Page 24 of Savage Thirst

And I need to do it again now. Leave. Disappear before sunrise, before they can reassess the whole truce deal.

The storm outside is thinning to a steady drizzle. Still cold, still dark. But I can handle that. I've walked worse roads in worse weather. The real problem is the gas. And the fact that I have zero money. Whatever bills I had in my pockets probably drowned with me or got washed with the clothes currently drying downstairs, assuming they weren't shredded beyond use.

I start pacing the room, already forming a plan. Wait a few hours. Let the vampires get distracted, or better, fall asleep, if they do sleep. Find my way out. Get to the car. Find gas.

And maybe… find cash.

I glance toward the dresser, then the wardrobe, calculating. In a place like this, they must have money stashed somewhere. And I doubt they'd miss a little. It's not like vampires live paycheck to paycheck. Most have had centuries to accumulate wealth, likely from a mix of investments, blackmail, and robbing their victims blind. Who's the real thief, then?

I'm good at finding where people hide things like cash or keys. Whatever they don't want touched. It's not a talent I advertise, but it kept me alive when I was living out of abandoned buildings and sleeping with one eye open. I've picked pockets. Broken into back rooms. Taken what I needed and left before anyone noticed.

I'm not proud of it, but I'm not ashamed either. Survival doesn't come with clean hands.

Stealing from two vampires who could crush me in a blink doesn't even make my top ten list of morally questionable choices.

I wait silently and restlessly. Minutes stretch like hours, and when the storm outside eases into a steady patter of rain, I take it as my cue. I move to the door, press my ear against the wood. Nothing. Not a creak.

I ease it open and slip into the hall, each step silent, weightless. That's the thing about nymphs—criminal record or not, we move like whispers in the wind.

First stop: the laundry room. My clothes are still warm from the dryer, dry enough to wear, but I don't waste time changing. I clutch them to my chest, eyes sweeping the space around me.

If one of the vampires catches me now, I can still spin a story—say I came down for my things. Or a glass of water. Anything, really.

But once I cross that line, once I take what isn't mine, the only way out is through the door and fast.

I move into the main living area, peeking into a few drawers. Nothing but coasters, pens, the random chaos of everyday life. Then I spot another door, half-open. A study. Of course they have a study, and it's not locked. Because what kind of lunatic would try to rob a vampire?

Apparently, me.

I step inside, fingers moving quickly but quietly. Drawer. Empty. Another. Loose papers. Then—bingo. A smaller drawer, nestled near the bottom, not locked. Inside: a stack of hundred-dollar bills, banded, clean.

I don't think. I grab it.

No hesitation now. I cross the house like a shadow, silent and swift, heading straight for the front door. One hand on the handle. Clothes pressed tight to my chest, the money folded in my palm.

I start to turn the knob—

Click.

A slow cluck of a tongue cuts through the dark.

"Well, well, well. Looks like our little nymph's got sticky fingers." The voice is a drawl, amused and sharp enough to cut glass. "What shall we do with her now?"

Kayden.

Shit.

I freeze. My heart leaps into my throat and pounds there like a trapped bird. For a split second, I weigh dashing outside. But I wouldn't get far. Not from him.

I turn slowly, forcing my spine straight, my chin high. "You said I could leave," I say coolly, evenly. "I'm taking my things and leaving."

He steps out of the shadowed hallway, his shirt unbuttoned, sweatpants hanging loosely on his hips. "Your interpretation of 'morning' is creative. Very ambitious. What is it, four A.M.?" His eyes glitter in the low light. "And here I thought we were starting to bond. Whiskey. Secrets. Near-death flashbacks."

His voice drips with sarcasm, but there's something behind it. That edge again. Like he doesn't know whether to bite me or laugh, or maybe both.

I tighten my grip on the money, trying to decide which story buys me time this round.

"Look, I'm just getting out of your hair—"