Hi there, I'm Mina, in my 30s and a dedicated writer - welcome to my slow burn hell fiction blog, for all of you who also crave slow tension building, thrilling plot lines and anticipated salvation (not to forget Pedro in all his forms). Let me introduce myself before we dive into the writing:
✦ she/her, writer of tension, indulging in smut and softness
✦ trope-lover (but only the good ones)
✦ emotional masochist (but a softie at heart)
✦ happy ends and smut as reward (so minors please dni)
I am always open for asks and prompts, love and reblogs! 🤍
Chapter Summary: New Year's Eve is finally here and with it the first time seeing each other since the fight. That is if you decide to show...
Chapter warnings: a little bit more angst, but also a little relief maybe?
wc: 2.3k
Previous Chapter
Story Masterlist | My Pedro-Character-Masterlist
Harry had been back in New York for two days now, the weight of jet lag already gone, the frayed edges from family time smoothed away. Most of it had been a delight - especially seeing Tommy at home, finally, after too many weeks in hospital corridors and of whispered reassurances.
His “little” brother, taller by an inch but still younger in his bones, had been loud and cheeky and alive. It had felt like Christmas was supposed to.
Now the silence of his own apartment greeted Harry instead. He had unpacked, reorganized, even managed a long overdue laundry load. He’d cooked twice, gone for a run, tried to reset his days.
But tonight, silence was not on the agenda.
Kazeem’s invitation sat like a small beacon in his mind: New Year’s at his place, thirty people, buffet, music, casual. He hadn’t asked for a guest list - didn’t care who else would be there. One fact had been enough: Amy would be there.
Which meant you would be, too.
That thought had been living in his chest all day, restless and unrelenting.
He had wandered across the apartment, and glanced at his phone. No new messages. Not that he’d been expecting any.
After all, you had already answered him.
The memory of it replayed itself, the way it always did. He knew every word by heart now.
Merry Christmas, Harry.
That means a lot. It really does. Thank you.
Savor the days with your family. Having a loving home to come back to is a precious thing.
Tell London to welcome me with open arms, as New York did for you!
Emily.
Simple. Courteous. Warm without being open, polite without being cold. And yet… it could mean everything.
He had spent nearly two hours composing his own Christmas message, hunched in front of the fireplace in the early hours of the morning.
Drafting, deleting, rewriting - careful not to cross the line into confessions he couldn’t afford.
He had let himself remember then, in the dark, the weight of your laughter against his skin, the way your body had felt wrapped in his arms. He’d carried that memory like a talisman while trying to find words you could accept.
And you had answered. Not indifferently. Not with silence.
Still, it wasn’t clarity.
Harry exhaled through his nose. Enough. He couldn’t spiral into interpretation again. If the evening allowed it, he would speak to you. If you let him.
He went to his closet and chose simplicity: a soft cable-knit pullover, dark jeans, sneakers. No need for spectacle. He smoothed the fabric down his chest, checking the fit in the mirror.
Kazeem had promised the night was casual, a mix of colleagues, friends, and neighbors drifting in and out. Thirty people, give or take. Thirty distractions he couldn’t care less about.
Because all he really hoped - Christ - was that you would show.
He crossed to the bathroom, uncapped his cologne, dabbed it across his neck and wrists with practiced restraint. Reached for his contact lenses, then hesitated, the small case poised in his hand.
For a long moment, he stood there, staring at his own reflection. Tired lines softened now by rest, hair a little more undone than usually in the office, natural curls escaping, beard ruff but tidied enough. His eyes, sharper without the glasses, clinical. The image of the man he presented to the world.
Then, in one swift motion, he put the contacts back on the shelf and reached for his dark-rimmed glasses instead.
There was something in the honesty of it that felt necessary tonight. If he was going to face you, it would not be behind a performance, not shielded by surfaces.
Coat over his arm, keys in his pocket, he cast a last look around the apartment - still, ordered, waiting for his return. Then he stepped out into the hall, heart thrumming, carrying with him both dread and anticipation in equal measure.
Kazeem’s door swung open, and suddenly there was warmth spilling out, laughter, the clink of glasses.
“Mate,” Kazeem said, pulling him in with a grin, a bear hug that knocked the last bit of cold from his shoulders. Harry returned it, brief but firm, breathing in the familiar cologne of his friend, grounding himself in the easy welcome.
Kazeem looked much the same as ever - thick dark curls pushed back, a full beard framing his expressive face, eyes deep and bright with mischief. He wore casual black slacks and a loose shirt rolled at the sleeves, somehow managing that effortless balance between sharp and comfortable.
The party was already alive around them - voices overlapping, music weaving through conversations, someone’s laugh bright and sudden in the next room. Kazeem’s apartment was exactly what he’d expected: a New York industrial dream.
Red brick walls catching the golden wash of dimmed lighting, steel fixtures softened by plants, books stacked between leather chairs. And the terrace - he caught a glimpse as someone stepped outside, the night sky and city lights beyond promising fireworks later. It was stylish, yes, but also warm. Like Kazeem himself, a blend of intention and comfort.
“Get yourself a drink,” Kazeem said, reaching for his coat. “Be with you in a bit.”
Before Harry could answer, another figure appeared from behind his friend. Amy.
Radiant as he remembered. Her hair a halo of untamed curls, her outfit bold - colorful bell-bottoms, paired with a fitted top that seemed to catch every flicker of light. She beamed, stepped right into his space as if they had known each other for years, and folded him into a hug.
“Harry Castillo in the flesh,” she said against his shoulder, then leaned back, her eyes glittering. “Welcome.”
He found himself smiling despite the tension knotted low in his stomach. “Good to see you again.”
Amy tilted her head knowingly, her mouth quirking before she winked. “I’ll let you know when she arrives.”
The words hit like a shot to the chest. Fuck, was it that obvious? Did Amy know what he had done - how he’d failed you, how he’d hidden - and was this friendliness only a veneer stretched over disapproval?
He swallowed, managed a small nod. “Thank you,” he murmured, the words carrying more weight than they should. Thank you for the warning. Thank you for the invitation. Thank you for not looking at me with anger.
He reached for a drink as he slipped his socialite mask into place. He could do this. The room was full, not intimate - perfect cover for easing into conversation.
And he did, letting himself be pulled into easy chatter with two of Kazeem’s colleagues, then teasing his host about the spread on the buffet table. His laugh came easier than expected, a shield polished by years of practice.
But then -
A shriek. Amy’s voice, cutting through the layered hum of the party.
His gaze shifted instinctively.
And there you were.
Your coat already half off, scarf slipping into your hand, hair twisted into a messy updo that wasn’t careless at all - no, it was deliberate, a few loose strands framing your face, catching the golden light. You were smiling, lips painted a dark red that pulled every part of you into focus, parted as you laughed into Amy’s embrace.
You looked… not just beautiful. Stunning.
Harry froze. Breath held, glass hovering halfway to his mouth. He couldn’t have looked away if he tried.
You kissed Amy’s cheek, spoke something too low for him to hear, then turned to Kazeem with the same familiarity, hugging him warmly, your laughter bright enough to rise above the music. You belonged here, your presence weaving into the room as naturally as if you had been part of this circle forever.
And suddenly, painfully, he was aware of his own distance.
Your outfit struck him next - timeless, understated but striking. Black slip on dress, high collar, sleeveless, hugging your form in just the right places without being loud. No sequins, no flash. You didn’t need it. The red of your mouth was enough. Your smile was enough.
God, you were everything.
Harry tipped his drink back, the burn of alcohol chasing down the ache in his throat. He considered moving - walking over, offering a greeting, anything to bridge the distance - but his feet stayed rooted. Not yet. He couldn’t crash this reunion, couldn’t interrupt the joy on your face as you rejoined your people, your chosen family.
So he stayed where he was, leaning casually against the drink buffet, the practiced mask of indifference set back into place. His eyes, though - they betrayed him, tracing your movements across the room as you laughed with Amy, touched Kazeem’s arm, shed the last traces of winter from your shoulders.
The room swelled around him with music, voices, clinking glasses. But for Harry, the night had narrowed to this - waiting, watching, wondering if fate or chance or sheer courage would hand him a moment with you before midnight.
For once, he let go of the reins.
You spotted him the second he looked away.
He had been scanning the room from the buffet, glass in hand, that subtle way he always measured his surroundings, but then his gaze shifted and he stepped into a cluster of strangers like it was nothing. Sliding into conversation, easy, polished, so terribly Harry. You hated how your stomach dropped, how that warm, familiar pull snapped to life in your chest.
And damn - he looked so comfortable. A cream cable-knit sweater that softened him, well-worn jeans, sneakers that made him seem younger. And then the glasses. Dark-rimmed, devastatingly familiar. They made him look almost… cozy. Home. As if this was where he belonged, exactly here, and you hated how much you wanted to believe that included you.
“Have you forgiven him yet?”
Amy’s voice cut through your thoughts. A drink appeared in your hand, courtesy of your best friend, who was still watching Harry with narrowed eyes.
You startled, heat rising in your face. “I -”
“Or,” Amy added sweetly, “time for a little hate fuck?”
That snapped your head around. You silenced Amy with a look sharp enough to kill.
Amy only grinned, unbothered.
“It’s not about that,” you said finally, taking a long swallow of whatever was in your glass. You weren’t sure you believed your own words. What was it about? Forgiveness? Pride? Timing? All of it seemed tangled, messy.
It wasn’t smart, any of it.
Not with London weeks away. Not with your entire life about to reset across the Atlantic. You would be colleagues soon enough - equals, not boss and employee. You should want clean lines. You should want distance.
Should.
You took another sip, steadying yourself for the lecture Amy would deliver next, but when you turned, Harry turned too. Your eyes met across the room, and everything inside you stopped. The words you’d meant to throw back at Amy dissolved.
Next to you, Amy chuckled low. “Yeah,” she purred. “You two definitely need to fuck that one out.” Then she pressed a kiss to your cheek, a pat to your shoulder, and slipped back into the fold of her people - into Kazeem’s waiting arm, which wrapped around her like she belonged there and nowhere else.
Harry’s gaze didn’t waver. It was steady, a quiet invitation, unspoken but clear as glass: I’m ready. Whenever you are.
Hell. Better late than never, isn’t it?
You drained another sip for courage and stepped toward him, heels sinking slightly into the rug as you approached the buffet. Your voice betrayed you, softer than you intended, shy in a way you loathed. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he answered, and you nearly buckled at the sound. His tone was gentle - softer than you had ever heard it.
For a breath you stood suspended, music and laughter spilling around you, until you both opened your mouths at once. Words collided, tangled, and you both laughed awkwardly. You waved him on, gesturing for him to go first.
“How are preparations for London?” he asked, earnest beneath the casual words.
Alright, we dive right in, do we?
“Fine. Horrible.” You let out a laugh, shaking your head. “It’s a lot. Too much for so little time. I can’t quite believe I’ll be on a one-way flight in two weeks.”
He tilted his head, studying you. “Have you figured out what you’ll do with your place?”
You leaned back against the edge of the table, pretending his presence didn’t unravel you thread by thread. “Keep it for now. A wise man once told me it’s always smart to hold on to good property.” You shot him a wink, watching the tight line of his shoulders ease just slightly.
“Wise men,” he said, attempting a smile that carried weight beneath it, “aren’t always right.”
“Most men aren’t,” you replied dryly, lips curving. “But at least wise ones know when they’ve done wrong.”
The quip landed between you, sharp but not cruel, and for a moment his mask slipped. Harry set his drink down, closing the space just slightly, his height and warmth suddenly nearer.
“Emily.” The sound of your name from his lips was enough to scatter butterflies low in your stomach. “I am truly… truly sorry.”
Your smile faltered into something smaller, tired but honest. “I know. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
Around you, the party hummed - a swell of music, bursts of laughter, glasses clinking, a whoop from the terrace as early fireworks popped in the distance. The noise felt like a cocoon, wrapping you both, offering cover for words too heavy to say in daylight.
“My offer still stands,” Harry said, his voice quieter now. “Whatever you need - finding a place, arranging the move, the firm. I’ll help. Just say when.”
You swirled the last of your drink, deliberately slow, as though weighing your answer. You already knew, of course. You could not quite push him away. Not entirely.
“When,” you said at last, letting the single word hang between you. Then you set your empty glass down with a decisive clink. “But first…” You straightened, lifting your chin. “Let’s enjoy this party, okay?”
A flicker of relief passed through his face, subtle but there. He nodded, a ghost of a smile tugging his mouth.
Summary: Max and you need to have a talk. But before that you have to make sure Max lives long enough to survive it.
Warnings: after a good amount of blood and angst, lots of talking, a little more angst and some bantery fluff
Previous Chapter
Story Masterlist | my Pedro-Character-Masterlist
The sight unfolding before Max felt almost unreal, as though the pain hollowing him out had finally tipped him into hallucination.
He had seen and experienced hundreds of feeds. Frenzied hunts in filthy alleyways. Elegant seductions in velvet-lit penthouses. Brutal bitings fueled by starvation and instinct. He had participated in enough of them himself that blood and violence had long ago stopped carrying any illusion of divinity.
But this?
This felt biblical in the most unchristian way possible.
Through the haze crowding his vision, you remained impossibly clear. You knelt over Torres beneath the crimson rain, your teeth buried deep into his throat while blood streamed over both of you in dark rivulets.
Wet strands of hair clung to your cheeks and throat, framing a face that only moments ago had burned with rage so intense it seemed capable of setting the entire room ablaze.
Now all of that fury had dissolved.
What remained was something terrifyingly calm.
Your lashes rested low against your cheeks, expression softened into almost peaceful surrender as you drank. The violence existed only in the reality of what you were doing. In every other sense, you looked transcendent.
Max thought he had forgotten what awe felt like.
Apparently not.
Even with agony tearing through his side, even while blood soaked steadily through his fingers where he pressed uselessly against the gunshot wound, he could not drag his eyes away from you.
The moonlight spilling through the shattered windows overhead mixed with the red downpour until the entire gymnasium seemed suspended somewhere between dream and nightmare.
And at the center of it was you.
Beautiful enough to ruin him completely.
The realization settled heavily into his chest as his strength continued slipping away from him in slow, steady waves. Every movement hurt now. Every breath scraped through him hollow and wrong.
Torres’ traps had already left his senses battered and overloaded long before the bullets hit him, and now the blood loss dragged relentlessly at what little stability remained.
He somehow knew the feeling, inexplicably knew exactly what it meant.
The darkness gathering at the corners of his vision was no longer temporary.
Strangely, he found he did not fear it.
Not really.
Because despite everything, despite the betrayal in your eyes when you had walked out of his apartment, despite the certainty that whatever existed between you had shattered beyond repair… you were alive. Somehow.
Alive and strong and magnificent.
The devotion swelling painfully inside him nearly eclipsed the physical agony.
Because he knew in the same terrible instant that he had both saved you and lost you forever.
Max let his head tip weakly back against the soaked floor, his unfocused gaze still fixed on your shape across the room while his body gradually surrendered to exhaustion. Your name slipped from his lips almost soundlessly, carried more by feeling than breath.
“Ashley…”
The sound cut through the haze enveloping you instantly.
The bliss vanished.
One final swallow slid down your throat as Torres’ pulse stuttered and disappeared beneath your lips completely. His body slackened under your hands, emptied in every possible sense, and suddenly the intoxicating flood filling your system fractured apart beneath the quiet rasp of your own name.
You lifted your head sharply.
Blood stained your mouth, dark against your skin. Your pupils widened as you looked across the gym and saw Max curled against the floor several feet away, one arm stretched weakly toward you while the rest of him remained frighteningly still.
For one horrible second, he looked dead.
Ice flooded straight through you.
