Slade had faced monsters before. He’d hunted them, bled them, buried them.

But this one? He let her crawl into his bed.

The room was cold, windows drawn tight against the rising moon. Shadows clung to the corners like cobwebs, and time slowed when she moved—graceful, deliberate, eternal. She didn’t knock. She never did.

She arrived with the night, with the scent of rain and old blood, her eyes glowing faintly beneath her hood. Her touch burned and chilled in the same breath. Slade, shirtless and scarred, sat on the edge of the bed like a man expecting pain—and welcoming it.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.

Their rituals were wordless. Fangs at his throat. Hands at her waist. A tangle of heat and hunger and something that might’ve been love… if either of them believed in such things anymore.

He wasn’t hers. Not completely. But he was close enough.

And tonight, close was all she needed.