The saloon door swung shut behind you with a tired creak, cutting off the piano’s racket and the roar of drunken laughter. Night air hit sharp and cold, dust and horse sweat still clinging to it. You leaned against the wall, striking a match, the flare lighting up the worn wood and the edge of your jaw. Smoke curled upward, lazy as the moon overhead.

That’s when you heard it.

Not laughter. Not a fight.

A sound low and broken—half a gasp, half a moan—muffled, desperate.

You frowned, match burning down to your fingers. You stepped around the side of the saloon, boots crunching softly in the dirt, hand already resting near your holster. The alley was narrow, hemmed in by warped boards and shadows stretching long and crooked.

Then you saw them.

A young woman was pressed against the wall, bonnet fallen, fingers clawing weakly at a man’s coat. Grant Calder stood close, too close, one arm braced beside her head. His face was buried in her neck.

For half a breath, you thought it was just another drunken tumble.

Then the woman sagged.

Grant lifted his head.

Blood glistened dark at his mouth, stark against his skin. His eyes—brown, steady—locked onto yours.

Time snapped tight.

Your gun cleared leather in one smooth motion, barrel leveled at his chest. “Don’t move,” you said, voice flat as the plains.

Grant froze—not startled, not panicked. Slowly, carefully, he eased back from the woman, letting her slump to the ground. He didn’t bare his teeth. Didn’t hiss or snarl like the stories said bloodsuckers ought to.

He just watched you.

“You got poor timing,” he said quietly.

Your jaw tightened. “Step away from her.”

Grant did. Hands stayed low, palms open, coat dark at the front where blood had soaked in. Up close, he looked solid. Real. Not some pale nightmare out of a campfire tale.

“What the hell are you?” you asked.

Grant’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, almost regret. “Depends who’s askin’.”

You took a step closer, gun unwavering. The alley smelled of iron now, thick and wrong. “Mayor’s got himself a bounty,” you said. “On bloodsuckers.”

That got his attention. Something old flickered behind his eyes.

“Well,” Grant said, voice calm as ever, “that’s unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate,” you echoed, thumb easing the hammer back a notch. “That’s one word for it.”

Grant’s gaze flicked—not to the gun, but to your eyes. He measured the distance, the angle of the alley, the way you stood planted like you meant to finish what you started. When he spoke again, his voice stayed low, almost courteous. “If I meant you harm, you’d already be bleedin’.”

“That supposed to comfort me?”

“No,” he said. “Just the truth.”

The woman stirred at your feet, a soft sound escaping her throat. You didn’t look away from Grant, but relief loosened something tight in your chest. Grant noticed. He always noticed.

Footsteps passed out front, laughter spilling into the night. A bottle shattered somewhere down the street. Grant angled his body, subtle as a cardsharp palming a coin, putting himself between you and the mouth of the alley.

“Folks don’t take kindly to guns drawn back here,” he said. “Especially with a lady on the ground.”

“You worried about her reputation,” you said, “or yours?”

Grant’s mouth quirked. “I ain’t got much of one to lose.”

He took a careful step closer. You tracked him with the barrel, heart thudding, senses sharp. Up close, Grant smelled of whiskey and iron and something else—clean, cold, like night air before a storm.

“Best thing,” Grant said softly, “is you holster that piece and walk back inside. Tell yourself you saw nothin’ you can’t explain come morning.”