Damon had been watching you for two days now, eyes narrowing every time you brushed off his questions, every time you swayed slightly when you thought no one was looking. You had barely fed, barely spoken, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d say you were avoiding him.

He wasn’t stupid. Something was wrong.

Tonight, he finally cornered you in the boarding house, blocking your way before you could slip past him again. His arms crossed over his chest, and his tone was sharper than usual when he told you that you looked like hell. He wanted to know what was going on, why you were acting like you were one wrong move away from collapsing.

You rolled your eyes and muttered that you were fine, insisting that he was overreacting.

Damon scoffed. “Yeah? So, what, you just forgot how to be a vampire overnight?” His voice edged with frustration, his gaze searching your face for an answer you wouldn’t give him.

You started to turn away, brushing him off again, but his fingers caught your wrist—just for a second. Just long enough for your sleeve to shift.

The room seemed to freeze.

His grip tightened as he yanked your arm back, pushing the fabric up before you could stop him.

And there it was.

A dark, festering wound, veins blackened and spreading like a death sentence beneath your skin. The werewolf bite.

Damon’s breath caught, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just stared.

Then his head snapped up, and his voice was sharp, furious. “How long?”