You were at Max’s side instantly, dropping hard to your knees and pulling him upright into your lap. His body felt heavy, lacking the impossible strength that had always seemed inseparable from him.
“Max?”
Your voice cracked harder than you intended. One hand slid against his cheek while the other steadied his head against your shoulder.
“Hey,” you snapped, panic sharpening the edges of your tone. “No. No, don’t do that.”
His eyes stayed shut.
You slapped his cheek lightly once, then again, fear rising fast enough to make your chest ache.
“Wake up.”
At last his eyelids fluttered weakly open.
Relief hit you so violently it almost made you dizzy.
“Don’t you dare pull this on me,” you hissed immediately, anger rushing in to cover the terror beneath it as you shifted him higher against you. “You don’t get to die before we have this conversation.”
A weak cough tore through him, followed by something that almost resembled a laugh.
“Honestly,” Max murmured hoarsely, “not convinced I’d survive that conversation anyway.”
You let out a breathless, bitter scoff.
“Yeah,” you muttered. “Me neither.”
Carefully, you slipped both arms beneath his and forced you both upright with unbalanced effort. Even with your new strength, stabilizing him proved awkward; Max half-collapsed against you immediately, one arm draped heavily across your shoulders while you adjusted to the unfamiliar balance of supporting someone who usually felt untouchable.
“But if anyone gets to kill you,” you said tightly as you staggered forward together, “it’s going to be me.” Your eyes flicked briefly toward Torres’ body lying motionless beneath the bloody rain. “Not him.”
An exhausted silence settled between you.
You guided the two of you slowly across the ruined gym floor while Max limped beside you, weaker with every step. The adrenaline that had carried you through the fight still thundered through your veins, making you feel almost invincible now, but beneath it all another emotion pressed harder against your ribs.
Grief.
Not for what you had done.
For who you had done it to.
“Are you okay?” Max’s voice had lost the humor entirely this time.
You shot him a look of disbelief. “You have at least two gunshot wounds,” you said flatly. “And you’re asking me that?”
But you understood immediately what he actually meant.
You passed Torres’s body and felt yourself swallow instinctively as your gaze caught on the stillness of him. Blood continued pooling slowly beneath his neck, diluted by the red rainwater flooding the floor.
Max watched you quietly.
“He deserved it,” you said at last, the words coming cold.
“Maybe,” Max answered softly. “Doesn’t mean it can’t hurt anyway.”
You stared ahead for a long moment.
Then finally you gave a small nod.
“No,” you admitted. “But it sure as hell makes it easier.”
Your grip tightened slightly around him before you forced yourself to look away from the corpse entirely.
“Come on,” you muttered. “Let’s get out of this godforsaken shithole.”
Max was not particularly light, but carrying him through the dark expanse of Floyd Bennett Field proved far less difficult than you would once have imagined. The fresh blood still humming through your system flooded your limbs with unnatural strength and relentless energy, smoothing over exhaustion before it could fully settle in.
The farther you moved from the building, the quieter the world became.
The old airfield stretched endlessly around you beneath the moonlight, all vast open paths and shadowed grasslands interrupted by skeletal remains of structures long abandoned to time.
Somewhere far in the distance, Brooklyn still existed - all its noise and movement and sleepless life somewhere beyond, but here at the edge of the borough, wrapped by dark water on nearly every side, the city felt impossibly far away.
Only the wind remained.
It swept softly through the empty recreational trails and rattled the tall grass lining the paths where joggers and dog walkers would return once morning arrived. For now, though, the darkness belonged solely to you both.
After everything that had happened inside the gymnasium, the silence felt surreal.
Peaceful, even.
You kept moving until the trail opened toward the waterfront. At last your legs gave out beneath the delayed strain of adrenaline and emotion, and you lowered both of you carefully onto the rocky shoreline near the water’s edge. Max exhaled sharply the second he sat down - pain pulling tight across his features despite the weak attempt he made to hide it.
The bay stretched out endlessly before you, black water rippling beneath fractured moonlight. Across the distance, faint lights shimmered along the far shoreline like scattered stars fallen onto earth.
The water lapped quietly against the shore only feet away, steady and rhythmic enough to almost resemble breathing.
But you had no eye for the eerie beauty of this nightly scenery. Your eyes were scanning Max.
“Show me.” The words came more as an order than a request, your hands already moving toward the blood soaking through his shirt.
Max managed the faintest crooked grin. “Wow,” he muttered weakly, “at least buy me dinner first.”
You shot him a glare so sharp it could have cut glass. “You want that engraved on your tombstone?” you asked flatly. “Because I can arrange it.”
His smile lingered despite the exhaustion dragging at him from every angle, but he obeyed. With your help, he peeled the ruined fabric away from his torso, revealing the wounds beneath.
Your expression tightened instantly.
The gunshots looked catastrophic.
One had torn through his side, jagged and blackened around the edges where whatever Torres had used had clearly done more damage than ordinary bullets ever could. The second sat frighteningly close to the center of his chest, blood still seeping sluggishly from the wound despite the healing already fighting to close it.
A human would have died instantly.
Max merely looked like he stood at death’s doorway arguing with it out of spite.
You swallowed hard.
“What do I do?” Your eyes snapped up to his. “Tell me how to fix this.”
Max leaned his head back slightly, exhaustion hollowing out the sharp lines of his face. In the moonlight, his skin looked almost translucent beneath the streaks of drying blood.
“I’d suggest praying,” he murmured. “Though God may be the wrong address.”
“There has to be something.” Frustration crept into your voice. “You said we heal.”
We.
The word slipped out before you could stop it and you felt it land between you immediately. Max noticed too. You saw it in the faint shift of his expression, something softer flickering briefly through the pain.
Still, he only sighed.
“Believe it or not,” he said, “this is my first time dying too.”
The attempt at humor barely masked the weakness in his voice.
Without thinking, you shifted closer when he sagged against you slightly.
You allowed the contact - his weight leaning into your side and the familiar scent of him wrapping around you despite everything that had happened between you.
The anger remained somewhere inside you. But right now, fear sat heavier.
Your gaze drifted toward the dark shoreline around you before an idea surfaced suddenly and violently enough to make you straighten.
“What if you feed?”
Max blinked slowly away from the empty waterfront, overlooking your surroundings.
“Unless I missed a very determined jogger,” he muttered, “I don’t see many options.”
You hesitated only briefly.
“You fed me,” you said carefully, your eyes returning to his. “Didn’t you?”
You did not know how you knew it with such certainty. The memory itself remained fractured and blurred by death and transformation, but something deeper inside you understood the truth instinctively.
Max’s expression shifted.
“Ashley -”
“So maybe…” Your non-existent pulse quickened despite itself. “Maybe it works both ways.”
He gathered enough strength to straighten slightly, one hand pressing harder against his wounded side.
“No.” His brows drew together immediately. “I’m not asking you for that.”
“You’re not asking.” Your voice sharpened. “I’m offering.”
The wind stirred your damp hair across your face as you looked back out toward the water briefly, gathering yourself before meeting his eyes again.
“Please,” you said more quietly now. “I really don’t want two deaths on my conscience tonight.”
For a moment he only stared at you.
Then finally - reluctantly - Max gave the smallest nod.
You moved closer until barely any space remained between you. You could feel the warmth radiating from him despite the blood loss, could smell him beneath the copper and salt and cold ocean air. Weakened or not, his presence still pulled at you with terrifying ease.
Holding his gaze, you lifted your wrist slowly toward your mouth.
Max’s free hand rose instinctively, brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face before settling softly against your cheek.
Pain bloomed briefly as your teeth pierced flesh, followed almost immediately by the metallic taste of your own blood spilling warm against your tongue.
Then you pressed your wrist carefully to Max’s mouth.
At first his touch was featherlight.
A kiss more than a bite.
Blood stained his lips slowly while he let only the smallest amount pass between you, restraint etched into every movement despite the hunger flickering visibly behind his tired eyes. But after a moment his hand slid from your cheek to the back of your wrist instead, holding you there more firmly as he drank deeper.
The sensation that flooded you nearly stole your breath.
Warmth surged through your body in slow, pulsing waves. You could feel something passing between you beyond blood alone, something deeper and older than language, life itself shifting from one body into another.
And beneath it all came understanding.
This was what he had done for you.
Max had not simply saved you.
He had shared himself with you.
Max’s mouth moved carefully against your wrist while the night wrapped itself around you both, endless and quiet except for the water breaking softly against the shore. Time seemed to stretch strangely there beside the bay, the moment lingering suspended between grief and intimacy until you could no longer tell whether seconds or hours had passed at all.
When Max finally managed to pull himself away from the intoxicating warmth of your blood, it felt less like regaining control and more like dragging himself reluctantly from the edge of something sacred. Strength already pulsed back through his body in steady waves, threading warmth through limbs that moments ago had bordered on useless.
The relentless ache in his chest and side had dulled enough that he could breathe without feeling his body splinter apart with every movement.
His lips slipped from your wrist and before he could stop himself, he pressed the softest kiss against the healing wound.
The skin beneath his mouth had already begun knitting itself back together, smooth and warm under the lingering trace of blood. For a second he allowed himself to remain there, eyes shut, forehead nearly brushing your arm.
Then you carefully pulled your hand back.
“How are you feeling?” you asked in hushed tones.
There was caution in your voice now. Not fear exactly, but awareness. As if you still did not fully understand what existed between you after everything that had happened.
Max noticed the slight distance you created immediately.
And despite the instinct screaming at him to close it, to pull you against him and bury himself in the comfort of your presence after nearly losing you twice, he forced himself not to.
Pushing too hard now would only drive you further away.
So instead he leaned back slightly and offered you the faintest smile, sadness lingering stubbornly beneath it.
“Well,” he murmured, brushing a drop of your blood from the corner of his mouth, “apparently we’ve got miracle medicine running through our veins.”
To his relief, the corner of your mouth twitched upward ever so slightly.
It was small. Brief.
But it existed.
“Give me a minute,” he added softly. “Then we can get the hell out of here.”
You huffed lightly through your nose, drawing your knees closer to your chest. “Bold of you to assume I’m sticking around to wait for you.”
For a second he genuinely could not tell whether you meant it.
Then he caught the faint dryness beneath the words and allowed himself the smallest exhale of relief.
“Wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t,” he replied.
This time the humor faded quicker.
His gaze drifted away from you before he could stop himself. Looking directly into your eyes had become almost unbearable now. Those golden irises still stunned him every time he saw them, not only because they marked what you had become, but because he could still remember exactly how soft they used to look when you watched him before all of this shattered between you.
Now every glance carried distance.
And guilt clawed through him every single time he noticed it.
So instead Max looked out over the dark water stretching endlessly before him while you sat beside him in silence. He could feel the wounds inside him continuing to heal slowly, strengthened by what you had given him. Gratitude sat heavily in his chest alongside the guilt, so immense he barely knew what to do with it.
After what he had done to you, you still chose to save him.
You could have left him bleeding out on that gym floor without hesitation. Hell, after everything, he would have understood it. You had gone there for Torres. For revenge. For answers. You could have easily decided that one dead monster beside another solved all your problems at once.
Instead -
“Thank you, Ashley.” The sincerity in his own voice startled him a little.
There was no grin attached to the words. No sarcasm softening them. No deflection hidden behind charm. Just raw honesty laid bare beneath the open night sky.
He kept his eyes fixed on the water because he could not bear seeing whatever expression crossed your face in response.
“You’re welcome,” you answered after a moment.
Max swallowed once before speaking again, though the words barely made it halfway out.
“I cannot -”
“You know,” you interrupted softly, “it wouldn’t actually have changed anything if you’d killed Torres instead of me.”
The sentence hit him immediately, but he stayed quiet and let you continue.
“I never asked for any of this.” Your voice remained calm, though exhaustion frayed the edges now. “Not to become the target of a serial killer. Not to wake up as…” You gestured vaguely toward yourself before letting your hand fall again. “Whatever the hell I am now.”
At last you turned toward him fully.
“And definitely not to become part of your redemption story.”
The words hurt because they were true. You let out a hollow little laugh, one entirely devoid of humor.
“Funny, isn’t it?” you murmured. “Both of you were so busy trying to save me that neither of you bothered asking what I wanted.”
Max closed his eyes briefly.
Because there it was.
The ugly truth at the center of everything.
Torres had tried to save you by killing you.
Max had tried to save your life by changing it forever.
And somewhere between those choices, you yourself had been stripped of any voice at all.
“You both decided for me,” you continued. “And maybe your intentions were different, but the result still feels pretty damn similar.”
The wind shifted strands of damp hair across your face while you turned back toward the water, resting your chin against your knees. Moonlight silvered the sharp line of your profile, softening your expression despite the ache threaded through every word.
“You both took pieces of me I can’t ever get back.”
Max stared at you for a long moment before lowering his gaze.
“I know,” he said finally.
And he did. Far more now than he had in that apartment while holding your dying body in his arms and convincing himself there had been no choice.
“There’s nothing I can say that fixes it.” His voice roughened slightly. “Nothing that gives you your life back.” He paused carefully before continuing. “But I’ll spend however long you let me, trying to make this easier for you.”
You stayed silent.
Max folded his arms loosely across his knees and forced himself to say the part that hurt most.
“And if you decide you never want to see me again after tonight…” He swallowed hard once. “I’ll understand that too.”
The thought alone hollowed him out.
Because despite everything, despite the guilt and the blood and the violence, he loved you with a depth that terrified him now more than ever before.
And if losing you was the price for saving you -
Then maybe this was simply the punishment he deserved.
“You know what’s funny?” you asked after a beat. “I always hated night shifts. Not because of the sleep schedule, although that part absolutely sucked too.” A small laugh escaped you, real enough to make something tighten painfully in Max’s chest. “But because everything that happened at night always felt worse somehow. Darker. Like the city stopped pretending.”
The wind moved through the tall grass behind you in soft waves, carrying the scent of saltwater and asphalt from the distant city.
You tilted your head back to look at the sky, and Max followed your gaze instinctively. The glow of the city swallowed most of the stars, but farther from Manhattan’s endless glare, a few constellations still managed to survive. Pale pinpricks of light shimmered weakly overhead, scattered across deep black.
“I think I hated nights so much,” you continued after a moment, “that I stopped noticing how beautiful the city looks under the dark sky.”
Max watched you more than the stars. Watched the moonlight catch against the strands of hair still clinging to your neck, the softened lines of your face now that rage and grief weren’t consuming every inch of it.
Slowly, you leaned back onto your elbows, eyes fixed upward as if trying to relearn the world from scratch. Max mirrored you again without thinking, lowering himself carefully beside you despite the lingering ache in his chest.
“That’s what it comes down to, doesn’t it?” you murmured. “Making the best out of it.” Your mouth curved faintly, though the expression never fully became a smile. “As far as I understand it, I’ve got a very long time ahead of me to figure this whole thing out.”
Max let out a quiet breath through his nose. “Took me hell of a lot longer to understand that, really. But yeah, because otherwise, what’s the point, right?”
You glanced sideways at him. “Quite the philosopher wasted on you,” you smirked.
“Maybe I am not at the top of my game at the moment,” he grinned weakly.
“Or maybe,” you countered, turning your head toward him, “you just suck at explaining yourself.”
Max huffed out a faint laugh and let his gaze drift back toward the stars. “That too.”
Silence settled more comfortably between you after that, no longer sharp enough to cut. He wasn’t sure if he could already dare his next words but he tried anyway.
“You know what else sucks?”
You turned your head toward him fully now, one brow lifting in cautious curiosity. Slowly he let one canine drag over his lower lip before flashing you a grin that was just arrogant enough to be familiar.
You stared at him for exactly one second before a completely unfiltered laugh broke free from your chest. You hit his shoulder hard enough to make him wince dramatically.
“Your jokes definitely do.”
“Cruel,” he murmured solemnly.
