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queen-scribbles · 7 months

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Unmasked

Here we go, HERE WE GOOOO~ (Happy Valentine's Day❣😘💖)

----

Endrali was starting to wonder if the galaxy had it out for her.

That was silly, she knew, but it was a thought she couldn't shake when things somehow got even more chaotically busy right after she'd acknowledged she would need to talk to Arcann about...

Well. Aside from finding time, she should probably find the words. Just blurting I'm falling in love with you despite the history that should make that ridiculous was probably not the best way to drop it on him. Though if all else failed...

No. I'm not doing that, she scolded herself, scrolling through the compiled list of Things Demanding Her Attention. People were getting very comfortable asking for things now. Not having a unifying threat made them more honest, she supposed. Or greedy. Resources, recognition, neutral mediation, they were looking to the Alliance for it all.

Endrali nibbled her lower lip as she skimmed the list, allotting aid shipments, agreeing to deploy teams to help, (reluctantly) concluding some of these mediation requests she'd have to do personally. And under the circumstances, she probably shouldn't bring Arcann as her back-up, no matter how well they worked together.

So no half-a-day alone on her ship with the perfect chance for uninterrupted, uneavesdropped, conversation. The galaxy really is out to get me, she thought wryly. At least she hadn't had another of those dreams, either. Don't dwell on it or you'll manifest one. She snorted at the thought and went to find Lana so they could talk.

She'd barely gone three steps down the hall when she sensed a familiar presence and had to fight down an instinctive grin. Her pace had faltered almost to a stop by the time he rounded the corner and she let out enough of the smile in greeting. "Arcann."

"Endrali." His answering smile was small but reached his eyes, and that shouldn't have made her so giddy but it did.

"How's your day?" she asked.

"Fine so far. Nothing exciting." He cocked his head, examining her. "Not nearly as busy as yours appears to be."

Endrali huffed a wry laugh. "We are very popular right now, that's for sure. But I'm always h-"

Her comm beeped. Hylo. She sighed.

Arcann chuckled sympathetically. "I'll let you keep at it, Commander."

But I'd rather talk to you. "Thanks."

He nodded and continued on his way.

Endrali keyed on comms as she did likewise. "What is it, Hylo? I was just heading to talk to Lana..."

---

For all her hopes and intentions of talking to Arcann, various responsibilities kept her so busy they barely got to exchange five words over the next couple weeks. When she wasn't in meetings about Fleet deployment or resource reports, she was doling out what aid shipments the Alliance could to the (far too many) worlds that needed them, or sending her people to deal with the unrest still cropping up--Felix to handle a separatist faction on Brentaal, Gault to track down a con-man on Hutta, Lana to follow a tip about a superweapon on Iokath. There were some diplomatic requests she felt compelled to handle herself. Most stayed peaceful. A couple didn't. They were all draining. She missed Nadia, wished things weren't still so... sensitive she couldn't bring Arcann. At least he wasn't twiddling thumbs; according to Hylo and Aygo he'd volunteered to help handle a couple of the groups rising in opposition to the Alliance.

Endrali crossed paths with him on his return from Denova, bit back a smile at the sense of exhausted satisfaction radiating from him. "How'd it go?"

"We were successful," he said, clasping his hands behind his back.

"Of course you were," she chuckled.

"I would give no less than my best," Arcann said softly.

The conviction made her heart skip a beat. "I know. Thank you." Endrali smiled. "I'm also glad to see no serious injuries." She couldn't sense any, either. Deep breath. "Are you... back for a while?"

He nodded. "I should be. Why?"

"I have to meet with Theron; general update on how various things are going, but after that I'll be free for a bit. Hopefully." She worried her lower lip between her teeth. "If you want, we could sit somewhere and catch up. I feel like it's been ages since we got to just talk and I miss it."

She hadn't meant to let that last bit slip, but I missed working with you would be an easy segue into I missed you and... everything else she wanted to say.

"I do as well." One corner of Arcann's mouth tipped up faintly and something flickered in his eyes that made her breath catch. "I would like that."

