If ordinary vampires usually suffer from how slowly everything must be done around humans, then my suffering came from having to pretend to be weak all the time. Carrying the entire contents of the trunk on my back would've been no problem at all — nor would running straight to the street marked on the map. Mark might have even appreciated that side of me, if not for the fact that every gift like mine comes with its own bloody counterpart — one I had no intention of showing him.
The entire drive to the cottage, he kept going on about the animal trophies in the main building, genuinely offended that someone could decorate their home with such things. He couldn't stop wondering what kind of person you had to be to skin a once-living creature and stretch its hide over a frame. That, at least, was how Mark imagined taxidermy worked. And when I looked at how pale he'd gone while musing on the subject, I decided to stay quiet.
The car jolted and rattled over the potholes of the forest road, and I soon eased off the gas — otherwise, we'd be visiting a mechanic before the end of our vacation. The risk of damaging my father's imported car with its low suspension was too great. It was the only tangible thing I had left of him after his death. Not money or status — something real, something he had touched, maybe even loved in his own way.
On these local backroads, a car could lose a part or two easily if you weren't careful. With the reduced speed, we crawled toward our destination at a pace that tested my patience. All I wanted in the world was to drop the bags at the door and make myself a proper cup of coffee. And after that, we'd still have to drive back to the parking lot and walk all the way again — no doubt with Mark by my side…
Resigned to my fate, I half-listened to his rambling, letting him vent.
"By the way," he said, "there's an old library in the main building. Really atmospheric — you'd love it."
The mention of that holy of holies instantly pulled me back into the conversation.
"Yeah? Were there desks inside?" I asked, genuinely curious.
"Uh-huh, a few. You could probably work at one of them."
Work.Write.
Everyone was just waiting for me to finish that damned new novel.
"Maybe," I said, forcing a smile and hoping he wouldn't notice how hollow it was.
"Lise, don't miss the turn!"
"I see it, I see it," I muttered, tightening my grip on the wheel.
The car rolled slowly down a narrow road. When I looked around at the neighboring cottages, my hopes of parking close to ours were dashed by the thick, flowering branches of an overgrown oleander bush. A strange choice for a glamping park buried in pine forest, where sunlight barely reached the ground — yet despite that, the plant looked magnificent, blooming in full splendor.
"And here we are," Mark said cheerfully, pointing toward a cottage marked with a wooden sign, the number Thirty-Seven burned deep into the grain.
I stopped the car across from the narrow stone path and hurried to help him carry the bags inside. As usual, he tried to protest, reminding me that women shouldn't lift heavy things. If only he knew how easily I could carry him in my arms all the way from the porch to Alaska — and probably yawn along the way — he'd be shocked.
But, for better or worse, Mark was a gentleman. He considered it his duty to help with every mundane task, to surround his girlfriend with care.
I hadn't brought much — mostly my gadgets: a portable speaker, my laptop, noise-canceling headphones, a game console, and an absurd number of chargers, each with its own tangle of cables. Mark, of course, had brought most of the rest from our Moscow apartment. In one of the bags, I even spotted the edge of the blanket we usually spread at the foot of the bed before sleeping.
I don't know what exactly Mark had been preparing for, but whatever it was—he was ready. The rented cottage was already well-furnished, and with our belongings added in, a kind of creative chaos was starting to take shape. There was probably twice as much furniture here as in our shared apartment back home.
"Please tell me we'll unpack later," I groaned, loathing the thought of finding a proper place for every little thing.
Mark set the game console on the floor beside the television and reached his hands out to me. As always, he flinched slightly when my cold fingers brushed his skin, but his smile stayed warm.
"You know I'll handle it all," he said, drawing me closer. "You don't have to lift a finger."
He began to sway, pulling me gently into his rhythm.
"Dance with me?"
"But there's no music," I murmured, frowning. "I'd have to unpack the speaker, connect it—"
"Shhh, Lisa," he whispered against my ear, his breath barely grazing my skin.