“Honest.”
But your hand lingered after the shove, resting against his arm for a brief uncertain second before sliding lower. Max went completely still beneath the touch, not daring to move, not wanting to risk breaking whatever fragile thing existed between you right now. Your fingers brushed against his hand once, tentative at first, before threading fully between his.
“So,” you said softly, your thumb brushing once against the back of his hand, “since we’re apparently stuck waiting here while you stop dying… why don’t you give me the full Vampire 101?”
First of all: @missadangel thanks for the tag and what the hell is that piece of art you are currently working on 😍?! I need a tag immediately!
What I am currently working on is two smutty pieces and both are on the darker side, so consider yourself warned 🤭
First, I am working on my continuation of "Under his boot". That dark raider!joel has me by my throat and it feels like the darkest thing so far:
“Undress.”
The word didn’t land.
Not at first anyway.
It hung in the air between you, too flat, too casual, like you had misheard it - like your mind had twisted something else into something far worse.
You just stared at Joel and your vision blurred at the edges, tears gathering without your permission, your chest tightening around a breath that wouldn’t come.
“Joel…” It barely made it out, more whisper than anything else.
“Don’t ‘Joel’ me, sweetheart.” His voice stayed even, grounded in that same quiet authority that made everything feel final the moment he said it. “You heard me just fine.” A small tilt of his head toward the edge of the bed. “Up. Off. And get out of those clothes.”
Your body didn’t move.
It wasn’t defiance - not really. There was no strength behind it, or resistance you could follow through on. It was more like a full-body refusal that locked every muscle in place and turned your limbs heavy and unresponsive.
You could only look at him.
Could only hope - irrationally, desperately - that he would see it. That he would read the fear sitting plain in your eyes and understand what he was asking, what he was doing.
That something in him would stop this.
It didn’t.
A tired breath left Joel instead, the faintest flicker of impatience crossing his face.
“Listen, darlin’,” he said, quieter now, but no less firm. “I don’t like repeatin’ myself.”
The knife flipped once in his hand with ease - until the blade pointed your way.
“So you got about a second,” he continued, almost conversational, “to get down here and start movin’… before I decide to help you along.”
Second WIP is the fourth part for my priest!joel series "Lessons in Sin". Took me a while but finally the epiphany came (and an ask with inspiration). Father Joel has some punishment in mind for you disregarding the 10 commandments:
“You’re nearly done, Darlin’. I promise,” he murmurs, as if reading your mind once more.
You nod quickly, sniffing and pressing your face into the linen to wipe away the hot tears, trying to convince yourself his words are truth.
“Look at me, sweetheart,” Joel crouches beside you, steadying presence at your side. “The last one… it will be the harshest. You understand why, don’t you?”
Your lips press together, swallowing hard, brow furrowed.
“Because… because it weighs the heaviest.”
Joel’s lips curve into that unmistakable, approving smile. “Exactly right. But then… you’re done. Every single one atoned.” His fingers tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear, brushing gently over your cheek, still glistening with tears. “And then I can take care of you, okay?”
Your brow furrows in doubt. “But… isn’t that lust all over again?”
His fingers trail lightly across your shoulder blade as you speak, lingering as though to reassure you. “Oh, you think this,” he gestures between you and him, “is the last sin’s misstep?”
You hesitate, unsure. “Is it… not?”
Joel chuckles, hand drifting along your side until it lands lightly on your reddened buttocks, tracing over the marks. “Oh angel, no. What we do here? That’s salvation. No sin in that.”
I am so so so so bad at tagging so whoever wants to share their WIP pleeeeaaaase do. I am excited to see what you all are cooking up!
Chapter Summary: Christmas was supposed to be a time of happiness and relief. Instead it turns into a waiting game for you and you feel your heart aching for more.
Chapter warnings: again, angst, but we come to an end with it, promise (that's why it's so short!)
wc: 1k
Previous Chapter
Story Masterlist | My Pedro-Character-Masterlist
The last two weeks had folded into the holiday like heavy snowbanks settling against fences. For you, the days had been full - stress, relief, even laughter - but underneath it all, an undercurrent ran steady: a suppression of everything that had gone unsaid.
You had exchanged emails with Catherine, polite back-and-forths that set the rails of your new life. Most formalities would wait until January, but some details were clear now: February.
That was when you would cross the ocean, six months at minimum, to see the merger through. Six months of London, of new responsibilities, of finally stepping into a role you’d once only dreamed about in lecture halls and late-night study sessions.
Telling your parents had made it real. Your father’s face had lit with a quiet pride, his approval wordless but steady. Your mother had blinked, stunned, her “baby” suddenly preparing to fly farther than ever before. You had soothed her with reassurances, jokes, reminders that flights existed both ways. And Amy - dear Amy - had been both devastated and thrilled.
“You’ll be fine,” you had teased, hugging her. “Kazeem’s a good replacement.”
“He is a shit replacement for shopping advice,” Amy had shot back, eyes wet but smile bright. “I’m telling you.”
You had laughed and cried, the way only true friends could.
Now, Christmas Eve had arrived. Dinner was done, the table cleared, your aunt and uncle and their two chaos-stirring nephews already gone. Your dad had fallen asleep in front of the TV, Sir Percival snoring at his feet. From the kitchen, faint clinks and running water signaled your mother cleaning up the last dishes.
You slipped on a coat, tugged a scarf around your neck, and stepped out into the night.
The sharp cold met you immediately, the kind that stung your nose and cheeks in the best possible way. Snow lay thick, glittering under the streetlamps. The woods beyond the houses stood dark, sentinel-like, with a few flakes drifting silently down. You had taken your phone, thinking you’d drown your thoughts with music or a podcast. Instead, silence greeted you like a friend you hadn’t seen in years.
You started to walk, boots crunching with each step.
The world outside was hushed in that particular Christmas way - streets abandoned, everyone inside by the fire or clustered at tables. Even the dogs weren’t barking. You pulled your scarf higher and let your breath steam into the frozen air, watching it rise and vanish.
Your thoughts, naturally, tangled around London. There was so much to do - flats to view, papers to sign, details to sort. Finding a flat would be chaos, but at least your new salary could cushion the hunt. Then there was the matter of your own apartment in New York. Keep it? Sublet it?
You chuckled softly to yourself, shaking your head. Whoever takes it, I’ll have to warn them about Creepy McPeepface for certain.
Your silent laughter drifted into the still night, quickly swallowed by snow as you shoved your hands deeper into the pockets, tilting your gaze to the sky. You should feel nothing but excitement. And you did - mostly. This was your chance, the kind of leap people prayed for. A fresh start. A city teeming with possibility. Autonomy. Distance.
But beneath that glitter of anticipation was a hollow you didn’t dare name.
Heartbreak.
You had told yourself you wouldn’t think of him. That the silence was your choice, your space. But it hurt. God, it hurt to imagine him simply… shutting you out. Ego, self-protection, cowardice - whatever his reason, the result was the same.
It hurt that you had given him your body, your trust, your laughter, and that brief, terrifying vulnerability of being held by him - and now you were left with nothing but absence. It hurt that -
Your phone chimed.
You froze, breath caught in your throat. Reflex pulled your hand from your pocket, fishing it out, clumsy in the cold.
A name. Simple letters across the screen. Harry C.
For a second, your knees nearly buckled.
Gloves. Damn gloves. You cursed softly, tugging them off with your teeth, your fingers stiff and red from the cold, though the shiver running through you wasn’t from winter air. You fumbled, tapped, opened.
The message filled the screen.
Emily,
I hope tonight finds you surrounded by warmth - family, laughter, a kind of peace you’ve more than earned.
I know you wanted space, and I intend to respect that. But I couldn’t let Christmas pass without reaching out.
I’m proud of you. More than proud - I’m in awe. You don’t need my approval, you never did, but I want you to know that you have it anyway.
Your choice is brave. It’s the right one. I will do everything in my power to make sure the road ahead is as smooth as possible - if you’ll let me.
I’ve wronged you. I can’t undo that, but I can try to make it right now.
Merry Christmas, Emily. From London, where the city is waiting for you.
H.
You blinked. Read. Reread. Again and again.
The words blurred as your vision burned, tears spilling hot onto your cheeks despite the cold. You swiped at them with the back of your hand, only for more to follow. The night remained silent, the snow steady, but inside your chest something cracked open.
It wasn’t just the ache of disappointment anymore, or the sting of silence. It was something far deeper, a loss you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel until now.
You missed him. You missed him with an ache that seemed to pull your bones hollow.
Your breath came uneven, fogging into the night as you clutched the phone tighter. Around you, the woods stretched dark and still, the snow falling steady as if nothing in the world had shifted. But for you, everything had.
For the first time, you let herself admit it: this hurt wasn’t only about distance, about decisions, about leaving New York.
It was about him. About Harry.
And the missing - the sharp, brutal missing - was almost too much to bear.
You lowered the phone slowly, slipping it back into your pocket, hands trembling. Snowflakes landed soft on your lashes and melted into the salt of your tears. The night pressed close, tender and unrelenting all at once.
You walked on, boots crunching, scarf pulled high. Your breath stuttered out in sharp little clouds. Each step carried you farther from the house, deeper into the silence.
Summary: Torres turns out to be a much bigger problem than Max had anticipated. He is out for the kill. Luckily, so are you...
Warnings: blood, like, a lot of it, physical violence, gun violence
Previous Chapter
Story Masterlist | my Pedro-Character-Masterlist
In Max’s defense, he had never been hunted by someone like this.
In three decades of existing in the margins of the world, he had seen the aftermath - bodies that hadn’t simply died, but had been ended. Vampires reduced to husks, their unnatural resilience stripped away by someone who knew exactly where to strike and how to finish it.
Back in Los Angeles, those encounters had been whispers more than reality. Rare enough to dismiss. Rare enough to convince himself they were anomalies rather than a pattern.
And since leaving the West Coast, that illusion of safety had only deepened.
Vampires were scarce. Creatures like him moved carefully, kept their heads down, avoided unnecessary attention.
And those who hunted them? Even rarer.
So when Max had picked up Torres’ trail, he had done so with the confidence of a predator who believed himself unchallenged.
That had been his first mistake.
Because he hadn’t been tracking a cornered killer. He had been walking straight into the territory of someone who had been preparing for this kind of fight for years.
And now he was paying for it.
Max pressed his back harder against the rusted frame of a forgotten equipment trolley, the metal cold against his spine as his hand clamped down over the wound at his side. The pressure did little to ease the damage, but instinct demanded it anyway. Blood still seeped through his fingers, slower now, thicker, but not nearly fast enough to be reassuring.
Healing was working. He could feel it - faint and struggling to keep pace with the injury. That was the only reason he wasn’t already sprawled lifeless across the cracked flooring of the training hall.
But even that gift had limits.
Especially when he hadn’t fed properly due to the fact that a nosey beautiful neighbor had interrupted his very last meal.
Now there was nothing left to sustain him.
But what made it worse - what truly tipped the scales - were the traps.
Max’s jaw tightened as another distant ringing echoed faintly in his skull, a phantom reminder of the earlier detonations. They hadn’t been large, not enough to bring the structure down, but they didn’t need to be. The enclosed space amplified every sound, turning controlled blasts into disorienting shockwaves that rattled his senses and blurred his perception.
One wrong step had nearly cost him everything.
He had only avoided the worst of it by sheer luck, moving at the exact moment instinct screamed at him to do so. Even now, the aftereffects lingered - his hearing skewed, his balance subtly off, the world not quite aligning the way it should.
Torres had designed this place to break him down before the real fight even began.
“You know,” Torres’ voice carried through the space again, measured and deliberate, echoing from somewhere just out of sight, “without her, it would have taken me a lot longer to figure you out.”
He was closer now.
Worse: he was circling him.
Max exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing himself to focus despite the pain radiating from his side. He shifted just enough to glance down at the wound, his expression tightening at what he saw.
Yeah, not great at all.
His gaze lifted again, senses straining to track Torres’ movement or pinpoint his location.
“Yeah?” he shot back. “Did you tell her that before or after you cut her throat?”
There was a flicker of silence. Then -
“It was you who ruined her.” The raw hatred in Torres’ voice was unmistakable now. “You dragged her into this. You corrupted her with your very being and seduced her.”
Max let out a short, breathless snort despite the way it pulled painfully at his injury.
“Seduced her?” he echoed, incredulity threading through the words. “What century are you living in?” He shifted slightly, testing his balance, ignoring the way his body protested. “She didn’t need any seduction. She just fell for the guy next door. Happens all the time.”
“Enough!”
The crack of the gunshot split the air a second later, sharp and violent, the bullet embedding itself somewhere behind him with a jarring impact.
Max stilled, muscles coiling instinctively despite the disadvantage.
“You contaminated her,” Torres continued, his voice rising with conviction. “I was just in time to save her.”
That did it.
A disbelieving laugh broke free from Max before he could stop it, edged with something dangerously close to hysteria. The sound echoed strangely in the hollow space, almost as distorted as the logic it responded to.
For a fleeting moment, the temptation surfaced - to tell him. To throw the truth back in his face. To make him realize that Torres’ very own actions had led to the one thing he had wanted to protect you from becoming the thing he hunted.
But the thought died just as quickly.
The wound was too fresh.
The betrayal still too raw.
That wasn’t a weapon he was willing to use - not like this.
Unfortunately for Max, Torres possessed an entire arsenal of weapons he very clearly intended to use - tools designed not merely to wound, but to dismantle every advantage a creature like him relied upon. And the worst part was not the pain. It was the unfamiliarity. The terrible realization that he did not fully understand what was happening to him until it was already too late to counter it.
Max pushed away from the cover of the equipment trolley, teeth gritted as he forced movement back into his body. His instincts screamed at him to close the distance, to end this before Torres could tighten the trap any further. But the second he shifted forward, another sensation crashed violently into his already overloaded senses.
Blood.
Everywhere.
A harsh metallic groan echoed overhead before the old sprinkler system sputtered violently to life. What should once have released water instead unleashed a dark, heavy downpour that hammered against the training hall in wet, uneven bursts. Thick droplets splattered across the floor, across the walls, across him.
The smell hit instantly.
Not human but animal, probably pig’s blood, if he had to guess - but the distinction barely mattered. The sheer volume alone was enough to send his senses spiraling. The scent flooded the air with suffocating intensity, hot iron and salt saturating every molecule around him until there was nothing else left to breathe.
One part of his mind still clung desperately to focus, to the sharp edge of the hunt, to the rage driving him forward toward Torres. But another part - older and fully instinctive - reacted with something far more primal. Hunger surged through him with humiliating force, sudden and impossible to ignore.
It wouldn’t matter if he had fed recently. Didn’t matter that he had more pressing concerns than appetite. Blood on that scale bypassed reason entirely. It hit the mind like temptation carved into instinct itself, the same irresistible pull as food set before someone who swore they weren’t hungry until the smell reached them.
Only this was worse.
Much worse.
The crimson rain drenched him within seconds, soaking through his clothes, plastering dark curls against his forehead and temples as droplets streaked down his face. The world narrowed beneath the assault of scent and sound until coherent thought became slippery and fragmented.
And in that haze, Torres moved.
Fully advancing now instead of retreating. The hunter closing in on wounded prey within terrain built for him.
Somewhere through the ringing in his skull and the relentless pounding of blood against concrete, Max heard it - the unmistakable metallic click of a gun being readied.
His head snapped toward the sound instinctively.
Too slow.
The shot exploded through the hall a heartbeat later, deafening in the enclosed space as the muzzle flash tore through the red-soaked darkness.
The gunshot cracked through the night like a rupture in reality itself.
You stopped dead in your tracks.
One second you had been moving through the skeletal remains of the old training grounds with growing certainty, following the trail that had led you here. The next, every muscle in your body locked as the echo rolled through the empty corridors and settled deep beneath your skin.