"Alright, then. I'll let you know when I'm done." She looked forward to it, to hopefully having a chance to be honest. Give up hiding how she felt. She'd have to be careful with their friendship in the balance, of course. The last thing she wanted to do was ruin that. But it was a disservice to them both to leave this buried. After the update.

So close.

She should have known better.

Should have guessed something would happen, a new crisis on Iokath demanding her attention, now. She commed Arcann to apologize even as she and Theron scrambled for a shuttle. The galaxy really does have it out for me.

---

"Should I come along?" Arcann offered, more than willing to turn right around and go back out if he could help her. He'd rest on the trip.

"No, you just handled something, take the chance for a break," Endrali said, though he thought she sounded reluctant.

He did try to rest. But he couldn't, not with the vague information of some threat on Iokath Endrali had to handle. Anything that serious was... worrisome. She has both Theron and Lana to back her up, he reminded himself. As well as her own significant skills. She'd be perfectly fine.

Still. Not having details was torture. Arcann cleaned up but found rest both physical and meditative continued to elude him. So, with a soft growl of frustration, he instead settled himself at the workbench to do final detailing on the armor he'd crafted. If he was lucky, he could have it done by the time she got back. If he was very lucky, it would distract him from unnecessary worry in the process.

I wonder what happened... He didn't know much about Iokath, beyond what was in the Alliance reports from their involuntary visit while fighting Vaylin. But even with that limited knowledge it wasn't hard to figure the planet could conceal any number of alarmingly powerful weapons.

Arcann sighed and picked up etching more of the half-completed design into the breastplate, pen held with careful confidence as he worked. Endrali had mentioned, in her rushed apology, that the Republic and Empire were both also looking for whatever Lana had gone to find.

Full call for her diplomatic talents, he thought with a smile as he etched curling vines down the side of the upper breastplate.

He sensed his mother's presence at the door before she knocked, calling a half-distracted Enter, even as her knuckles rapped metal.

Senya remained standing once she entered, stance relaxed, and Arcann could feel her watching him. "I'm glad you made it back safely," she said. "Trench warfare is never pretty, and depending on how they're constructed, they can be especially brutal." There was a flicker of concern, likely her noticing the scrapes on the back of his head.

"You can thank Vette for that," Arcann said, not looking up. He needed to concentrate on the armor. "She is a very capable partner."

"Even if not your first choice?" There was a smile in Senya's voice.

It took effort to keep the etching pen from slipping. Am I that obvious?

To your mother? Who can read you like a 2-credit holonovel? Yes, probably.

He didn't answer to confirm or deny--he doubted she needed him to--instead focusing on making the design perfect. She deserves no less than my best.

"These seem to be happening more frequently," Senya finally commented as the silence stretched. "People rising against the Alliance, the Commander." A pause. "It must be keeping her terribly busy."

Arcann nodded absently. "It does." He huffed a small, wry chuckle as he etched an orchid into the design. "At least she's willing to delegate some things, but..."

"There's still a lot on her," Senya finished. She crossed the room to lean against the edge of the workbench, far enough down to be out of his way. "You worry about her."

It wasn't a question.

"I try not to," he demurred, biting his lip. (In concentration, of course.) "I more than most know what she's capable of."

His mother hummed a quiet laugh. "Logic, I find, frequently takes a back seat when it comes to people we care for."

Her phrasing was deliberate, he could sense that much, so he didn't bother protesting. "She does so much, for so many..." He sighed, setting down the etching pen to look up at her. "She comes and goes so quickly I hope she is getting time for herself."

He didn't mention how strongly he suspected she wasn't getting to meditate as much as she liked. At least, she hadn't joined him for a couple weeks and their schedules had previously matched for that. (He didn't dare dwell on if that was purposeful. Better to keep that hope masked and buried.)

Senya nodded thoughtfully, lips curved in a knowing smile. "I'm sure Endrali would appreciate your concern. As she will this." She slanted a look toward the almost-finished armor.