He guided me into a slow dance, humming a tune I'd heard more times than I could count. It was always the same melody—his quiet attempt to calm me. Over time it had become something intimate, almost sacred. Each sleepless night, when my thoughts refused to slow down, that tune brought me back to the present, steadying my breath before Mark's warmth enveloped me completely.
I wanted to melt into his embrace, to sink into it like a down blanket, but I could never truly let myself go. In moments like this, his neck was always too close—dangerously close. The pulsing veins there seemed to call to me, begging to be bitten, to be freed from the thin barrier of flesh. The thought of the blood—sweet, warm, intoxicating—painted the pale walls around us red in my mind.
Loving Mark took effort. And I knew only one way to resist the thirst when the beast inside me began to stir, reminding me just how deep into the wilderness we'd come. No one would hear if Mark screamed. No one would question it if a city boy went missing in the forest, losing his way in the dark. Everyone would believe me. Covering my tracks would be simple. I wouldn't even need to call my handler to send a clean-up team from the clan.
My hand slid up to his neck. Beneath my fingertips, I could feel the blood racing through his veins—so tempting, so vivid it tingled on the tip of my tongue with the sweetness of anticipation. My fingers tugged at the collar of his leather jacket, pulling the fabric aside. I leaned in, entranced by the porcelain hue of his skin: fragile, translucent.
Finally, I pressed my lips to it. Mark shuddered and gave a low gasp of pleasure, just as he always did. His neck—his most sensitive spot. A little teasing and his gaze darkened instantly. I knew his weaknesses. I knew every place on his body that could undo him, and I used that knowledge mercilessly.
My fangs itched with impatience, aching to pierce, to claim—but instead I only ran the tip of my tongue along his skin, savoring the way he trembled. How much longer could he endure this?
The answer came at once. Mark buried his fingers in my hair and gave a gentle pull, tilting my head back, arching me toward him. Only in moments like these did I enjoy pretending to be weak—submitting to his will, watching him unravel under his own desire.
He looked into my eyes from beneath his lowered lashes, and I saw that familiar darkness flicker there. For a heartbeat he froze, hesitation flickering across his face. The fire of want was already burning—I could see it clearly—but still he held back. He wanted me, desperately so, and yet he couldn't quite let himself fall.
I gasped for air, parting my lips as though the last of Mark's restraint could somehow extinguish the fire already raging inside me. His pupils widened to the size of the universe when he saw me like that—utterly open, willing to give him everything. His thumb traced the outline of my mouth, as if trying to memorize every curve.
"I know you want to," I whispered hoarsely. His eyes searched mine, desperate for a sign beyond words.
"And you?" he breathed.
When my quiet "yes" slipped into the air between us, he closed the distance. His kiss consumed me, filling every corner of my world, and I welcomed it—this was the only way I knew to silence the thirst. To prove to my darker self that what stood before me was far more precious alive.
Mark's hands found my waist, and in one swift motion he lifted me. I wrapped myself around him like wild ivy clinging to stone, trying not to forget my strength, not to let the moment carry me too far. His warmth pressed against me, his heartbeat thundering in my ears like a feverish drum.
The kiss deepened, and we moved together through the half-lit room, not caring where we were headed. When Mark's back met the wall, his touch grew bolder, his body aflame against mine. I could feel his pulse everywhere—racing, alive—and I fought to hold onto that feeling instead of what it could mean to lose control.
I wanted to drown in him completely. His scent, his warmth, his voice—everything about him drew me in, grounding me in something human. For a fleeting second, the hunger retreated, replaced by the ache of love so fierce it felt almost unbearable.
When Mark smiled down at me, it was that smile—the one I loved more than life itself, more than blood. I would have given up my immortality just to see it again, to be seen by him the way he saw me now.
He leaned closer, his touch trailing over my skin in soft, deliberate gestures, and the rest of the world vanished. Only the two of us remained, suspended in that fragile, dangerous balance between passion and surrender.