Page 15 of The Vampire's Werewolf Bodyguard

Simon

Simon’s hunger settles into a tolerable ache by the time Cody allows him into the house. His eyes are likely still red, but he’s no fledgling. He can control himself.

What he can’t control is the guilt. Like a debt looming over him. Cody didn’t protect Simon as a favor, and the economy of favors doesn’t include werewolves, anyway. But the feeling gnawing at Simon is jarringly similar.

Cody locks the garage door behind them. There’s wariness in his gaze. Understandable. Most people aren’t the bite-chasers at the Broken Cross, eager to open their veins for the first willing predator.

If Cody were willing…

No. Keep this professional. Even if Cody were willing, the bite holds too much vulnerability. Simon shouldn’t be fantasizing when Cody is injured. Bad enough that he felt so comfortable talking about Tania.

“Follow me,” Simon says, before he can think better of it.

The first-floor bathroom is neutral territory. It’s near the library with the garden mural. Dark granite, brass fixtures, and a mirror in an ornate oval frame. Decorating his home with mirrors is amusing, beyond the practical considerations. The monthly housekeepers are the ones most likely to use the restroom.

That’s why there’s a first aid kit under the sink. In case anyone gets hurt while Simon sleeps the day away.

Simon drags the kit onto the counter. By the dust, none of the service employees have gotten hurt in the five years since they last replaced it. Simon unlatches the heavy plastic and sorts through supplies. He thinks at first that Cody won’t follow, until he hears footsteps above the crinkling of gauze packs.

Cody’s presence crowds the doorframe, and his expression is still cautious. Simon is cornered, outnumbered, caught between Cody and Cody’s reflection.

And he’s weak. That’s why Cody was hurt.

“What’s this?” Cody asks. Doubtless he knows what a first aid kit is, so he’s really asking what the fuck Simon is doing.

Great question. Patching up Cody’s arm won’t patch up Simon’s guilt.

Simon braces himself to resist the scent of blood. He’s not a fledgling, but he’s not a saint either. “I can clean the wound for you.”

Cody’s brow dips, skeptical. “No need. It’s already healing.”

A sealed antiseptic wipe crinkles in Simon’s hand. The polite rejection stings, and he feels foolish for offering. Even more foolish for being disappointed. Of course, werewolves heal fast. Simon had just forgotten how fast .

He snaps the kit shut. “Never mind, then.”

“Fuck.” Cody scrubs his hand over his face and takes one step into the bathroom. “I could use help getting the jacket off. The lining is stuck to the blood.”

Simon should have been a jester. His relief at doing something reaches new depths of foolishness. After a lightning-fast assessment of their relative heights, he hops onto the counter.

“Very well. Come here.”

Cody hesitates understandably. Then he draws closer and turns his wounded arm towards Simon. “Thanks. I could rip it off, but I like this jacket.”

Simon holds his breath, which barely lessens the rich scent of Cody’s blood. He grips the back and shoulder of the jacket, towards the damaged right side. The leather is warm with Cody’s body heat.

Gingerly, Cody twists his good arm out. The movement brings him closer. He grabs the cuff of the bloody sleeve, and together he and Simon ease the jacket off. Fabric pulls against tacky blood. Fine hairs audibly tear from Cody’s arm.

It’s all so mortal. Physical. Undignified. Simon’s fingers clench like claws in the warm leather, guilt and hunger warring for his attention.

The bullet hole is a new, pink scar in the meat of Cody’s triceps. Rivers of darkening blood cake his arm to the back of his hand. Not nearly as sweet as it would be fresh from the vein—but Simon wants it.

Maybe he’s starving after months of bottled blood. Maybe Cody just smells too damn good. Simon imagines lifting Cody’s wrist and lapping the bloody traces from his bones.

Instead, Simon offers the torn jacket. “I can have this cleaned.”

“I’ll take care of it.” Cody takes the jacket, leaving Simon’s hand colder. “The lining is probably ruined, but I’ll just get it replaced.”

The man’s competent self-sufficiency is galling.

Simon wants to clean the blood from Cody’s arm too, but he can’t pretend that it’s to assuage his guilt. Not with the way his cold heart trembles with Cody’s proximity.

The guilt isn’t that Cody got hurt protecting him.

The guilt is for wanting to be protected.

“I should thank you,” Simon says softly. Maybe words will be clearer than gestures. “You didn’t have to do this.”

Cody cocks his head, clearly assessing. “It’s my job.”

“You still didn’t have to,” Simon says, sharp and defensive. “I’m grateful you did.”

In the dim bathroom light, Cody looks older than his years. Something shifts in the air, as if Simon’s hesitation places Cody on steadier ground. Cody turns to fully face him, close enough that his hip nearly brushes Simon’s knee.

“It’s my job to keep my principal out of harm’s way. Even if I hate them.” Cody grins. “But I don’t hate you as much as I expected.”

The words are unbelievably fond.

Simon inhales. He needs the breath to speak, and taking in the scent of Cody’s blood and sweat is a dizzying side effect. “I suppose you’re tolerable as well.”

“I need to report this incident to Tobias,” Cody says, his words quiet and his gaze almost tactile in its intensity. “But there’s one thing… Do we need to revise that no-touching protocol?”

He offers his unbloodied left hand, palm up .

“I would permit that,” Simon says, the honesty prickling like sunlight through a silk curtain. He places his fingers in the molten cup of Cody’s palm.

Cody caresses his hand, so gently one would never suspect those blunt fingertips could sharpen. His dark eyes still fix on Simon. For a moment, Simon is certain Cody is going to kiss him.

And Simon will permit that, too.

Cody steps back, avoiding Simon’s eyes. “I should report and clean up. Call if you need anything.”

Simon sits silent, motionless on the counter, as Cody flees.

Then he slumps back, shoulders and head thumping the wall next to the empty mirror. Fucking hell. This is absurd. Simon should be focused on tonight’s attack, but all he can think about is the handsy werewolf whose scent still fills his lungs.

Cody is attractive, obviously. If he wasn’t a werewolf… If he wasn’t Simon’s bodyguard… If he wasn’t merely twenty-eight years old… If he wasn’t clearly wary of Simon’s bloodlust…

If Simon wasn’t a twisted mess of—in the modern parlance—abandonment issues…

If Simon had met Cody during his youth, maybe in a tavern, or backstage after a show, they would have already fucked.

Simon doesn’t trust Cody, but some cold lonely part of him desperately wants to. Which is bad, because the people Simon’s close to get hurt. Or they leave. Immortality lasts too long to carry that grief and loneliness.

Simon inhales Cody’s lingering scent again, though he doesn’t need to speak now. Then he pulls out his phone and types a message.

Sorry to bother you,

He erases that. Pathetic.

Any updates?

Better. He sends the text message to Dima. Simon getting hurt is one thing, but he refuses to let Cody take another bullet. The man is only twenty-eight. He has no idea what he’s doing.

Disregard the fact that Simon has no idea what he’s doing either.