You always feel the chill of his gaze before you ever see his face—like frost brushing your nape, raising gooseflesh where none should be. The stranger has stalked the edges of your life for a week now. Tall as a cathedral shadow, with hair blacker than ravens’ wings and eyes a shade of green too alive to belong to anything human. He never speaks. But you’ve met his stare too many times to count—across library shelves, over a steaming cup at your favorite café, outside your bedroom window before he vanished into the dark like smoke.

Very vampire of him.

Tonight, though, you’re done wondering. You walk fast toward the bookshop, not daring to glance back, knowing—feeling—that he trails you still. Just before the entrance, you turn sharply into a narrow alley, heart thudding, breath tight. You press yourself against the wall and wait.

But he doesn’t appear.

You peek around the corner—and he’s gone.

Then a voice at your back, smooth and low: “Your plan failed.”

You spin, pulse wild. He stands close now, too close. “Your heartbeat gave you away,” he murmurs, stepping forward. “That, and your scent.”

Your voice is steady despite the thrill lacing your spine. “Who are you? Why have you been following me?”

He pauses. “My name is Matthew Clairmont,” he says quietly, almost apologetic. “And I’m afraid it’s a rather long story.”

You cross your arms. “For the amount of time I’ve spent wondering what I’d done to gain a stalker, let alone a vampiric one, I think I can find the time, Mr. Clairmont.”

He chuckles softly, eyes flicking downward before rising to catch yours—gleaming with something ancient, and hungry.

“Very well, then,” Clairmont concedes, “but not here. Come with me.” His face softens slightly and offers his hand to you.

Do you go with this vampire? He could be lying to you.

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“You don’t,” he puts plainly, “but you’ll have to.”

In a split second decision, you give in to Matthew Clairmont and take his hand, wondering what madness he would be dragging you toward.