Page 72 of The Silver Fox Vampire

“The sun is almost up,” he said. “It’s safe for me to leave. Grimaalds hate full sunlight more than vampires do.”

“Was that thing that attacked you a grimaald?”

He shuddered. “Clare, I don’t know. I hope not, but I have a sense it was. And if it was, that means it’s somehow got through the force field we put in place to keep them out. I can’t work out how I couldn’t really see the fucker, but that’s demons for you, their dark magick can morph. It’s possible it’s seeking revenge. When I joined the PD, I purged grimaalds from Motham. I hope to the gods they are not slipping through our defenses again.” He laughed, and it sounded hollow to his ears. “But if they are, I’ll find a way to stop them. Now, go inside. Lock the door. Call Trent to drive you into work.”

“I will.”

“Goodbye, Clare. And thank you,” he breathed softly, and then he was gone.

Bunching her arms around her torso in a hug, she watched him skim along the street as the sky became streaked with wisps of pink and purple.

She stayed there, watching as the sun finally rose, its light softening the shadows and warming the earth.

Warmingher, melting the heart that had felt like a leaden weight inside her chest these past three years. Whatever happened from here, she knew that Oliver felt something for her. There was no turning back from this. For either of them.

Setting her shoulders, she walked back inside and bolted the door.

Undressing in the bathroom, Clare stared at her wrist, marveling at the magick of his bite, the way he had sealed it, leaving no sign of his partaking. She remembered the strange but delightful dragging sense of him sucking her blood, how arousing that had been, how strangely satisfying, in and of itself.

There was no sign, no scar, nothing. But she could never doubt it had happened.

Her mind played back over Oliver’s horrific story; of watching his family being staked to death, of being powerless to save them. And the hellish memories he could never escape from. The sorrow of it must be unbearable.

But at least she understood his darkness now.

And simultaneously, a weight had been removed from her heart. Finally, the shame of that night three years ago was washed away. She felt cleansed, renewed, blessed by the pain and vulnerability he had shared with her.

They were both damaged by their pasts, were they not? Even though hers paled in comparison to his, there was a darkness, a sadness in them both.

Like they didn’t quite fit anywhere in this world. Except with each other.

You could heal him.

You could join him in eternity.

Electricity ran up and down her spine, spread through her veins like wildfire.

It was scary—and yet, empowering, the thought resonating on some deep level in her soul.

Was it lunacy, believing she could heal him? Bring warmth back to his drawn features, make him happy again?

Or was it perhaps the sanest, therightestthing she had ever contemplated in her whole life. As if everything in her twenty-eight years on earth was leading up to this.

Clare shed her nightdress and almost danced into the shower. She felt the slick wet heat between her thighs as she washed, and a smile shaped her lips. That feeling of elation stayed with her as she dried her skin, shimmied into her bra and briefs, dressed, and pulled her hair back into its usual stern bun.

Hesitating, she pulled out a tendril of hair, then gently curled it around her ear.

Her smile widened, transforming her own reflection.

He would touch her again.

He would kiss her again.

He would partake of her blood again.

And then he would make sweet love to her.

She was certain of that now.