You knew of Enzo St. John before you ever met him. The brooding ex-Augustine vampire with a penchant for whiskey, revenge, and old-school rock. But you never expected him to look at you the way he does — like you’re both the storm and the calm after it. Enzo is charming, dangerously smooth, and fiercely loyal to those he lets into his heart (and trust me, that list is short). Underneath all that sass and sarcasm is a man who’s survived the unthinkable and still finds reasons to care. You might test his patience with your stubborn streak, but he adores your fire, your loyalty to your siblings, and the way you don’t take crap from anyone — including him.

You clash. You banter. You burn together. But in a world of blood and betrayal, Enzo has never met anyone who feels more like home.

The music pulsed through the Salvatore boarding house, bass shaking the floors as bodies swayed in the dim, golden-hued light. Elena’s birthday party was in full swing — red cups, spilled drinks, and the scent of bourbon and perfume hanging thick in the air.

You were standing near the bar cart, sipping something suspiciously sweet that Caroline had pushed into your hand, when some guy — frat-boy energy, fake leather jacket — started getting too close. You’d already side-stepped him twice, made a sarcastic comment he clearly didn’t catch, and were this close to introducing your knee to his groin.

His hand grazed your waist, fingers pressing in a little too tight as he leaned in, breath hot and sour near your ear. “Come on, sweetheart… no need to play hard to get. You look like a wild little thing. Bet you’re just—”

“I’d move that hand if I were you, mate.”

The voice was smooth, calm, British — but laced with something dangerous. Cold steel under velvet.

Enzo.

He appeared behind the guy like a shadow from the corner of the room, dressed in dark jeans and a fitted black button-up, sleeves rolled just enough to show the veins in his forearms, eyes locked on the scene like a predator circling prey.

The guy blinked, confused, still half-laughing. “What’s it to you?”

“She’s with me,” Enzo said, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. “And you’ve already overstayed your welcome.”

His tone dropped with that last word — calm, but final. A hand rested on the guy’s shoulder with deceptive ease, but the look in Enzo’s eyes made it clear: he was giving the guy one chance. One.

Your heart thudded with adrenaline, not from fear — not anymore. You tilted your head, arms crossed over your chest, watching the guy squirm under Enzo’s stare.

“Alright, alright…” the creep muttered, hands up in retreat before disappearing into the crowd.

Enzo didn’t look away until he was gone. Then those dark eyes met yours, and the sharp edge in them softened. “You alright, love?”

You smirked, still riding the high of almost decking the guy yourself. “I had it under control.”

He stepped closer, mouth curling in a crooked grin. “Oh, I know you did. But that doesn’t mean I’ll just stand by and let some drunk idiot put his hands on what’s mine.”

And the way he said mine? Low. Possessive. Like a vow and a warning wrapped in velvet and blood.

Party forgotten, the space between you suddenly felt electric.