I do not keep women often.

  People assume otherwise. Power gives men many opportunities, and for most of my kind those opportunities are taken without hesitation.

  But I have never found much interest in it.

  Time changes the way you see people. After enough years, most conversations feel familiar before they even begin. Most desires are predictable. Most ambitions are painfully obvious.

  It becomes dull.

  Allysia was not dull.

  The moment she sat across from me for that interview, I noticed it. Not her appearance first, though that was certainly striking enough. It was the way she spoke.

  Direct.

  Unafraid.

  She did not lower her eyes. She did not soften her questions the way many journalists do when they are sitting across from someone with power.

  She pushed.

  That alone was rare.

  I remember glancing toward Xavian during the interview.

  He had been leaning against the wall near the window, arms crossed, wearing that faint smirk he always gets when he notices something interesting before anyone else does.

  He knew.

  My brother is very good at reading people.

  You like this one, his expression said without words.

  Later that evening, when the interview had ended and the room had emptied, I told him.

  “I want her.”

  Xavian laughed.

  “Of course you do.”

  He agreed with the decision immediately. Not that I needed his approval. I rarely do. But he understands people in ways I sometimes do not bother to study closely.

  “She’s bold,” he had said.

  “Yes.”

  “And stubborn.”

  “Yes.”

  “That will either be entertaining or a disaster.”

  “Probably both.”

  He had smiled at that.

  Still, I did not expect to see her again so quickly.

  That part was luck.

  Pure luck.

  When I walked into the Blood Bank and saw her standing in that line, I almost thought I had imagined it. She looked out of place among the others waiting there, dressed too carefully, standing too straight.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  Nervous.

  But stubborn enough not to leave.

  Desperate.

  The word stayed with me as I watched her.

  Not the empty desperation of someone who had already given up.

  Hers was sharper.

  Angrier.

  She needed something.

  Money, as I later learned.

  But even then I knew one thing.

  She did not belong in that place.

  And I had already decided something very simple.

  I was going to keep her.

  I stayed longer than I had planned.

  That was becoming a habit with her.

  When the conversation slowed and the apartment grew quiet, I made it clear I was not leaving yet.

  “I will stay here tonight,” I told her.

  The reaction was immediate.

  “No.”

  I had expected that.

  She crossed her arms, leaning against the kitchen counter with the kind of stubborn expression that had already become familiar.

  “You absolutely will not.”

  I rested back against the couch.

  “I will.”

  For the next hour we argued.

  It was not a particularly productive discussion.

  She insisted I had an entire mansion to return to. I pointed out that she had two bedrooms and a couch that appeared structurally sound.

  She accused me of being impossible.

  That was accurate.

  Eventually the argument burned itself out.

  She disappeared into the hallway and returned with a small stack of blankets, dropping them into my arms with an annoyed sigh.

  “Fine,” she muttered.

  “You’re sleeping there.”

  The couch dipped under my weight as I settled into it.

  She hovered for a moment like she was debating whether to continue arguing.

  Then she pointed a finger at me.

  “If you break that couch, you’re paying for it.”

  “That seems fair.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  A few minutes later the bedroom door closed.

  The apartment grew quiet again.

  I lay back against the couch, staring at the dim ceiling above me.

  I liked her.

  That realization had become increasingly obvious throughout the night.

  She was predictable in a way I found entertaining.

  Shy one moment.

  Fierce the next.

  She tried to appear stronger than she felt, which only made her reactions more interesting when her temper surfaced.

  Humans rarely surprise me anymore.

  Allysia did.

  My thoughts drifted briefly to the boy.

  Zane.

  I did not like him.

  Not the way he spoke to her.

  Not the way he looked at her.

  Not the way his anger had filled the room earlier that day.

  I would deal with him eventually.

  But she did not need to know that yet.

  --------

  I woke before the sun.

  Old habits rarely leave you, even after centuries.

  For a moment I simply stared at the ceiling, the faint gray light of early morning filtering through the thin curtains across the room.

  Then my back reminded me exactly where I was.

  The couch.

  I sat up slowly, stretching my shoulders with a quiet grimace.

  “I hate this couch,” I muttered to the empty room.

  My spine cracked slightly as I stood.

  Humans tolerated furniture like this daily. I could not decide if that made them resilient or simply unfortunate.

  The apartment was silent.

  Allysia’s bedroom door remained closed down the hallway.

  I moved quietly through the living room, stretching the stiffness out of my shoulders as I walked.

  Her apartment was small.

  Very small.

  Two rooms, a narrow kitchen, and furniture that had clearly been purchased only because it was inexpensive rather than comfortable.

  Still, it was… personal.

  That interested me.

  Humans fill their spaces with pieces of themselves without realizing it.

  Books stacked unevenly along the wall.

  A chipped mug sitting near the sink.

  A notebook half open on the small desk in the corner.

  I stepped closer to the desk.

  Paper covered most of the surface.

  Not organized notes.

  Scraps.

  Small torn pieces filled with half-finished ideas, phrases, names, arrows connecting thoughts together. The handwriting changed constantly—some lines rushed, others carefully written like she had paused to think.

  Journalist habits.

  I picked up one of the scraps, reading it briefly.

  She was always thinking.

  Always writing.

  I set it back down.

  My gaze drifted to the drawers built into the desk.

  Curiosity is rarely a weakness for my kind.

  I opened the first one.

  Pens.

  Loose paper.

  Receipts.

  The second drawer held similar things.

  The third drawer resisted slightly when I pulled it.

  It stuck halfway.

  I frowned faintly and pulled harder.

  The drawer slid open.

  And there it was.

  For a moment I simply stared at it.

  A cross.

  And a Bible.

  They sat quietly in the drawer like they had been placed there in a hurry.

  I had not seen one in decades.

  Perhaps longer.

  My expression hardened slightly as I lifted the small cross between my fingers.

  Religion.

  She practiced it.

  Which meant she was breaking the law.

  A law I had personally signed.

  A law I had people killed for breaking.

  The small metal cross rested cold in my hand as the quiet apartment filled slowly with morning light.