Arcann ducked his head, returning to his task with heat prickling up neck and scalp. "...I hope so. I have not crafted in..." Years. "...a long time. But she has done much for me." His left hand flexed. "Gave me a second chance few would have. Trusted me." He ran a hand over the armor. "This feels like a pittance in comparison, but I..."

I want her to be safe.

Senya rested her hand on his wrist. "Like I said, she'll appreciate it. As she appreciates and values you."

His head snapped back up to meet her gaze. "I merely wish to atone for everything I've done. Prove worthy of this second chance."

She chuckled softly, gave his arm a squeeze. "I don't think you have to prove anything to the Commander."

"I do to myself," Arcann countered. "I wouldn't expect anything... more."

"I think you already have it." His heart skipped a beat at his mother's gentle words. "I know she considers you a friend, Arcann, she's said as much. She cares about you, as you do her." A faint smirk tugged her lips. "There are some who believe you deserve more than spending the rest of your life in inescapable purgatory." Her hand slid up to his shoulder and gave another affectionate squeeze. "But I'll stop distracting you, let you finish."

Neither said it as she slipped from the room, but Arcann was fairly certain Senya knew the armor itself was a distraction from worrying, even if she was merciful enough not to mention.

---

Arcann got his wish; not ten minutes after the armor was completed and his tools cleaned up, the rank and file began returning from Iokath.

And with them came the rumors.

Machine gods with very familiar names ruled over the world. No, it was their prison. Iokath could unleash the apocalypse. Iokath was contained. The Commander had battled hundred foot tall droids. Empress Acina had broken faith with the Alliance. Empress Acina was trying to defend her people. Empress Acina was dead.

The Commander had died.

No, the Commander had almost died, stopping the apocalypse-superweapon-end of the world.

Arcann had to fight to breathe through mingled terror and fond of course she did. (risk herself in saving the galaxy. She did both with alarming frequency.) And he hadn't been there to protect her. He knew she didn't need it. But he'd sworn, he wanted to be her shield, watch her back, he felt he owed her that. Owed the galaxy protecting its protector.

He knew his voice would shake on comms, betray him. I love you, though I don't dare hope it's returned. So he sent a message instead. 'Come speak to me when you return. Our usual place. Please.'

Arcann nestled the armor in a case and brought it with him to the clearing by her ship as he tried futilely to meditate away his nervous energy while he waited. And waited. And waited, until the door from the main hanger hissed open and a familiar presence overwhelmed anything else he might've sensed.

Arcann was already pivoting as he pushed to his feet. "Endrali."

---

The tangle of emotion behind his smile hit her like a tidal wave; fear, relief, regret, a few that blurred through so fast they eluded her.

Endrali flashed a smile somewhere between sheepish and apologetic. "I take it from your message you heard what happened?"

Brief as it had been, she'd felt the worry in the words.

"A version of it." Arcann's voice was rough, that worry in his eyes and hands flexing at his sides as if fighting the urge to touch to her, reassure himself she was alright.

She wasn't sure what held him back, but she solved the dilemma by taking his hand. "Well, then, let me make sure you have the correct one..."

The way his hand tightened on hers made her heart skip a beat as she tugged him over to a boulder near where they usually sat to meditate. "Acina tried to claim the superweapon we were all after, and even if the attempt failed, it still triggered the weapon to fire, so I had to find a way to shut it down. While I was at the controls there was an electrical surge that, um," she cleared her throat, "did some serious damage--"

"How serious?" Arcann interrupted, almost as if he'd picked up her reluctance to tell him.

I don't want you to worry more. Endrali hesitated. "...Non-zero chance it could've killed me. But," she squeezed his hand to forestall the sharp spike of emotion, "it didn't. Few hours unconscious before I recovered, but I'm fine." She noted his staring at the faint burns on her forearms. "The medtechs are confident even those will clear up in the next few days. I'm fine, Arcann, I promise."

