MAX HAWKLEY GRIFFIN

She stares at me like I’m some kind of monster. She’s not wrong. Everyone in this house is something to be afraid of. I just happen to carry the highest body count.

She’s bleeding again. Still in my shirt, the same one I threw over the foot of the bed the night we dragged her back half-dead. It hangs off her shoulders like she doesn’t belong in it, or maybe like she does too well. The hem barely touches her thighs, and her olive toned legs are streaked with red.

I mutter a quiet, "Fuck."

Not because of the blood.

I’ve seen worse. Done worse.

It’s her.

She’s trembling, clutching her arm, chest rising like she can’t breathe. Pale face, parted lips, hair a mess.

Reece found her in town by mistake.

Which was odd, because we have lived in this territory for years and I have never stumbled across her even once.

We ran her whole life the same day. Eden Vale. Nineteen years old. Only child. No boyfriend, no close friends. Lives with her mom and a dog too old to bark. She has a car which constantly breaks down. Born May twelfth. Allergic to penicillin. Sketches shit online under a fake name. Quiet student, and average grades.

All information we needed before we went after this one was dug.

I take a slow step forward.

She takes one back.

Another step.

Another retreat.

Her heel nearly skids on the wood, but she catches herself like she's too damn stubborn to fall in front of me.

Her breathing’s faster now.

“Stop moving,” I say, low.

She doesn’t.

My teeth grits.

Down the hall, Bethany and Harley are still yelling like idiots, like it’s just another morning and our little human hadn’t disappeared out of their sight.

“You’re the worst welcoming committee I’ve ever met,” she mutters.

I ignore that. “I said stop moving.”

“And I said screw you.” Her voice rises now, she’s almost screaming.

I smirk. Not because it’s funny. But because somehow, she still doesn’t get it. She still thinks she’s the one with a choice.

She flinches when I step forward, but doesn’t shut up. “Whatever the hell this is… this freakshow… whatever the fuck you’re planning, I’m not dying in here without somebody knowing about you freaks.You hear me? I’m not just some body you can dump in the woods.”

I keep walking.

My eyes stay locked on her face, but the scent of her blood causes me to clench my jaw.

She backs into the wall.

“My mom’s gonna figure it out,” she continues. “She’s probably looking everywhere for me now, she’s gonna—”

“She’ll be the next one in a body bag,” I cut in.

Silence.

Her lips part in disbelief.

I wait. Let it settle.

“You think this is a game?” I say, stepping in close. My voice drops. “We’ve been watching you for weeks. You don’t think we knew where to find you that night? You drive the same route every time. Past the bakery with the green sign. Two right turns, then through the park with the busted swingset. You always stop at the Shell station for gum. That stupid watermelon kind.”

Her pulse is banging against her throat now.

I can hear every beat.

“I know your mother’s name is Rochelle. I know you still sleep with the nightlight she bought you after your dad left. I know you fake being on your phone when you walk by the seniors who laugh at your shoes in the hall.”

I lean in, slow, until she’s staring at my mouth. I can feel the panic rising off her like steam.

“I know you were supposed to start classes at UNC Asheville in three weeks. Communications major. Still undecided. I know you were trying to reinvent yourself. Be braver. Smarter. Louder. You wrote that in YOUR diary.”

She jerks like I slapped her.

I laugh once, but there’s no humor in it. “Yeah. We’ve been in your house, sweetheart. We know everything. So go ahead, scream. Run. Threaten. But you don’t have cards to play here. You’re in our home now.”

Her eyes flick to the hallway like she’s thinking of bolting again.

I slam my hand against the wall next to her face.

She gasps.

“You really think you’d make it past the porch?” I say. “There are six of us. Six vampires. And you’re bleeding. You think you’d even get to the clearing before someone took a bite?”

She shakes her head. “You’re sick.”

“Probably.”

I tilt my head, studying her. “But here’s the part you’re not getting. I didn’t kill you that night. I chose not to. And right now, you’re still breathing because I said so.”

She opens her mouth to argue again, and that’s when I move.

I don’t give her time.

I scoop her off the floor and she’s featherlight in my arms. She screams and kicks and slams her fists into my chest, but I don’t budge.

“You son of a bitch…. let me go!”

“You keep running your mouth like that,” I say, “and you’ll find out just how much restraint I’m using.”

She freezes.

I can feel her heartbeat through her ribs.

I don’t wait.

I need to get her cleaned up before Reece shows.

If he sees her like this… it's over.

I shift her weight in my arms and carry her down the hallway like a ragdoll. She squirms, still screaming, “You can’t just drag me around like this! You don’t own me! You don’t get to fucking keep people—”

I kick the door open.

Hard.

It slams into the wall and Harley’s voice cuts off mid-argument. She jerks back like I slapped her, red-eyed, mid-sentence with Bethany.

“Jesus Christ,” Bethany mutters, immediately stepping forward.

Harley’s still got that look in her eyes. Rabid. Starving. Like all it would take is one step and she’d sink her fucking teeth in.

“Drop it,” I warn her.

She doesn’t move.

I put Eden down in the bed. Not gently. She slumps into it and whimpers, but I don’t look down.

“Bethany, clean up the blood. Now,” I bark. “All of it. Before the others start sniffing around.”

Bethany’s already grabbing the peroxide and towels. She doesn’t ask questions. She never does. That’s why she’s lasted this long in a house like this.

Harley hasn’t moved.

Her jaw’s twitching. Her fists are clenched. Her gaze hasn’t left Eden’s throat.

“Out,” I say.

No response.

“I said get the fuck out.”

Harley flinches, but it’s not enough. She takes one step back.

Two.

Her eyes stay locked on Eden the whole time, lips twitching like she’s debating whether to pounce anyway.

“Don’t test me, Harley.”

She hesitates. Staring. I see it in her eyes, how close she is to losing control.

I step between them.

My body blocks her view of the bed.

“Out,” I say again.

She hesitates.

Then she turns. Stalks to the door. Yanks it open too hard.

And there he is.

Reece.

Face flushed with blood. Veins crawling his jaw like roots. Eyes red. Fangs out.

He doesn’t speak to Harley.

His gaze slides straight past me.

To the bed.

To her.

Then back to me.

He smiles, tauntingly.

“Don’t mind if I take the leftovers—”

I don’t let him finish the sentence.