Torres.
You had known he would come here the moment the idea surfaced in your mind. Floyd Bennett had been too symbolic, too steeped in memory for someone like him to resist. Their first years at the academy had unfolded inside these walls. Long nights. Endless drills. Bruised knuckles and exhausted laughter over vending machine coffee. Back when you had still trusted him enough to put your life in his hands.
The irony of that nearly made you sick.
But there had been something else too. Another trail you had caught halfway here, one that had gotten to you when another violent wave of hunger had torn through your body hard enough to make your knees weaken. In that moment of forced stillness, while your senses sharpened painfully against the city night, another scent had threaded itself unmistakably through Torres’.
Max.
At first you had assumed it lingered on your clothes, buried in the fabric of the oversized pajama shirt you still wore. Confused and irritated, you had actually lifted the collar to your face, inhaling like that might explain it away.
It hadn’t.
The scent had been in the air itself.
And now, stepping fully into the abandoned training building, there was no mistaking it anymore.
Except it was nearly drowned out by something else.
The smell of blood hit you with such force it felt physical, like slamming into a wall at full speed. It saturated the air in suffocating waves, thick and metallic and overwhelming enough to make your stomach twist violently with need. Instinct roared awake inside you immediately, sharp enough to hurt. Hunger clawed through your body with renewed desperation, every nerve suddenly tuned toward the scent flooding the building.
But beneath that hunger came something colder.
Everything about this felt wrong.
You forced yourself forward before instinct could fully overtake reason. Your sprint echoed through the abandoned corridors as you followed the fading reverberation of the gunshot deeper into the structure. Cracked tiles blurred beneath your feet. Graffiti flashed along rotting walls. Somewhere overhead old pipes groaned faintly beneath the strain of age.
You didn’t think. Didn’t plan. You simply followed the pull of it - the blood, the fear, the unmistakable collision of two scents you now knew too well.
Then you saw the double doors reading BALCONY. Without hesitation you shoved through them at full speed.
And stopped so abruptly it almost hurt.
The sight below looked less like reality and more like something torn from a fever dream.
The massive training hall spread beneath you, instantly recognizable despite the years of decay that had hollowed it out. Once it had been the pride of the academy. Now it looked abandoned to rot. Paint peeled in long strips from the walls. Mold crept through corners. Sections of the flooring had warped and cracked with neglect.
And from the ceiling, actual blood rained down in relentless sheets.
It poured from the old sprinkler system in dark streams that splashed across the gym floor and gathered in spreading pools, turning the entire hall into something grotesque and surreal beneath the pale wash of moonlight filtering through the upper windows.
Two figures stood in the center of it.
One of them was unmistakably Torres.
Even from above you recognized the rigid line of his posture, the broad set of his shoulders, a gun clenched steady in his hand. He stood upright despite the carnage around him, composed in a way that made your stomach churn.
The other -
Your breath caught.
Max.
Except standing was generous.
He looked barely held together, hunched forward as one hand pressed hard against his side. Blood soaked through him, impossible to distinguish now beneath the crimson pouring from above. His movements lacked their usual certainty. As Torres advanced another deliberate step, Max staggered backward awkwardly, like his body no longer obeyed him correctly.
Even from this distance you could feel the shift in Torres as he opened his mouth, clearly preparing another self-righteous speech or threat.
You didn’t let him speak.
Whatever fury burned inside you toward Max, whatever betrayal still sat raw and bleeding between you - Torres did not get to decide his fate.
“Stop! Police!”
The words tore from you automatically, pure instinct and muscle memory overriding everything else. It was absurd. Meaningless. Maybe even technically untrue now. But the command still carried authority sharpened by years of use.
And it worked.
Torres’ head snapped upward.
At the same moment Max stumbled fully to the floor, collapsing hard onto one knee before catching himself with visible effort. His gaze lifted too, dazed and unfocused for a heartbeat, like he genuinely thought he was hallucinating you.
But Torres looked worse.
He looked haunted.
“Ashley…?” Your name cracked apart in his throat, disbelief stripping all certainty from his voice.
“Drop the gun!” you shouted back, gripping the railing so tightly your hands ached beneath the pressure.
His arm lowered slightly on instinct, confusion momentarily overriding aggression. “How are you- ?”
Movement below interrupted him. Max shifted weakly, trying to rise again. Torres reacted instantly, snapping the weapon back toward him with renewed panic.
“I said lower it!” This time rage bled openly into your voice.
“He’s a monster, Ashley!” Torres shouted back. “You don’t understand what -”
Then he stopped.
His eyes flicked from Max to you and back again.
You actually saw the realization happen. A horrible little click behind his gaze as the pieces aligned.
“What did you do…?” The words came quiet, trembling slightly as he stared at Max.
Max moved like he wanted to answer, but whatever response he intended dissolved into pain instead. His hand clamped harder over the wound at his side.
Torres stepped closer and the gun rose again, unmistakable intent behind it.
Your eyes darted wildly across the balcony. Stairs - there, on the far side - but too far away. Too slow. You wouldn’t reach them in time.
Below you, Torres’ face twisted with fury.
“What did you do?!” The scream echoed violently through the hall.
Then came the click of the safety releasing.
You didn’t think after that.
You moved.
In one fluid motion you vaulted the railing. The drop vanished beneath instinct and momentum. You hit the floor hard enough that it should have shattered bone, rolled through the impact effortlessly, and came up already sprinting. Distance collapsed unnaturally fast beneath your feet. The world blurred into blood and fury.
You barely remembered crossing the space between them.
One second Torres stood aiming the gun.
The next you slammed into him with enough force to send both of you crashing violently to the ground. The shot discharged somewhere in the chaos, deafening at that range, but you didn’t see where it went.
All you knew was impact.
Momentum.
And then Torres beneath you as you hit the blood-slick floor together, ending above him with brutal force, pinning him down.
“I thought you were dead.” The words left Torres in a shaken breath, and somehow that was the worst part of all. There was no triumph in his voice, no cruelty, no satisfaction. Only genuine remorse, as though he believed he had failed you personally.
You stared down at him in disbelief, rain after rain of dark blood cascading from the broken sprinklers above you. The copper stench was unbearable now, thick enough to coat the inside of your throat, mixing with sweat, gunpowder, fear and the sharp electric scent of Max’s wounded body somewhere next to you.
Torres tried to speak again, apology already forming.
“Save it!” you snapped before he could finish.
You kicked the gun from his hand just as his fingers twitched toward it again. Your voice cracked through the ruined hall with enough force to silence even the echoing drip of blood from above.
“I have had it with you and your twisted words!”
Torres looked up at you from beneath and somehow he still looked at you like he pitied you. Like you were the tragedy here.
“Ashley you have to understand”, he looked up to you, pleadingly and not even making a move on getting away from you as your fingers dug into his shoulders. “I wanted to save you.”
You laughed once, breathless and bitter.
“Like you saved Samantha?” you shot back. “Keira? Lara? Abigail?” Each name landed like a strike. “You saved them too?”
Torres hesitated, and that hesitation was enough for your anger to spike. You shook him hard, fury blazing through your gold-lit eyes.
“The only monster here is you,” you hissed. “And I trusted your words for far too long.”
You could hear everything now. Every frantic beat of his pulse hammering beneath your hands. Every sharp inhale scraping through his lungs. Fear poured from him in rich, intoxicating waves. It filled the air alongside the copper stench flooding the gymnasium until your body reacted instinctively, your mouth watering despite the hatred twisting through your chest.
“You don’t deserve a trial,” you said then.
Your eyes flicked toward Max.
He was still several feet away, collapsed against the ruined floor. Blood soaked through his side in dark sheets, nearly black beneath the crimson rain falling from above. He had managed to push himself partially upright onto trembling arms, but only barely. His face was pale beneath the streaks of blood, jaw tight with pain, eyes locked entirely on you.
Your name formed soundlessly on his lips.
And that single moment of distraction was enough.
Torres moved violently beneath you. You barely had time to react before he twisted hard, throwing his weight sideways and sending you crashing onto your back against the soaked floor. Pain jolted through your spine as he rolled over you instantly, pinning you beneath him with desperate strength born from pure survival instinct.
The world blurred for a second beneath the overwhelming sensory chaos around you.
You saw the gun lying only inches away.
Both of you lunged for it at once.
Your fingers brushed cold metal -
Then Torres slammed his forearm across your throat.
The pressure did not choke you. You no longer needed air for that. But something about the compression still disrupted your senses instantly, sending static across your vision and dulling the sharp clarity you had only just begun learning to navigate. The edges of the room smeared into darkness as his weight crushed down harder.
The gun scraped against your fingertips again but Torres reached it first.
You froze as the barrel swung toward your face. For one terrible second, everything stopped, only the sheets of crimson rain continued to coat you both. Torres looked down at you with unbearable sadness etched into every line of his face as his trembling finger tightened against the trigger.
Then suddenly he was ripped away from you.
Max hit him like a wrecking ball.
The collision sent both men sprawling across the soaked floor, Torres losing grip on the gun as Max tackled him sideways with what little strength he still had left. But the effort cost him immediately. You heard the broken sound tear from Max’s throat before he collapsed hard onto the floor, coughing sharply as pain bent him nearly double.
Meanwhile Torres recovered faster. He rolled onto one knee and snatched the gun back up, swinging it toward Max -
You moved before he could fire.
You hit him with enough force to send a sickening crack through the hall as your foot connected with his arm. Torres screamed, the gun flying free once more as bones shattered beneath the impact. You didn’t stop. Another kick slammed into his chest hard enough to launch him backward across the soaked floor.
He crashed flat onto his back.
You followed immediately. Your foot planted against his chest with crushing force, pinning him there.
“Don’t you dare touch him,” you hissed down at him, every word trembling with fury as your heel dug deeper into his chest. “Don’t you ever touch anyone again.”
Torres stared up at you through pain, blood running from the corner of his mouth now. His expression twisted somewhere between horror and heartbreak as he searched your face for something that no longer existed there.
You could feel your hunger roaring now, louder than thought itself. Your tongue darted to your canines.
“I hate you,” you snarled, “for what you did to all of them.” Your eyes darkened. “But I despise you for what you condemned me to.” The hunger inside you roared alive completely. “And that,” you whispered, leaning down toward him at last, “is what I want you to be your last thought: You failed me and this failure will be your end.”
The skin of his throat tore instantly beneath your fangs and the sensation of fresh blood flooding your mouth numbed everything around you - the splattering of the heavy wetness from above, Max’s strained breathing and most of all:
Chapter Summary: Catherine's e-mail is still unanswered. And while you make up your mind in the harmony of your childhood home, Harry feels paralyzed by fear of losing you and the dawning of it already being too late.
Chapter warnings: aaah, don't we love our angsty chapters with a little bit of anxiety on the side...
wc: 1.9k
Previous Chapter
Story Masterlist | My Pedro-Character-Masterlist
Boston smelled like woodsmoke and cinnamon when you had stepped off the train days ago. Now, as always, the rhythm of your parents’ house had swallowed you up completely.
It was impossible not to slip backward into old roles here. Your mother humming carols as she worked in the kitchen, your father grumbling good-naturedly over tangled lights for the porch, your childhood dog Sir Percival (yes, you chose that name, when you had been 17), now partly deaf and blind but demanding scraps or belly rubs with his 14 years of age.
The rooms still bore traces of your teenage self: the posters you hadn’t bothered to take down, the mismatched books, the floral curtains your mom refused to replace.
Here, you were a daughter. Not an associate, not a strategist, not the woman who had just slept with your boss and then accused him of sabotaging your career.
It was almost a relief. Almost.
You’d hidden the pain well enough, throwing yourself into “home office” mode. Dialing into only the most essential calls, rattling off information to Harry with clipped professionalism before vanishing again. No meetings, no video cameras, no lingering exchanges. You buried the rest of your time in your mother’s lists: wrapping gifts, chopping vegetables, running errands into town.
If anyone noticed how quiet you’d gone, no one said a word.
But tonight, in your old bedroom, the house soft around you, the mask cracked.
You sat cross-legged on the quilt, laptop perched precariously on the edge of your knees. The glow lit your face, but your fingers hovered above the keys, unmoving.
Catherine Dalton’s email waited, patient and damning.
The subject line unchanged: Follow up: Open Position.
The body: a polite nudge, gracious as only Catherine could be. A reminder that the decision window closed by end of business today. A space left open for you to say yes or no.
Your chest squeezed.
You’d spun in circles over it with Amy - on late-night calls, in endless text threads. Amy, ever practical beneath the squealing support, had pointed out every pro and con. The prestige of Dalton & Price. The leap in title - junior partner on the merger team, London based, shoulder to shoulder with some of the best in the field. Exactly what you always wanted, Amy had reminded you.
And it was true.
In college, you had dreamed of this kind of offer. You had studied yourself half sick for the chance to even land an internship in a firm like Dalton. You’d wanted big rooms, high stakes, the kind of projects that made your pulse race with adrenaline.
Parson had been different. Steadier. Safer. The pay had been good, the structure reassuring. You’d carved out your place there like a stone in a riverbed, holding against the current. And for a long time, that had been enough.
Until Harry. Until London. Until you’d been seen, really seen, for what you could do.
Now Dalton & Price had cracked the door wide open. And all you had to do was walk through it.
Your fingers traced the laptop edge instead of typing.
London.
Not just a new job. A new city. A new country. Six months, at least. Grey skies and fast trains and a life you couldn’t even picture. Not to forget: driving on the left!
You’d visited, sure, but to live there? In the dead of winter? To find a flat, a rhythm, a whole new version of yourself?
Your stomach flipped.
And leaving New York. Leaving Amy. Leaving the friendships you’d built, the fragile scaffolding of a life you’d finally made your own.
Leaving Harry.
The thought stabbed so fast you almost shut the laptop. You hadn’t let yourself dwell on him these past days - not beyond the most sterile updates you still had to exchange for work. It was easier to pretend he was just a name on the other side of an email thread.
But in truth, his absence had been everywhere. In the silence after your fight. In the ache of the words you hadn’t said. In the cold space where his steadiness had always been, even before you’d let him in closer than you should have.
Why didn’t you tell me?
Your own voice, breaking. His, low and pleading.
Because I wasn’t ready to let you go.
You shoved the memory away, hard.
This wasn’t about him. It couldn’t be.
You stared at the draft email, cursor blinking. The text you’d carefully prepared explained everything: your apologies for the delay, your gratitude for the offer, your reasoning for the hesitation. It was clear, respectful, perfectly professional.
Your laptop felt heavier than it should. You leaned back against the headboard, then slid lower until you were lying flat, the computer still balanced across your thighs, screen glowing above you.
The ceiling hadn’t changed in years. The same tiny crack near the light fixture, the same faint water stain from the leak in middle school. You’d spent nights staring at it when you were fifteen and certain you’d never escape this town. Nights when your dreams felt too sharp, too impossible.
Now here you were again, pinned by the same ceiling, except the dreams weren’t impossible anymore. They were sitting in your inbox.
You heard your mother clattering in the kitchen downstairs, your father’s low voice, Sir Percival barking at nothing. Dinner would be soon. A weekend of cozy chaos ahead, the holidays rushing toward you like a tide.
And yet the cursor blinked. End of business today. Catherine’s polite patience waiting to expire.
You took a long breath.
Then you clicked to the bottom of your draft, the words of apology and delay already rehearsed, tidy and measured. Anyone reading would think you’d chosen safety, that you’d stayed put.
But beneath them, you added one last line.
Your finger hovered one final second. Then you hit send.
The email flew, your laptop chimed, and the weight in your chest shifted.
You closed the lid, the room dimming to soft shadows. For the first time all week, you let yourself smile.
