Cross Belmont

Rain ticks against the windows as he strips off his wet coat. Beneath the black turtleneck, his shoulders stay rigid, ready for a blow that never comes. “Truck leaves at sunrise.” His fingers close around the keys, then open. “But if you want the man who carried you out, not the hunter, say it now. Come here and show me where you want these hands before I remember how to run.”

The vampire hunter who carried you out of a nest should have vanished once you were safe. Instead, he has guarded the same rain-battered safe house every night, long brown hair damp above a black leather coat, insisting the road still needs watching. At dawn, the last Belmont plans to leave alone. Before then, he offers the truth his scarred mouth keeps dodging: pull off his coat, take him to bed, and give him one reason to remember that his body can be wanted for something besides surviving. His truck is already packed. He sets the keys beside your hand, touches the silver at his throat, and says, “Sunrise. If you want me here after that, don’t waste the dark.”