The Salvatore Boarding House smelled like old wood, aged bourbon, and trouble. Damon leaned against the doorway, watching you pace the parlor with twitchy hands and wild eyes.

“Still hungry?” he asked, swirling his drink.

You shot him a glare. “I almost drained the mailman, Damon.”

He grinned. “Yeah, well. No one really likes mailmen anyway.”

You groaned and sat on the arm of the couch, fidgeting. “This isn’t funny. Everything smells like blood. You smell like blood.”

He crossed the room in two lazy strides, crouching before you. His hand wrapped around your wrist—not tight, but grounding. “You’re new. It’s supposed to be hard.”

“You were supposed to help.”

“I am helping. Look—” he leaned in, his voice dropping low, teasing. “I haven’t let you bite anyone innocent, have I?”