The suitcase waited open on his bed, half-packed. A neat row of sweaters, a few jeans, some books he’d never had the time to read. CEOs carried their work habits on trips - they just looked a little less formal in flannel and well-worn denim.
Harry stood, mind ticking through lists: clothes, laptop, chargers, documents, the minor but maddening logistics of travel. London. Finally. Tommy would be home by Christmas, and Harry was looking forward to stepping out of the unrelenting rhythm of New York.
The laptop, closed, sat at the edge of the bed. He glanced at it as if it might somehow remind him of his responsibilities without needing to be opened. Almost like it sensed the storm waiting inside.
He hesitated, then picked it up. A final check before shutting it down and focusing on packing. Inbox: 47 unread emails. Work, logistics, the mundane and the urgent - but one subject line made him pause.
Follow up: Open Position – Emily Day.
His chest tightened.
He let his fingers hover over it. He wanted to stall. Wanted to let himself imagine every possible outcome. You could have declined. You could have accepted. You could have asked him first. And if you had? Could you have found a way to manage both the career leap and… whatever this was between you?
He clicked.
The email opened, crisp, professional, concise.
From: Emily Day
To: Catherine Dalton
CC: Harry Castillo
Subject: Follow up: Open Position
Dear Catherine,
Please accept my apologies for the delay in responding. I greatly appreciate the offer extended and the patience you have shown as I considered this opportunity.
After careful consideration, I have weighed my current responsibilities and the future growth prospects at Dalton & Price. The potential to contribute to the merger project and to engage at a higher level within your team aligns closely with my professional aspirations.
I understand the importance of timely communication and thank you again for your understanding regarding the delay. I am very grateful for the confidence you and your team have placed in me.
With that in mind, I am more than happy to take on this new adventure with you.
Best regards,
Emily Day
Harry sat back in his chair.
Sick. The word didn’t quite cover it. It was heavier, tighter, a combination of dread and… something else he couldn’t yet name. Pride. Regret. Anger. Relief? All tangled together in one tight knot that made his stomach churn.
He reread the email, cursoring slowly over your words. Polite, professional, apologetic. No hint of blame. No mention of him. Your CC was a courtesy, a formality. He was a silent observer, not a participant in your decision.
His chest tightened further. He would lose you - he already had, in a way. And worse, he had known this moment was coming. He could have prevented it. He could have explained, been transparent, laid the facts out for you when the offer was first discussed. But he had stalled. He had stalled selfishly.
He toyed with the idea of responding immediately. Taking responsibility for your delay in answering. Writing some note that would somehow bridge the space between you.
But he knew better. To interject would undermine your autonomy, make you pause, second-guess your choice.
No. He had to let your own voice speak. The CC was enough for him. A silent, perfect acknowledgment: he was in the loop, but he was not in control.
The suitcase beside him suddenly seemed small, trivial, compared to the weight of your decision. London, family, Tommy… all of it faded to the background, the hum of the city outside, the pending flight. He had work to finish, but none of it mattered in the face of what you had just chosen.
His mind replayed your last interactions, your arguments, your tone, the plea for space. Every word he had spoken - or failed to speak - looped endlessly. He would have told you. He could have told you. Yet you had moved, decisively, without him. That had been your right. That had always been your right.
And still… it felt like a punch to the gut.
The realization was brutal: he hadn’t just almost lost you to a city. He had lost you to the very idea that he didn’t see your worth, that he couldn’t support your ambitions.
You had acted in your best interest, carefully, with elegance and poise. You had chosen the adventure. And he could do nothing but watch.
He breathed as if he could force some of the anxiety from his lungs. Fingers splayed over the desk, still holding the laptop. The coldness of the surface grounded him. He stared at the words one last time.
I am more than happy to take on this new adventure with you.
That was the punchline. The full stop. A declaration he could not ignore. You had not declined. You had embraced it.
somnophillia is super funny like im honk shoo honk shoo having a good nights sleep and now you must pass the ultimate test of fucking me without waking me by knocking something over or stepping on a crisp packet i've left on my floor. can you finish your mission while my pet geckos judge you from their tanks? because they're not leaving the room okay the geckos stay in here. also the markiplier fnaf playlist stays on. i sleep better when he's screaming.
all kink stuff is playing pretend but with somno you're not playing pretend you're locked in you're comfy cozy you're snug as a bug in a rug and your partner is playing pretend instead
and like. if you're the one awake you're playing pretend so hard right now like ouuuuhhh look at me i'm a scary evil intruder or a demon or vampire or whatever we're doing tonight and now i just have to uhhhh okay shimmy the duvet off and shhh dontfucking breathe so loud and okayyyyy alright now. ah shit they're sleeping in the family guy death pose how the fuck do i get in there how. how do i. help. why are these geckos looking at me.
Summary: Max may be a cunning vampire, but Torres has a few tricks up his sleeve as an experienced hunter. And as the showdown begins, you'll find yourself craving something else entirely.
Warnings: mention of blood, angsty Ashley and angry Ashley...
Previous Chapter
Story Masterlist | my Pedro-Character-Masterlist
In an old newspaper article he had come across decades ago, Max had once read that most crimes did not go unnoticed because they were hidden particularly well, but because they unfolded in plain sight, slipping cleanly through the cracks of expectation. The human mind, the article had argued, was not built to register what did not fit the pattern it had already decided upon. People did not look for the impossible when the familiar was standing right in front of them.
At the time, it had amused him.
Now, standing at the edge of something that reeked of intent and calculation, he understood it with a clarity that felt almost bitter.
He had lived that principle for years. Disappearance, concealment, survival - none of it required elaborate tricks when boldness did the job more effectively. The obvious, when executed with confidence, became invisible.
But what Torres had chosen?
This went beyond bold.
The trail had drawn Max south, cutting through the arteries of the city until it spilled out into the open stretches surrounding Floyd Bennett Field. The former naval air station lay stretched beneath the night sky like a relic that had refused to decay completely. Though it had long since been repurposed into recreational grounds and training areas, there were still pockets of it that felt untouched - forgotten in a way that invited exactly the kind of use Torres had made of it.
To choose this place as a hideout was either reckless stupidity or calculated genius.
Given how long Torres had operated undetected, Max had no illusions left as to which it was.
The scent guided him with unerring certainty, tightening the closer he moved toward one of the outer structures, a - what seemed like - abandoned shooting range.
Abandoned why?
Well, the shattered windows had been quite telling. Just as much as the graffiti, that crawled across the interior walls in layers of color and decay, old tags bleeding into newer ones, as if even vandals had come and gone in cycles.
Oh and also: No electricity was also a strong contender for “not used in a long time”. Only the faint spill of moonlight filtered through broken panes and gaps in the structure, casting long, skeletal shadows across the floor.
Max stepped inside without hesitation. Torres was here. Not recently. Not hours ago.
Now.
Max moved through the corridor with measured steps, his senses stretching outward, mapping every inch of the space in a way no human ever could. The hallways were narrow in places, widening unexpectedly where doors had been ripped from their hinges or walls had partially collapsed. Old signage still clung stubbornly to the structure, faded lettering pointing toward rooms that had long since lost their original purpose. The floor beneath his feet bore the marks of use and neglect alike.
And overpowering everything? His stench.
Torres was close.
Closer than he should have allowed.
A humorless smile touched his mouth.
He would pay for what he had done to you. For everything he had taken, everything he had broken. The other victims mattered - of course they did - but the image that burned behind Max’s eyes was yours.
There was no world in which Torres walked away from that.
“No point in hiding,” Max called into the emptiness, his voice carrying easily through the hollow structure. “I’ll find you. Sooner or later.”
The echo stretched, fractured, and died against the walls.
He passed what had once been a shooting corridor, the long, narrow space still lined with target frames. Paper silhouettes hung in tatters, riddled with bullet holes. Some had peeled halfway from their mounts, curling inward like dead leaves, while others remained stubbornly intact, their faceless outlines staring back at him in silent accusation.
As the last trace of his voice faded, something shifted.
A sound, faint but unmistakable. The soft scrape of movement, poorly masked.
Max’s head tilted slightly, the direction snapping into focus almost instantly.
A weathered sign on the wall pointed toward a larger training space, its lettering barely legible but still clear enough to guide him. The faint scent trail curved in the same direction, threading forward like an invitation.
Max clicked his tongue softly and turned.
“Coming for you,” he called again, his tone carrying a cold edge now, sharpened by certainty.
The room opened up before him like a gutted gymnasium, vast and hollow. The floor had once been painted, lines marking out training zones or sparring areas, but time had reduced it to a patchwork of faded color and exposed concrete. The walls rose high, broken only by narrow windows set into the roofline, through which pale moonlight spilled in thin, uneven beams.
The effect was almost theatrical.
Max let out a quiet scoff, his gaze sweeping the space.
“Subtle,” he muttered under his breath.
A raised platform ran along one side of the room, a railing separating it from the main floor below. It had likely once served as an observation area, a place for instructors to oversee drills and correct mistakes from a position of control.
Max’s eyes lingered there.
“Should’ve learned to hide better,” he called, his voice calm despite the tension coiling beneath it. His jaw tightened as he scanned the upper level, every sense straining for the smallest shift.
There.
A sound.
This time unmistakable. And it came from above.
Before he could fully lock onto it, a voice cut through the space, carrying from somewhere along the platform.
“Who said I was hiding?”
Before Max could make out Torres, he answered himself with a click.
Light exploded into the room.
It hit him with brutal force, flooding the space in an instant, bleaching out the soft shadows of moonlight and replacing them with something harsh and invasive. It wasn’t ordinary illumination - it burned, sharp and unnatural, cutting straight through his vision and slamming into his skull with disorienting intensity.
Max’s reaction came a fraction too late.
He threw an arm up, turning his face away, but the damage was already done. Sharp pain spiked behind his eyes, a vicious headache crashing down hard enough to stagger him. The world tilted, edges blurring as his senses struggled to recalibrate under the assault.
He stumbled backward, balance faltering for the first time since he had entered the building.
Through the sudden chaos he only partially made out another sound.
Metal shifting. A weapon being readied.
Max moved on instinct alone, his body reacting before his vision could catch up. He dropped low, shifting sideways just as the crack of a gunshot tore through the space. The bullet split the air where he had stood a heartbeat earlier, the impact echoing violently off the walls.
“You’re not the only hunter, you know?” Torres’ voice rang out, threaded with something darkly satisfied. “And you’re certainly not the first of your kind I’ve put down - but you might be the most satisfying.”
Another shot.
Max moved again, faster now, pushing through the disorientation, tracking direction rather than sight. The light still burned, still clawed at his senses, but its edge dulled the further he shifted from its center. He just needed distance. Just needed -
The next shot came without warning.
This time, he wasn’t fast enough.
Heat flared through him, sudden and searing as the force drove into his side. The momentum knocked him off balance, sending him crashing hard against the ground.
For a split second, everything went still.
Then the pain caught up.
It burned - sharp, invasive, wrong in a way that cut deeper than the physical wound itself. Max forced himself upright immediately, refusing the instinct to remain down, but the sensation only intensified as he moved.
That was when he smelled it.
Blood.
His blood.
Max had never mentioned that becoming a vampire came with something as mundane - and as infuriating - as the inability to sleep at nightfall.
You lay on your back on the couch, staring up into the dim ceiling of your apartment, and let out a long, strained exhale as another wave of pain rolled through your limbs. It wasn’t sharp, not exactly. It was deeper than that. A pressure, a saturation - like something foreign flooding your veins, settling into muscle and bone until there was no space left untouched. Every inch of you felt too full, too aware, too alive in a way that bordered on unbearable.
Your legs twitched faintly against the cushions. Your fingers curled and uncurled at your sides. There was no rest in your body, no stillness to cling to.
And you knew why.
Because it was night.
The realization settled into you with quiet certainty. Night wasn’t something to endure anymore. It was something to move in, to exist inside. Your body wasn’t winding down - it was waking up. Every sense sharpened, every nerve alert, every part of you coiled and waiting.
Sleep would come eventually. Maybe. But not now. Not when everything inside you was demanding motion.
And it demanded more.
The shift was sudden enough to make your stomach twist. Hunger rose fast and violent, a hollow ache that carved through your core with startling clarity. It wasn’t like anything you had ever felt before. Not the dull gnaw of skipped meals or the sharp pang of exhaustion. This was deeper. Older. It spread through you like fire catching dry wood, consuming thought and replacing it with a singular and relentless need.
You groaned under your breath before you shot upright so abruptly the couch creaked beneath you. Oreo startled awake with an offended noise, leaping off the cushion and landing a safe distance away, his tail flicking in clear disapproval.
You barely noticed.
“No,” you muttered immediately, shaking your head as if you could physically dislodge the urge. “No, that’s not happening.”
Your feet hit the floor and you started pacing, movements restless and sharp, hands dragging through your hair before pressing hard against your temples.
You knew what this was.
And you refused it. There had to be vegan vampires out there, right?
“I am not doing this,” you said again, louder this time, as if volume alone could make it true. “I am not killing someone. I cannot-” Your voice broke off, tension snapping tight in your chest as you pushed away the unnerving image of overpowering an innocent person, lodging your mouth to their neck, biting, drawing fresh, warm blood, that coated your tongue, spilled into your throat and -
Okay, wow, obviously you could imagine it!
And with it another thought crept into your mind.
They don’t have to be innocent.
You stilled mid-step, your breath catching as the idea slipped fully into place. It felt wrong the moment it surfaced - and yet it didn’t. Not entirely. It carried a logic you recognized, one you had already stood beside.
You remembered the way Max had spoken about it, the way he had justified it. The people he chose. Predators preying on the weak, the overlooked, the disposable. Monsters hiding in plain sight. And most importantly: how you had helped him choose his next meal.
Your jaw tightened.
No.
Your head shook sharply, as if rejecting the thought could erase it. “No,” you repeated under your breath, more forcefully now. “That’s not me.”
It couldn’t be.
But your body didn’t care about what you believed.
The cramp hit you without warning, folding you in half with a sharp, twisting pain that tore through your abdomen. A hiss slipped past your teeth as you braced yourself against the back of the couch, fingers digging into the fabric as the sensation pulsed through you. It wasn’t just hunger anymore. It was need - urgent and insistent, clawing at you from the inside.
“What the hell…” you breathed, the words strained.
Across the room, Oreo had gone completely still. His back arched slightly, fur puffing as a low, uncertain hiss slipped from him - directed at you.
You let out a humorless breath despite yourself, teeth clenched against the fading pain. “Relax,” you muttered, glancing at him. “You’re not on the menu.”
The reassurance did nothing. The cat stayed exactly where he was, watching you like something unfamiliar had taken your place.
You straightened slowly, the ache receding just enough to let you think again. Max had briefly mentioned the hunger, he had been almost dismissive about it. Weeks, he had said. He could go weeks without feeding.
So what was this?
Your lips pressed into a thin line. A bitter thought surfaced almost immediately.
Of course.
Starter fuel.
The analogy was ridiculous and yet it fit too well - like some cheap device that refused to function until it had been charged for the first time. Your stomach twisted again, though this time the feeling had less to do with pain and more to do with the implication.
Anger surged up to meet it.
Your pacing resumed, faster now, sharper, frustration bleeding into every step. “Fucking Max,” you muttered. “Fucking Torres. Fucking - everything.”
The next wave of discomfort followed quickly, less intense but enough to grind against your nerves. It didn’t let you forget. Didn’t let you ignore it.
You had to feed.
The certainty settled into your bones with quiet finality. It was inevitable.
For the first time since waking, your composure cracked.
Tears burned at the edges of your eyes, blurring your vision as a shaky breath slipped past your lips. “Shit…,” you whispered, the word unraveling under the weight of it. “Fuck…”
For a moment you just stood there, caught between the urge to break and the instinct to fight.
