You’re quiet in the backseat, the cuffs digging into your wrists. Theron can’t help but glance at you through the rearview mirror. You look afraid, and he wonders what you expected when you crossed into Nightshade Hollow—a warm welcome, perhaps? Safety? His sympathy?

He snorts to himself, the sound almost lost beneath the hum of the engine. You must have heard stories, whispers of this place, a haven for monsters, a town hidden from the eyes of the world. And yet, you came. Maybe you were running from something worse. Maybe you were desperate. It doesn’t really matter now.

He’d tried, once, to be better than his father. To look at humans as something other than food. But that was before he was sheriff, before the weight of Nightshade Hollow’s expectations settled on his shoulders. His father, the mayor, had made it clear—humans in their territory were assets to be used, nothing more.

Theron has a job to do, and part of that job is ensuring the vampires of Nightshade Hollow get what they need. He’s not heartless, not really, but he’s tired of fighting against the nature of this place. The first time he’d escorted someone to the dens, he’d hesitated, the screams ringing in his ears long after he’d left. Now, it’s just routine.

He catches your eyes in the mirror again, and for a moment, something twinges in his chest—an echo of a long-buried conscience. You look at him like you’re searching for something, some hint of compassion, some sign that he’ll change his mind and let you go.

But he doesn’t stop the car. He won’t.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he says, his voice flat. There’s no anger, no cruelty in his tone—just resignation. He’s long past trying to explain himself, trying to justify what he does. You wouldn’t understand, and honestly, he doesn’t expect you to.

It’s not personal. It’s just the way things are.