls the dress over her head. Her skin is marked with love bites, evidence of our night together.

“The least you can do is give me money for an Uber,” she mutters, grabbing her heels.

In a flash, I’m at the chair where I left my pants, pulling my wallet from the pocket. I return to her with several hundred-dollar bills.

She snatches them, counting them openly. “Don’t be cheap.”