Then your gaze shifted.
It landed on the bookshelf across the room.
And stilled.
Slowly, as if pulled by someone else, you stepped closer. Your attention fixed on a single frame resting among the books - a photograph you hadn’t looked at in years.
Your graduation day at the academy.
You picked it up without thinking, your fingers tightening slightly around the edges as your eyes traced the image. There was your younger self, proud and certain about the choice you had made. And most of all untouched by everything that had come after. Naive, one could say.
And beside you -
Torres.
He looked different too. Not as hardened. The lines in his face softer, the muscles he carried not yet so visible. But the eyes were the same. Warm. Steady. Trustworthy.
A hollow laugh escaped you.
“Yeah,” you murmured under your breath, your thumb brushing absently over the glass. “Trust my ass…”
Your jaw tightened as a sharp cold settled into place beneath the lingering desperation.
If this was what you had become - if there was no avoiding it, no undoing it - then maybe there was still a choice left in how it began.
Your grip on the frame loosened as you set it back down.
“Fine,” you said quietly, the word carrying a weight that felt almost like resolve.
If you had to feed…
Then it wouldn’t be random.
It wouldn’t be innocent.
Your eyes darkened slightly, the faint gold catching the low light of the room as the decision locked into place.
Torres wouldn’t go back to his apartment. Not after what had happened. He was too careful for that. Too aware.
But he was also something else.
Sentimental.
Symbolic.
You exhaled slowly, already knowing where that instinct would lead him.
Your first training ground. The place where everything had started.
Floyd Bennett Field.
You grabbed your keys from the table and shoved them into the pocket of your pajama pants. The absurdity of your clothing didn’t even register. It didn’t matter. None of it did.
Not now.
Now there was only one thing that mattered.
Torres.
And the hunger that was leading you straight to him.
Summary: You're pretty good at pissing off Joel Miller. He's very good at teaching you a lesson during a self-defense training session.
Warnings: +18, MDNI, dub-con, dark!Joel all the way, knife play, brat-tamer!Joel, bound wrists, Joel calls reader kiddo, darlin’, sweetheart, maybe baby girl once?, fingering, p in v (unprotected, sooo… don’t pls), no use of y/n, reader’s acting all tough but has little to no chance against our man, let me know if i forgot any…
A/N: this is the result of a trope survey I did, Joel Miller & enemies to lovers came in first (of course it did :D). If you are interested in the others just follow the link.
wc: 9.2k (Joel is a cruel motherfucker...)
My Pedro-Character-Masterlist
“You’re a spoiled brat. Somebody ought to teach you a lesson. Maybe then you’d start takin’ your damn part in patrol seriously instead of driftin’ along until the day they find you dead in a ditch somewhere.”
Those had been the words that started it.
A surprising amount of them, too, coming from a man who usually communicated in grunts and clipped little sentences. Around Jackson, most people were used to hearing two, maybe three words from Joel Miller at a time.
But that afternoon in the stables he had let loose like a storm breaking.
To be fair - if you forced yourself to be honest about it - you had pushed him there.
The last patrol together had been… relaxed. On your side, anyway. Maybe a little too relaxed. You had missed a couple signs you should have caught, let your attention drift more than once while walking the tree line. Nothing dangerous had happened, but Joel had noticed. Of course he had. The man noticed everything.
Still, the whole lecture had felt unfair.
When you rode patrol with Joel Miller, the man practically absorbed the entire job himself. He checked the tracks, listened to the wind, scanned every ridge like something deadly was about to crawl over it. Half the time he handled things before you even had a chance to step in.
Trying to assist often felt like showing up late to a fight he had already finished.
So yeah - maybe you had been less attentive than you should have been. But it wasn’t because you didn’t care.
It was because when Joel was beside you, the world felt… handled.
That realization had landed right as he was finishing his little speech.
And instead of apologizing like the sensible part of your brain suggested - maybe slipping out of the stables before things got worse - you had planted your boots firmly in the dirt.
“Who then?” you shot back, folding your arms as the words came out sharper than planned. “You're gonna be the one teaching me? I’d love to see you try, old man.”
The moment the words left your mouth, you knew the last part had been unnecessary.
Joel had a particular talent for getting under your skin, but calling him old man had been like flicking a match into dry grass.
The reaction was immediate.
He went still.
Then he released the horse’s reins without looking, letting them fall loosely over the post as he stepped out of the stall. Each step measured enough that your instincts kicked in before your pride could stop them. You weren’t even sure when your own boots shifted backward, but the space between you widened all the same.
Joel’s expression didn’t change much.
That was the unsettling part.
His eyes stayed locked on you, dark and assessing, like he was already calculating something.
“Well,” he drawled after a beat, voice calm in a way that felt more dangerous than the shouting had. “That’s not the worst idea you’ve had.” Another step closer. “Been hearin’ you skipped more’n a few of those self-defense drills lately.” His gaze dragged over you. “Let’s see how tough you act when someone actually puts you on your back.”
And that was how you ended up trudging through ankle-deep snow on what should have been a perfectly quiet afternoon off.
Because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut.
The wind dragged like cold fingers through the trees lining the path to the training barn, snow crunching under your boots with every step as you replayed the moment in the stables for the hundredth time. If you had just walked away - if you had swallowed your pride for once - you’d be somewhere warm right now.
Instead, you had challenged Joel Miller to prove you wrong.
And if you were being honest with yourself, the irritation between you two wasn’t exactly one-sided. Getting under Joel’s skin had become a strange sort of sport. The man had a way of grinding against your nerves until you snapped back without thinking.
Apparently the feeling went both ways.
Your breath curled in pale clouds as the barn came into view, the big wooden structure crouched quietly beneath a dusting of snow. No voices. No movement. Just the faint creak of wood shifting in the cold.
You reached it later than the time he had given you.
Technically by accident.
Mostly.
A small, petty part of you had slowed your pace on purpose. Let him stew a little. Pissed people made mistakes. And today you had every intention of knocking Joel Miller down a peg or two.
The barn door groaned softly when you pushed it open.
Inside, the air was colder than you expected, the structure barely insulated from the winter outside. Your boots echoed faintly against the packed floor as you stepped in, shrugging out of your thick coat and shaking snow from the sleeves.
“Joel?” you called, voice carrying through the wide space.
You draped the coat over a small wooden stool near the entrance. If this training session looked anything like the handful of drills you’d bothered attending before, you wouldn’t stay cold for long.
Movement would fix that.
The training area had been mostly cleared out. A broad patch of packed dirt and old mats where Jackson ran its combat practice. Last time you’d been here it had been crowded - laughter, teasing, half the patrol crew watching each other stumble through holds and throws.
Now the place felt different.
Quieter.
Dim light filtered through the high slats in the barn walls, dust and hay drifting lazily through the beams. A few old crates were stacked toward the back, casting long crooked shadows across the floor. Somewhere deeper inside, a loose board creaked softly with the wind.
But most notably - no Joel.
You suppressed the thought that Joel Miller was almost never late. If anything, he was the kind of man who showed up ten minutes early just to glare at everyone else.
Still.
If the universe decided to make an exception today, you weren’t about to complain.
“Joel?” you called again, already turning back toward the door as you reached for your coat. “If this is some kinda joke -”
A faint shuffle cut through the quiet behind you.
Subtle enough that it could have been anything. The wind blowing through a crack in the boards. A rat scurrying somewhere in the hay.
But your brain, helpful as ever, supplied a different thought.
What if something actually had happened?
Joel slipping on ice somewhere behind the barn. Old men did that, didn’t they?
The image made you snort a quiet laugh as you stepped deeper inside, heading toward the darker end of the building where the stacked crates sat like squat shadows.
“Joel?” you called again, tone lighter now.
No grumpy Texan clutching a broken hip greeted you. Just scattered hay, dirt, and the faint smell of old wood.
Then you noticed the tracks.
Boot prints pressed into the thin dust near the crates.
You barely had time to register them before something slammed into you from the side.
Hard.
The impact knocked the air clean out of your lungs as your body was driven backward into the stacked crates. Wood rattled violently behind you, the force of the hit folding you against it so abruptly that even the instinct to shout died in your throat.
All that escaped you was a strangled breath as the world lurched sideways and suddenly felt very, very close.
You only managed to catch yourself at the last second. Your boots slipped in the dust as the crates rattled behind you, but instinct kicked in before gravity could finish the job. One hand shot out, bracing against the wood long enough to steady yourself before you stumbled back into the more open space of the training floor.
And he followed.
“What the actual hell was that, Joel?!” you snapped, the words bursting out before your lungs had even properly recovered.
Joel Miller stepped out of the shadows like he had all the time in the world. The dim light spilling through the barn slats caught the edge of his shoulders, the familiar broad frame moving toward you with the same steady patience he carried everywhere.
He didn’t answer.
Just kept walking.
The deliberate silence set your nerves on edge faster than any insult could have.
Without thinking you took a step back - mirroring exactly what had happened in the stables earlier. Your heel scraped lightly over the packed dirt before you forced yourself to stop retreating. Straightened your back. Planted your feet.
You refused to give him the satisfaction twice.
“So…” You cleared your throat, hating the faint tremor that slipped into your voice anyway. “How are we doing this? Thought these things usually start with rules. You know. Demonstrations. Maybe someone showing the hold first before -”
A low chuckle slipped from him.
It carried about as much humor as a knife.
“You honestly think that’s what it looks like out there?” Joel muttered.
He rolled one shoulder as he moved, the motion stiff enough that you noticed it immediately. The impact must’ve hurt him too when he slammed into you. He masked it well, but the brief tightening of his jaw gave it away.
Still, the look he gave you afterward made it clear he didn’t care.
“Oh, darlin’,” he added quietly, voice dropping into that slow Texan drawl that usually meant trouble. “You’re in for a rude surprise.”
Two seconds.
That was about how long you had to swallow the sudden spike of unease rising in your chest.
Then the panic got burned away by something hotter.
The sheer audacity of this man.
You took two quick steps backward, widening the distance and shifting your weight the way you’d been taught during drills. Feet planted. Knees loose. Hands lifting instinctively toward your chest.
Fine.
If Joel wanted to play instructor like this, you’d show him you had actually listened during those classes.
Unfortunately, you were still underestimating just how serious he was about the lesson.
He moved before you could fully settle into your stance.
One moment he stood a few paces away.
The next he was on you.
Your hands shot up higher, ready to intercept a grab - because that was what the drills usually started with. Wrist control. Balance breaks.
Joel didn’t reach for your arms.
He swung.
An actual punch.
The movement came fast enough that your brain barely had time to process it. You ducked on instinct alone, dropping your shoulder just as his fist cut through the air where your head had been.
You avoided the worst of it.
But not all of it.
His knuckles clipped the side of your skull as they passed, the glancing contact sending a sharp buzz of pain through your temple that made your ears ring.
“Jesus, Joel!” you barked, staggering back a step as your hand flew to your cheek. “What the fuck -”
“Thought you might try talkin’ your way outta trouble too?” he grunted.
Another swing followed immediately.
You barely avoided that one too, stumbling sideways as the punch cut past your shoulder close enough to stir the air.
And that was when the realization finally clicked.
He wasn’t actually trying to hit you.
Not really.
If Joel had meant it - if he’d put his full weight behind those blows - you’d already be down. Nose broken. Lip split. Maybe worse.
This was controlled.
Terrifyingly precise.
“Of course not, you idiot,” you shot back, breath coming faster now as adrenaline started flooding your system. “I just -”
“You just what?” Joel cut in, circling closer. “Thought you could coast through patrols and let somebody else watch your back, kiddo?”
“I just thought -”
You never finished the sentence.
Because that was when he closed the distance completely.
One moment he was a step away.
The next his hands were on you.
His unyielding grip clamped onto your shoulders before you could react, momentum carrying straight through you as he hooked a foot behind your ankle and swept your legs out from under you in one brutal, practiced motion.
The world flipped.
Your back slammed into the old training mats hard enough to knock the air from your lungs in a sharp, involuntary gasp. Dust puffed around you as your vision flashed white for a split second, stars scattering across the edges of your sight.
You barely had time to register what had happened.
Because Joel was already on top of you.
His weight settled in fast, knees pinning your legs to the ground before you could kick free. One hand locked around each of your upper arms, forcing them down against the mat with a strength that left very little room for argument.
You tried to twist.
Tried to buck him off.
It didn’t move him an inch.
Joel leaned slightly over you, breath still steady despite the scuffle, his shadow falling across your face in the dim barn light.
“Weren’t thinkin’,” he muttered, voice low and rough. His grip tightened just enough to make the point unmistakable. “That right there’s the problem, darlin’.”
“Okay, you know what -” The words came out between clenched teeth as you bucked against his hold again, muscles straining even though every logical part of your brain already knew it was pointless.
Joel barely shifted.
Still, the flash of defiance in your eyes caught his attention for half a second. His gaze dipped toward you and he made a low sound under his breath as he adjusted his weight to counter your movement.
It wasn’t much.
Just enough pressure in the right places to remind you he was still very much in control.
He waited.
Actually waited.
Like he expected some brilliant comeback to fall out of your mouth.
So you gave him one.
“Fuck you, Joel.”
The words snapped out sharp and immediate, and before he could respond you twisted your hips hard - throwing your weight the way you’d been shown once during a half-forgotten training drill.
The motion had a name. Something about breaking a mount by shifting the opponent’s balance.
At the time it had sounded like wishful thinking.
But somehow -
It worked.
Almost.
Joel’s grip slipped just enough that you managed to twist sideways beneath him. Your shoulder rolled, your body following the momentum until suddenly you were face-down instead of pinned flat.
You didn’t wait.
You scrambled forward on instinct, boots digging against the mat as your hands clawed for traction in the dust.
Behind you, Joel sucked in a sharp breath.
The knee you’d driven into his ribs during the maneuver had clearly landed better than you’d planned.
For one brief, glorious second you thought you might actually get away.
Then his hand closed around the back of your belt.
The jerk backward was violent enough that your progress stopped instantly, your body sliding helplessly over the dusty mat as the inches you’d gained disappeared in a heartbeat.
Your fingernails scraped uselessly against the ground.
“Damn it -!”
You barely got the protest out before Joel leaned forward again.
One hand seized both your wrists, yanking them behind your back in a single brutal motion. His grip tightened until your arms were forced together, the angle making it impossible to twist free.
A second later his knees settled heavily against the backs of your legs, pinning you in place while his weight pressed down just enough to make resistance feel laughable.
You opened your mouth to curse him out.
Then you felt it.
The rough scrape of something fibrous brushing your skin.
Rope.
Your stomach dropped.
“Okay - Joel, wait!” The words came faster now as the cord circled your wrists, tightening with practiced efficiency. “Hold on a second -” The rope cinched tighter. “I said wait!” The sharp edge of panic in your own voice caught you off guard.
Joel didn’t react.
“Give me one good reason,” he said simply.
“What reason do you -?” You twisted your head, trying to glare up at him over your shoulder. “This isn’t funny, Joel.”
“It ain’t supposed to be.”
You squirmed beneath him as he pulled the knot snug, the rope biting just enough to make the reality of it sink in. It was too tight for a mere training unit.
You weren’t slipping out of that anytime soon.
Your body shifted restlessly under his weight, trying again to find leverage that simply wasn’t there.
Okay.
New strategy.
“Alright,” you muttered quickly, forcing the words out before the tension crawling up your spine could take over completely. “I get it. Message received. I should’ve paid more attention on patrol. That one’s on me.” The rope tugged tighter. “This is still unfair,” you added stubbornly.
Joel’s knee slid upward slightly as he finished securing the knot, pressing into the small of your back with deliberate weight.
“Fair?” he repeated. His voice carried a faint edge of disbelief. “You think the folks waitin’ out there care about your sense of fairness?”
