Fangs, Fate & Other Bad Decisions Chapter 29

Her kiss is still on my lips, and her breath is still on my skin.

And I’m absolutely wrecked.

I’m supposed to be centuries old and unshakable. But this woman, this chaotic, stubborn, sarcastic storm in a little black dress, has me undoing centuries of self-discipline in a single car ride. *What the fuck?*

She’s sitting beside me now, her face turned towards the window like nothing happened mere minutes ago. But I can still feel the rapid beat of her pulse where my hand had brushed her neck while I cradled her jaw. She’s pretending to be unaffected, but she’s very, *very* bad at it.

I don’t call her out on it, though. I just let the silence stretch between us. Because it’s not the awkward kind of silence – the kind that feels like a secret kept between two people who knew something had just shifted.

The city blurs outside the tinted windows as her house draws closer. I should feel relieved that this night is ending. Technically, I don’t have to stay longer at her place, because I don’t really need to ‘recuperate’ under her watchful eye. I know it, and I think she’s suspecting the same.

Instead of relief, though, I’m irrationally annoyed that I have to walk away from her, because I don’t have a semi-sane reason for prolonging my time with her.

Mike pulls up to the curb in front of her house, the car’s headlights casting long shadows over her front steps. Before I can reach for the door, she’s already grabbing the handle, and I can’t decide if that stings or not. *Does she want to get away from me that badly?*

But I stop her with a hand lightly around her wrist. “Harley...” I start, unsure what to say not to have this night end just yet.

She turns to me slowly, but her hand doesn’t release the handle. “Hmm?”

“Tonight was...” I trail off. *Fuck. What are words even?* How do I explain that I’ve had ten-course meals with royalty, yet it still didn’t compare to watching her laugh over overpriced bruschetta?

She quirks a brow, amused at my inability to string a complete sentence together. “Life-changing? Enlightening? Expensive?”

I huff at her, “All of the above.”

Then her face softens, just a fraction, but it’s there. A flicker of something she’s trying very hard not to show me.

“Come inside,” she says. It’s not seductive, it’s not playful. It’s...warm, quiet, and honest. As if she doesn’t want the night to end either.

And you wouldn’t be able to stop me from going inside, even if you put a stake through my heart.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Her house smells like her: sweet and a little spicy, like vanilla and jasmine, with something warmer underneath that reminds me of cinnamon and chaos.

I should leave.

I should let her push me out the front door, close it, and then return to pretending I can stay away.

But instead, I find myself slipping off my jacket from her shoulders and tossing it over the back of her couch like it's always belonged there.

She kicks off her shoes and pads barefoot to the kitchen. There, she grabs two glasses and pours some wine from an already-opened bottle into each for us. She hands me a glass as I stand in the living room and kitchen archway. Like this is a regular thing. Like we do this every Saturday. And for one sharp, dangerous moment, I wish we did. 

She walks over to the front of the couch closest to the archway and then pushes, trying to move it backward so it’s at an acute angle to the wall-mounted TV on the left side of the bay window. Seeing her struggle, I go over, place my hand on the arm, and use minimal effort to push it into the position she’s looking for.

She gapes at me, then at the couch, then at me again, blinks, and then says, “...Okay, that’s not normal.”

I shrug, trying to play it off, “You started the momentum for me.”

She crosses her arms and scowls at me as she says, “I did not.”

“Maybe I work out?” I ask as I cock a brow at her.

“Maybe you’re a Superman-wannabe with a gym membership,” she mouths off at me before dropping the subject. She then plops onto the couch and pats the cushion beside her. “Movie?”

“I don’t watch much TV,” I admit, sitting down nonetheless, while swirling the wine in my glass.

“Of course not. I forgot, you’re too busy brooding in your tower and doing rich people things.”

With a slight smirk while looking at her, I ask, “Such as?”

“Clutching your stock portfolio like a Victorian lady with pearls,” she says with a deadpan expression, then leans towards the coffee table and grabs the remote.

*Gods, I could spend a thousand years just listening to her.*

The movie she chooses is...ridiculous. Something with explosions and a talking raccoon. But she’s into it – *really* into it. Making commentary, quoting lines, and laughing like no one’s watching.

But *I* am watching. Every twitch of her lips, every tilt of her head, and every relaxed movement that shows me she feels safe beside me.

At some point, she shifts closer unintentionally, and her shoulder brushes mine. Not long after, her head is on my arm. And then...she’s asleep.

Just like that.

Her breathing slows down, her eyelids flutter closed, and her lashes rest against her wine- and laughter-flushed cheeks.

I go completely still, because this is the most dangerous moment of my entire life thus far.

She’s tucked against me like she belongs there, like she’s *always* belonged there. My hand itches to wrap around her waist and hold her tighter, but I don’t.

I don’t move, and I barely breathe.

I just stare down at her, memorizing everything. Because she’ll wake up soon, and I’ll have to leave.

But for now? I let myself have this.

One stolen night.

One perfect moment where the world is quiet and she’s mine – even if she doesn’t know it yet.

And in a barely audible whisper, I speak a truth that could ruin us both: “You undo me.”