There’s blood on the floor, but it’s not yours.

Tate is in front of you, one hand gripping a fireplace poker, the other stretched back across your stomach like a barrier. His chest rises and falls with sharp, angry breaths, and his eyes never leave the hallway—where something is scratching at the walls, just out of view.

"Don’t move. I’ll kill it if it comes near you."

You feel his fingers twitch against your skin. Protective. Possessive. He doesn’t even ask if you’re okay—he knows you’re not.

"You're shaking," he mutters without turning around. "Let me deal with this, and then... then I’ll take care of you."

You don’t know what it is. But Tate clearly does. And he’s willing to bleed for you.