You turned your head against the mat, cheek scraping the rough surface as you tried to look back at him.
Joel didn’t appear the least bit rattled.
His brows were drawn together the way they always were, deep lines etched across his forehead. The familiar salt-and-pepper beard framed a mouth set in that same firm line you’d seen a hundred times before.
But there was no anger now.
No smirk either.
Just a calm, steady focus that somehow felt worse.
You weren’t sure what exactly he was determined to do, and something about that thought made your chest tighten.
“No, it’s just…” you started, words faltering as you tried to find something that didn’t sound like outright surrender. “I wasn’t expecting you to be such a -”
The sentence cut off when Joel suddenly shifted.
His weight lifted from your back without warning.
Relief barely had time to register before his hands caught your shoulder and hip, rolling you over in one smooth motion.
You landed flat on your back again.
Joel settled over you almost immediately, kneeling around your legs the way he had earlier - only now your wrists were secured behind you, leaving your arms completely useless.
The position pulled uncomfortably at your shoulders, the rope tightening each time you moved. But you decided very quickly not to complain about that. Comfort clearly wasn’t high on Joel’s list of priorities today.
“- such a committed trainer?” Joel finished dryly.
You glared up at him.
“Such an asshole,” you corrected.
Your body twisted again beneath him, instinctively trying to knock him off balance. Your hips jerked upward, attempting to disrupt his center of gravity.
Joel barely shifted. If anything his crotch pushed into your center just as much to secure you.
“Newsflash, darlin’,” he muttered. “World outside Jackson ain’t exactly known for patience.”
You huffed out a breath, rolling your eyes despite the position.
“Yeah, alright. Point taken.” You shifted your shoulders experimentally against the rope. “So untie me already. Pretty sure the lesson stuck.”
Joel didn’t move.
Didn’t even look like he was considering it.
Instead he adjusted his weight slightly, settling into the kneeling position like someone getting comfortable for a long conversation.
Your stomach sank.
“Doubt it,” he said. The words were calm. Almost casual. “Lesson ain’t even started yet.”
Something flickered in his hand then.
Metal catching the faint light filtering through the barn walls.
And when your eyes dropped to it, the breath caught hard in your throat.
Joel had a knife.
For a moment you just stared at it. Then - unexpectedly - even to yourself, a laugh slipped out. It started as a short breath and turned into something sharper, almost incredulous.
Because this was Joel.
Joel Miller might be a lot of things - grumpy, stubborn, occasionally insufferable - but he wasn’t some deranged lunatic who’d decided to start carving people up during a training session.
The man patched fences for neighbors after long patrols. Helped haul lumber for repairs even when he’d already pulled double shifts. Joel Miller carried himself like someone who’d seen too much of the world to waste energy pretending to be nice, but you had never once seen him be cruel.
Rough, yes.
Unfair? Never.
So this?
This had to be part of the scare tactic.
A prop.
A way to drive the lesson home.
And hell… it was working.
Your laugh lingered a little longer than necessary, the sound edged with nerves you hoped he wouldn’t notice. When something overwhelmed you, that was usually how you dealt with it.
“Alright, alright,” you muttered, rolling your eyes toward him. “You can cut the theatrics now. What exactly are you planning to do with that?” You tilted your head slightly, trying to keep the tone casual. “Pretty sure the council won’t be thrilled if I walk back into town with knife wounds from a training exercise.”
You aimed for cool and unbothered. Joel’s eyes flickered briefly over your face. The faint tremor in your voice hadn’t slipped past him.
“Knife ain’t just for stabbin’ people,” he said flatly. “Might need to sign you up for a weapons lesson too while we’re at it.”
Before you could respond, the blade moved.
Not the sharp edge but the flat, dull side. Cold metal brushed lightly across your cheek.
Your head turned instinctively, trying to avoid it, but Joel followed the motion easily - guiding the blade downward along the line of your jaw and throat.
A slow trail of chilled steel.
The tip continued lower, slipping toward the collar of your shirt.
You stilled despite yourself.
The point of the knife tapped lightly against the first button of your flannel, clicking softly against the plastic.
Then the next.
And the next.
Each small contact felt absurdly loud in the quiet barn.
“Don’t see you doin’ much fightin’ right now,” Joel observed calmly. His chin tipped forward slightly, gesturing vaguely toward the position you were stuck in beneath him. “Someone got you pinned like this out there… what exactly’s your plan?”
“I wouldn’t get caught,” you shot back automatically.
Joel’s mouth twitched.
“If an old man can do it half asleep…” he said dryly, tossing your earlier insult right back at you, “I ain’t too confident you’d fare better with a group of raiders.”
Your eyes narrowed.
“If it were raiders,” you countered quickly, “I’d already be exactly where you said I’d end up. Dead somewhere in a ditch.” Your gaze flicked pointedly to the knife. “They’d want my gear. My rations. My weapons. Not my patience.”
Joel’s grin tilted sideways.
Not amused.
Just… knowing.
“You sure about that?” he murmured.
Before you could respond, the tip of the knife slid neatly between one of the lower buttons and its thread.
Your brain barely had time to register what he was doing before he twisted his wrist slightly.
Pop.
The button snapped free.
It shot somewhere over your shoulder, landing out of sight behind you.
“What the - Joel!”
Your head jerked up instinctively, more offended by the destruction of a perfectly good shirt than anything else. Still, something deeper shifted under your ribs.
Because Joel was right. Being captured out there - especially as a woman - wouldn’t end quickly.
Wouldn’t end kindly.
The next button popped.
Adrenaline flooded your bloodstream in a sudden rush and your body bucked beneath him again, instinct overriding reason.
The blade slipped. Not deep. But the point grazed your skin just enough to leave a sharp sting across your stomach.
“Watch it, jerk!” you hissed.
Joel stopped. But not out of concern.
Out of calculation.
Slowly the knife lifted from your half-open shirt and returned upward, the flat of the blade resting once again against the side of your neck.
“If I was one of them,” Joel said quietly, leaning closer, “and I had you stuck like this beneath me…” His voice dropped lower. “Best start pickin’ your words real careful.”
He was close enough now that you could see every line in his face.
Close enough that he had to see the flicker of fear creeping into your eyes.
And he didn’t stop.
Didn’t pull back.
Didn’t soften the pressure of his weight holding you down.
For one alarming second a thought flickered through your head.
He wasn’t ignoring your fear.
He was letting you sit with it.
Maybe even -
Enjoying the effect.
Your breathing slowed. When you spoke again, your voice came out colder than before. Enough that it caught his attention immediately.
“Yeah?” you murmured. Joel leaned a fraction closer, watching you carefully. “Then listen real close, Joel.”
But instead of the clever insult he was clearly expecting…
You gathered saliva.
And spat.
Right into his face.
Joel jerked back just enough that the dull side of the knife scraped lightly along your skin. The movement was quick - reflex more than intent - and for a second his brows pulled together in something close to surprise.
Then he huffed.
And laughed.
Not the dry little breath of amusement people in Jackson sometimes coaxed out of him. Not the brief exhale that usually passed for humor from Joel Miller.
This was different.
The sound came as a real laugh that rolled out of his chest before he could seem to stop it. It carried something sharp in it too - something edged with challenge that made the skin on the back of your neck prickle.
You realized, distantly, that you could probably count the times you’d heard Joel Miller laugh on one hand.
This one felt… new.
“Alright,” he muttered, still chuckling as he dragged the sleeve of his jacket across his face, wiping away the spit without much ceremony. “Go ahead. Act like a brat.” His dark eyes dropped back to yours. “Let’s see how far that attitude carries you.”
The knife returned to your shirt.
Before you could react, three buttons popped in quick succession.
Pop.
Pop.
Pop.
The sounds echoed in the quiet barn like small gunshots, fabric pulling apart under the pressure of the blade. Within seconds only the top button still held, the flannel hanging open enough that the cold air slipped easily against your skin.
Joel rested the tip of the knife against that final button, his gaze settling back on you.
“Tell me somethin’, darlin’,” he said, voice quieter now. “When does all that stubbornness finally turn into beggin’?” His mouth twitched faintly. “Be real interestin’ to hear you whimper for once.”
The knife didn’t move.
It waited there, hovering against the thread.
“I’d rather you stab me,” you shot back immediately, forcing the words out before hesitation could betray you. “You’re not getting a single plea out of me.”
It was a lie.
You both knew it.
The tension in your chest was already tightening, nerves and adrenaline twisting together into something that made your breathing shallow.
And yet… something inside you refused to back down.
Part pride.
Part curiosity.
Because a small, reckless voice in the back of your mind wanted to know just how far Joel Miller would actually push this lesson.
Surely not that far. Right?
You gave yourself a second to remember exactly who was sitting on top of you.
Joel Miller.
The same man who had barely glanced at you that one patrol when you’d slipped in the brush and torn your shirt on a branch. The fabric had ripped at exactly the wrong place, leaving your cleavage embarrassingly obvious for the rest of the trek back to Jackson.
Joel had looked away almost immediately.
Barely a second.
Like it hadn’t even registered.
That Joel Miller wasn’t about to take things further just to prove a point.
…Right?
And if he did…
Your stomach tightened unexpectedly.
Would it actually be so terrible?
“We’ll see about that,” Joel muttered.
The knife twisted.
Pop.
The final button gave way.
The front of your shirt fell open completely, the two sides sliding apart under the pressure of the blade as Joel used it to push the fabric aside. The cold metal drifted slowly down the center of your stomach, tracing a lazy line over your skin.
Your belly rose and fell beneath it, each breath a little quicker than the last.
“Not even gonna try bargainin’?” he asked, eyes lifting back to yours.
“What for?” you muttered, a little more breathless than you meant to sound. “Don’t exactly have anything worth trading.”
Joel’s grin tilted darker.
“Oh, I dunno,” he said quietly. “Seems like I’m gettin’ a pretty decent view already of what you gotta offer.”
Something in your stomach flipped unpleasantly - and not entirely with disgust.
“Try me, old man,” you shot back, the insult coming out sharper than intended. A thread of nervous energy slipped into the words despite your effort to sound confident. “Bet you wouldn’t even be able to.”
You held his gaze stubbornly, your own grin tight with defiance.
There was plenty of spite in it. Plenty of tension too. Because you still weren’t completely sure what Joel actually wanted here.
To scare you? Or rather something else entirely…
The jab made him chuckle again, deeper this time. His shoulders shifted slightly as the sound shook through him, his weight pressing more firmly against you for a second.
Then he leaned forward.
The knife disappeared between his teeth, clamped carefully by the handle so both hands were free.
Your stomach dipped as Joel’s fingers hooked into your belt.
Opening it took him almost no effort at all. He worked the buckle loose with the same calm efficiency he seemed to apply to everything, his other hand planted beside your head for balance. The knife still sat between his teeth, the metal glinting faintly when the dim barn light caught it. The grin around it was unmistakable - broad, wolfish, the kind that showed just enough teeth to make your stomach tighten.
Your breath hitched the moment his fingers found the button of your jeans.
That was when the realization finally settled in fully.
He wasn’t bluffing.
“Joel…” The word slipped out before you could stop it. It wasn’t exactly a plea - not yet - but it carried something close. A last attempt to catch his attention before the line you’d been dancing around disappeared completely. His head tilted slightly at the sound, like he was waiting for the rest. Waiting for the begging he had predicted earlier.
“You don’t have to,” you added, quieter now. “I get it.”
The sharp edge of your usual sarcasm had faded from your voice, replaced by something more honest - tension, a flicker of fear… and an uncomfortable thread of anticipation you didn’t quite know what to do with.
Joel’s mouth curved slowly at one corner.
The grin that followed wasn’t kind.
His fingers finished undoing the button, lingering a moment at the metal of the zipper without pulling it down. Instead, the back of his knuckles brushed lightly across your center through the layers of denim and cotton, the casual contact enough to make your body twitch in surprise.
Your hips jerked instinctively, trying to shift away from the touch even though the movement accomplished very little.
Joel adjusted his weight slightly, leaning back just enough to free the knife from his teeth. The blade slipped back into his hand, the flat side drifting lazily across your exposed stomach again.
“Bit late for that, ain’t it?” he muttered.
Before you could respond, he leaned forward again.
The knife drove suddenly downward, the blade burying itself in the mat right beside your head with a dull thunk that made you flinch hard enough for the ropes around your wrists to bite.
Joel’s chuckle rumbled low in response.
“Besides,” he added calmly, shifting his weight again, “I ain’t convinced you actually get it yet, kiddo.” His free hand returned to your jeans. “You’re still thinkin’ I’m gonna stop here. Scare you a little. Let you walk off and hope the lesson stuck.”
His thumb caught the zipper. Slowly he dragged it downward. The sound seemed absurdly loud in the quiet barn.
“All you’ve done so far,” Joel continued, voice steady, “is prove you only understand somethin’ once it’s right in front of you.” The zipper reached the bottom. He clicked his tongue softly. “And I ain’t exactly confronted you with much yet.”
“I - I’m gonna scratch your eyes out!” you snapped.
Joel’s brow lifted faintly.
“Be real curious to watch you try that with your hands tied behind your back,” he drawled. “Truth be told, you oughta be grateful you still got ’em.” His tone remained casual. “Seen what raiders do when they’re worried about people fightin’ back. Fingernails, teeth… anything sharp tends to disappear real quick.”
He paused just long enough to make the words settle. Then shrugged lightly.
“Think I can manage you just fine with your claws intact though.”
His hand slid forward again, fingers brushing the edge of your underwear where the open denim now left the fabric exposed.
Your body reacted before your brain caught up.
Your hips jerked upward, the motion automatic.
Joel noticed immediately.
“Now there’s a little fight,” he murmured, the darkness back in his voice. “Thought that tough brat already ran off and left me with somebody a lot more nervous.”
Instead of answering, you twisted harder beneath him.
Your knees drew upward slightly, boots scraping uselessly against the mat as you tried to shift your weight enough to disrupt his balance. It only gained you a fraction of an inch, but the effort felt necessary all the same.
Beside your face, the knife remained planted firmly in the mat.
A silent reminder.
Too close for comfort.
“When this is over,” you muttered through clenched teeth, “I’m gonna make you pay for it.”
Joel huffed softly at that. “When this is over,” he echoed, “you’d be dead in a ditch somewhere.” He tilted his head slightly, watching your expression. “That’s the theory, anyway.” His hand slipped forward again, the rough pads of his fingers brushing lightly against your hip as if testing the reaction.
“In practice?” he continued. His gaze flicked briefly down toward you, as his fingers slipped under the soft cotton of your panties, sliding slowly through your folds, way too wet already for the situation you were in. A slow grin followed.
“Seems like you’re not exactly hatin’ the lesson as much as you pretend.”
You tried to fight it.
Tried with everything you had left in you to keep the reaction from showing, to stop him from seeing what the smallest touch of his hand was doing. Pride alone demanded it. But when Joel’s fingers slid just a little deeper, gathering the slick wetness there before circling lazily over your clit, control slipped through your grasp all the same.
The sound that escaped you was small.
Barely more than a breath.
But it was there.
A whimper.
Joel froze instantly.
Not pulling away - just stilling, the pressure of his hand remaining exactly where it was. Then he leaned forward, lowering his head until his ear hovered close to your lips.
“What was that?” he murmured.
You clenched your jaw. “What, old man?” you muttered back through your teeth, trying to sound unimpressed even as the tension curled tighter in your stomach. “Can’t hear… anyth -”
Your voice faltered.
Because his fingers started moving again.
Slow circles, each motion stealing another piece of your composure until the bite in your words began dissolving into something softer, something harder to contain.
“…fuck,” you breathed, the sound slipping out before you could swallow it back. Another whimper followed, one you tried to stifle by turning your head sharply aside and pressing your lips together.
Joel huffed quietly. “Oh, I can hear those moans just fine,” he said, voice low and amused.
His fingers shifted again, sliding deeper before nudging forward to your entrance with a careful pressure that made your back tense against the mat.
“Just caught me off guard, that’s all.”
Your hands flexed uselessly behind you, fingernails scraping against the mat as your body reacted without asking permission.
“Didn’t realize you were this desperate for it,” he went on calmly. “Could’ve saved myself the whole training lecture if you’d just said so.”
“Don’t - get too excited,” you forced out. Your face remained locked in a scowl, brows drawn tight with irritation, but every small twitch of Joel’s hand kept betraying you anyway. Joel’s mouth curved faintly.
“Funny,” he muttered. “You look like the one getting excited here.”
Before you could snap back, he pressed two fingers into you, stretching you unexpectedly.
The sound that tore from you echoed far louder than you would’ve liked in the quiet barn, bouncing faintly off the wooden beams overhead. Heat rushed through your skin despite the winter air creeping through the walls, your breath coming quicker as your body arched against the pressure.
Joel let out a low hum.
“Well now,” he murmured. “That’s a helpful reaction. Good girl making it easy for me.”
The words good girl slipped from him almost lazily, like he wasn’t even thinking about them.
But they landed.
Harder than anything else he had said.
Being called a brat had been annoying. Something to push back against.
That?
That slid straight under your skin.
Joel shifted slightly above you, his hips grinding forward just enough that you could feel the effect of the situation for yourself. His hard cock clearly visible - and noticeable - through the denim fabric.
“Gotta admit though,” he added under his breath, “didn’t figure you’d let me get this far.”
Your chest rose and fell unevenly.
“Didn’t exactly have much of a choice,” you shot back.
Joel snorted quietly.
“Would’ve stopped the second I saw real fear in your eyes,” he said, almost casually. “That much I promise.”
His fingers moved again, angling just right, the motion pulling another involuntary arch from your back.
“Didn’t expect quite this much anticipation, though.”
Then he withdrew.
Just like that.
The sudden emptiness left you staring up at the rafters for a moment, trying very hard not to look as disappointed as you suddenly felt.
“Anticipating the moment I get to wipe that smug grin off your face,” you muttered.
“Sure,” Joel said mildly. “All talk so far.”
He shifted his weight again, giving your hips just enough room to move - but not enough to actually escape. Before you could twist away, his hand caught your arm, gripping firmly as he rolled you over once more.
The cold mat pressed against the bare skin of your stomach as you landed face-down again, the rough surface biting lightly against your skin.
“Haven’t seen much proof otherwise,” Joel continued. “Well… close to none…”
You could feel the weight of his gaze moving over you as you squirmed beneath him, ineffective against both his strength and the rope holding your wrists.
Then his hands returned to your jeans.
Before you could brace yourself, he dragged the fabric downward in one swift motion, shoving the denim down to your knees and leaving your legs tangled while your butt was suddenly exposed to the chill air of the barn.
“Look at you…” The words slipped out of Joel almost under his breath, less a taunt and more an observation that had surprised even him. His palm drifted across your exposed backside, the touch unexpectedly light at first - almost thoughtful. The calluses of his hand dragged slowly over your skin, tracing the curve there.
Then his fingers tightened without warning.
They dug sharply into the soft flesh, and the sudden sting ripped a startled cry from your throat before you could stop it.
Joel exhaled a low, amused breath.
“Easy now, darlin’,” he murmured. “You tryin’ to let the whole town know how hard you’re fightin’ back?”
The old barn swallowed his voice and threw it back in faint echoes. Winter air leaked through warped wooden boards, brushing cold against the parts of your skin left bare.
His other hand tugged at the hem of your flannel, pushing the fabric upward just enough to expose the line of your back. His fingers wandered there, following the ridge of your spine like a path. They traveled upward, past the tension between your shoulder blades.
From there, they slid higher still. His hand buried itself in your hair and Joel closed his fist.
Your head jerked back as he pulled, forcing your spine into a sharp arch. The position twisted your face just enough that he could see part of it - your clenched jaw, the stubborn crease between your brows.
“Should’ve gagged you,” he muttered, studying the way your expression flickered between anger and something far less controlled. “That’s what a raider would’ve done. Wouldn’t want you hollerin’ for help.” His grip in your hair tightened slightly as he tilted your head further. “You want that?” he asked, voice dropping lower. “Full experience?”
His knee planted firmly beside your hip, grounding your movements. The other nudged your legs apart a little more, creating space as his free hand drifted back down between your legs.
The moment his touch returned to your wet center, the sound that escaped you was impossible to disguise.
He huffed out a quiet laugh against your ear.
“Well… that settles that.”
His fingers resumed their slow movements, and your body reacted before your pride could catch up. Your words tangled in your throat as sensation swallowed them whole.
Joel felt it instantly as you clenched around his digits.
“Can’t lie,” he said after a moment, voice thick with amusement. “Kinda like hearin’ you make those sounds.”
You tried to respond immediately, some sharp retort ready on instinct - but the rhythm of his hand stole the thought clean out of your head.
It took effort to gather enough focus to speak.
“Funny,” you managed eventually, breath uneven but grin stubbornly tugging at your lips despite the pull in your hair. “You’ve said more in the last five minutes than in all our patrols put together.”
Joel clicked his tongue.
“That’s ’cause you never had anything worth talkin’ about, sweetheart.”
His hand slipped away from you abruptly.
The sudden absence again left a hollow ache you refused to acknowledge.
A moment later, the quiet clink of metal broke the air as his hand moved to his belt.
“That is,” he continued casually, working the buckle loose, “until now.”
You couldn’t see him.
That was the worst part.
The outline you’d caught earlier through the denim of his jeans had been enough to plant the thought firmly in your mind - but without seeing it now, you had no real sense of what waited behind you.
And it was coming.
That much had become unavoidable.
Joel Miller was going to fuck you.
Before closing the distance, Joel leaned forward again. His grip in your hair loosened just enough to guide your head slightly to the side.
His lips brushed near your ear.
The scrape of his beard against your skin sent a small shiver down your spine.
“Wouldn’t mind refreshin’ these lessons now and then,” he murmured. “What d’you think?”
His hips rolled forward slightly against your backside as he spoke and you could feel his rock-hard cock against your skin. The pressure alone made it very clear that whatever came next would be anything but gentle. Or small.
Your reaction betrayed you instantly.
Despite every ounce of pride screaming otherwise, your legs shifted apart a little farther - limited only by the jeans and underwear bunched around your knees. Your hips lifted instinctively, pressing back toward him.
Joel felt it.
The chuckle that rumbled out of him vibrated straight through your body.
“That ain’t an answer, darlin’.”
You squeezed your eyes shut.
Your lips stayed sealed for a few stubborn seconds longer.
Then the words forced their way out anyway, your head giving a tight nod against his grip.
“Y-yes… Joel.” The admission came out strained, breath catching halfway through. “I… wouldn’t mind that.”
“Mind what now, darlin’?”
You swallowed the last ounce of pride left in your body. “Wouldn’t mind you fucking me.”
You barely had time to register the shift behind you.
One moment there was the pressure of his cock lining up at your entrance, the heat of his body crowding yours, the grip on your wrists keeping you arched and exposed.
The next -
The breath punched straight out of your lungs.
Joel moved in one hard thrust, leaving no room for hesitation, no careful pause to let you adjust around his girth. This wasn’t patient. This wasn’t gentle.
It was rough, immediate, and entirely on his terms.
The sound that tore from you never had a chance to fully escape. His hand left your hair in the same instant and clamped firmly over your mouth, muffling the cry against his rough palm.
Joel groaned low behind you, the sound thick with the shock of it.
Your breath came hot and frantic through your nose against his skin as you struggled to drag air back into your lungs. That first impact had stolen every bit of oxygen from you.
“Fuck, darlin’…” Joel sounded strained as he leaned forward, pressing himself closer along your back. For a moment his forehead rested against the back of your head while he steadied his breathing and settled into the rhythm he wanted.
Despite the brutal beginning, he slowed.
Not enough to make things easy on you - far from it - but enough that the movements stopped feeling like a single overwhelming blow. There was a rough kind of control in it now, a measured pace that gave your body just enough time to keep up.
You mumbled something against the hand covering your mouth, the words lost in a garbled sound. The strain had tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.
Joel huffed softly.
“Wouldn’t have pegged you for such a good girl,” he muttered near your ear, the words carrying that familiar teasing edge. “All ready for me like this.”
The praise sounded almost mocking paired with the relentless rhythm he kept.
Then, unexpectedly, his lips brushed briefly against the side of your neck - a fleeting kiss that contrasted sharply with the roughness everywhere else.
Before you could process it, he shifted again.
His hand slid away from your mouth, leaving your lips parted as you pulled in a shaky breath. Instead, he grabbed hold of your bound wrists, using them like a handle to pull you upward into a deeper arch. The position tightened everything, forcing your back to curve as his other hand dug firmly into the side of your hip to steady you.
“Let's see how good you take me like this.” You could hear the grin in his voice.
“Will you ever shut the fuck up,” you snarled breathlessly, your voice rough from the air you’d been fighting to catch.
Joel laughed behind you - gravelly and clearly entertained.
“Actin’ tough ain’t gonna do you much good right now,” he replied.
Another sharp thrust stole the rest of your retort, a broken sound slipping from your throat before you could stop it.
“In the end,” he continued casually, “you’re gonna be the one babblin’ nonsense… ’cause the only thing left in that head of yours’ll be me fucking you senseless.”
The blunt boldness of his words hit harder than it should have.
Joel had always been many things - stubborn, gruff, irritatingly calm - but this kind of filthy confidence? That had never once crossed your radar.
And damn it, it worked.
Heat built relentlessly in your core, faster than you wanted to admit. Embarrassingly fast.
Joel noticed once more.
“Look at you,” he muttered, almost amused. “Already cockdrunk.” His tongue clicked softly. “Wouldn’t be much of a lesson if you were enjoyin’ yourself too much, now would it?”
The words sent a spike of panic through you.
You twisted your head, trying to catch sight of his face over your shoulder.
Surely he wasn’t serious.
Joel paused just long enough to lean down near your ear again.
“That is…” he added thoughtfully, “…unless you ask real nice.”
The cruelty in it was obvious.
He wanted it. The attitude stripped away, the stubbornness broken down until you were the one begging for more.
And the worst part?
You weren’t nearly as far from it as you wished.
“Joel…” you swallowed hard, your voice suddenly tight. “Please.” The word slipped out before your pride could catch it.
“Yeah,” he murmured, voice softening just a fraction. “I got you, baby girl.”
Another deep slam made your whole body shudder involuntarily as he bottomed out once more.
“Gonna take real good care of you,” he continued, almost conversationally. “Might turn out you’re useful after all.” There was a faint hint of that raider roleplay creeping back into his tone, the mock threat hanging between the words. “Keepin’ you around’s startin’ to sound better than ditchin’ you out there.”
You let it slide. At that point, resisting the game would have taken more focus than you had left.
The tension building inside you climbed higher, tighter.
“Joel… I’m gonna -”
“There you go, darlin’,” he muttered, his own voice rougher now, the control slipping slightly. “That’s it. Show me how you can come on my cock.”
And when it finally hit, it tore through you hard enough to make the world blur at the edges. For a few seconds you forgot everything - where you were, what you’d been arguing about, even your own name.
Joel’s hand returned to your mouth just in time to muffle the loudest part of it, the sound trapped against his palm.
“Beautiful,” he breathed close to your ear as the aftershocks rippled through you. His grip on your wrists tightened briefly. “Wouldn’t mind seein’ that again.” He shifted slightly behind you. “But this barn ain’t empty forever,” he added, voice still low. “And you already got me so close.”
Before you could even process the implication, wondering if he would really fill you up, he pulled out, leaving you abruptly empty. A moment later hot ropes of his climax landed across your back, your bound hands, and the wrinkled fabric of the flannel pushed up around your waist.
Joel’s grunt came staggered, the sound dragged straight out of his chest as he worked through the last of it. One hand was clearly still wrapped around his length, last droplets dripping down and slow strokes guiding the final waves of his release while the warmth of it still marked your back and hands.
Beneath him, your own body hadn’t quite caught up yet.
The remnants of your orgasm still pulsed through you in fading ripples, muscles clenching instinctively around emptiness now that he’d pulled away. Each aftershock made your breath hitch, your nerves still firing long after the moment itself had passed.
The strength drained out of you all at once.
You sank fully down against the mat beneath you, cheek turned to the side as the cold surface pressed against overheated skin.
“Fuck…” It came out hoarse, barely more than a breath.
Behind you, Joel shifted. You could hear the rustle of denim, the quiet sounds of him putting himself back together, but you didn’t have the energy to turn your head and confirm it. Just lifting your arms felt like more work than you were ready for.
“Yeah,” he muttered after a moment, voice still thick. “That about sums it up.” There was a faint grunt as he adjusted his belt. “Could get used to training sessions like that.”
The comment hit your ears just as your mind began catching up with the rest of you.
Your wit returned the moment he was no longer slamming into you.
“Wouldn’t do your back any favors, old man,” you shot back from where you lay.
The sarcasm came automatically.
There was movement beside you that finally made you crack your eyes open.
You caught it just in time.
Joel leaned forward toward the floor, reaching for the knife still embedded upright in the mat where it had been planted earlier. His fingers closed around the handle and he yanked it free in one smooth, forceful pull.
The metal flashed briefly in the dim barn light.
“Careful there, kiddo,” he said, voice lowering again as the knife traced lightly along the line of your spine.
The cool steel sent a sharp shiver through you.
“Taught you a pretty solid lesson the first time about runnin’ that bratty mouth, didn’t I?”
The blade slid down between your bound wrists.
With a quick, practiced slice, the rope gave way.
The tension disappeared instantly as the fibers snapped apart.
“Don’t mind turnin’ up the heat next time,” Joel continued, cutting the last strands free. “If I get the impression you’re still too stubborn to learn.”
The moment the rope loosened, you moved.
Your arms came forward instinctively, and you twisted beneath him to roll onto your side and then upright, pushing yourself into a seated position, pulling up your jeans cumbersomely while he shifted just enough to allow it. Joel settled back on his heels in front of you, watching as you immediately began rubbing at your wrists. The skin there was red, angry where the rope had bitten in. You circled them slowly, working the stiffness out.
“Maybe,” you said after a moment, lips curling slightly, “you’re just a shitty teacher.”
The smirk that followed was impossible to hide.
Joel’s answering grin was just as quick.
“Sounds like I wasn’t clear enough then,” he replied. His voice carried a tired edge now, the exertion finally settling in, but it did little to hide the faint spark of satisfaction underneath.
For a moment, he simply looked at you.
His gaze drifted over you again, slow and assessing.
Then he pushed himself upright and, almost casually, extended a hand toward you.
You ignored it.
Instead you scrambled to your feet on your own, tugging at your clothing in a half-hearted attempt to put yourself back together. The flannel hung crooked, your jeans still unbuttoned and loose around your waist, and you weren’t entirely sure what you were supposed to do next.
Joel solved that uncertainty by stepping closer. He closed the small distance easily, his broad frame towering over you.
Before you could react, the cold tip of the knife lifted beneath your chin. It nudged your face upward just enough that you had to meet his eyes.
“Better head home now, darlin’,” he said quietly. “And maybe pray I don’t catch up to you to drill the next lesson into that pretty head of yours.”
Your throat tightened.
You actually gulped.
One hand clutched the ruined flannel closed over your chest while you held his gaze just long enough to let him see that stubborn spark still burning there.
“Yes, sir,” you murmured.
Then you took a step back.
Joel didn’t move.
He simply stood there watching as you pulled your coat on and made your way toward the barn door.