No matter how close it came to that not being the case. The other details could wait for later; the machine gods who echoed Zakuul's pantheon, the surge being sabotage, the revelation of a traitor in the Alliance. But even without all that, Endrali could sense Arcann's disquiet at her close call. She gave him a few minutes to process that, tamping down her curiosity at the storage case off to the side. If it was important, he'd explain, but that wasn't the focus right now. She would have let him have longer, but a thought occurred that pulled a laugh from her before she could stop it.

Arcann gave her a questioning look.

"Sorry," she winced. "It means a lot that you care so much, that you worry." She idly traced his fingers with hers. "But it's also a little funny given that a year ago you would've killed me soon as look at me."

"The irony did not escape me," Arcann said dryly, his gaze drifting off to the horizon.

"I know it isn't pleasant to remember-"

"But you aren't wrong," he murmured. His thumb traced back and forth against hers. "For so long I only felt... was only capable of feeling hatred for others. Especially you." He released her hand, pushing to his feet and pacing away. "And I would have continued that path until my demise, were it not for your compassion. Undeserved. Unmerited. But, as I know now, wholly in line with who you are."

Endrali bit her lip and remained where she was, sensing his need for space. "Don't forget your mother," she said lightly. "Forgiveness may be the Jedi way, but she was the first and most fervent advocate that there was good in you, and gave her strength for the ritual on Voss."

"I know." Arcann paused, staring out over the the forest with hands clasped behind him. "I owe her a debt as well, no matter her insistence to the contrary. But you..." He cleared his throat. "No matter the tenets of your order or how persuasive she was, you made the decision to spare my life, to allow me to pledge myself to the Alliance. To you."

"Arcann..." Now she did push to her feet and follow.

"Everything I am is because of you, Endrali," he said softly, turning to hold her gaze. "Everything I am, and everything I have the chance to become. It's... a far more generous gift than I deserve." He retraced his steps to the case and rested a hand atop it. "And on that note... paltry as it may be compared to what you've given me, I have a gift for you. If it's not too forward."

"Of course not!" Endrali smiled. "I was wondering what was in there," she admitted. Not that you owe me anything.

"And now you can find out." Despite the amusement in Arcann's eyes, she could sense his nerves as she stepped closer and loosened the catches.

Nerves that were wholly unfounded; her jaw nearly hit the ground when she got the case open. "Arcann, this is beautiful," she breathed, staring at all the detail, almost afraid to touch it. (Which was silly; it was armor, it was hardly going to fall apart from the brush of her fingertips.) "You made this?! It's incredible!"

The nervousness was easing now, replaced by a bashful edge to the sense of him through the Force. "Thank you. The Knights taught me to forge, when I was young. It's a skill I've let languish until recently, I'm afraid."

"I'd never've guessed," Endrali murmured wryly, finally daring to reach out and trace a delicate touch along the etched flowers and vines. "This must've taken months..."

"I've worked on it since arriving on Odessen," Arcann said with a nod. "They were months you gave me. It seemed appropriate that I do something for you, and that I finished today, when I heard about Iokath." He swallowed. "I swore to protect you, Commander. This allows me to keep that promise even if I am unable to fight by your side."

It was too much, too wonderful. Endrali turned from the case, from the incredible, beautiful armor, and lunged to hug him. "I love it!"

I love you.

She didn't need the Force to pick up how his heart pounded as she crashed into him.

---

He couldn't breathe through the rush of emotion; relief she liked it, strange shyness at her effusive praise, strangling warmth in his gut that he had so thoroughly delighted her. (a brief surge of hope, quickly hidden, at the thought she didn't entirely mask but he didn't entirely catch.)

His voice was rough when he finally found it, struggling to hide the true depth of how affected he was. "It's the least I can do for someone who has given me so much," he demurred. "My life, your trust, a second chance... everything." Arcann couldn't stop the tremor as he drew a breath, finally letting one hand rest awkwardly on her shoulder. "I'll spend a lifetime" --the one you gave me-- "thanking you for it, trying to repay--"

Her finger pressed to his lips, a surge of what he'd almost call nerves dancing along the edge of her sense as she stepped back to meet his eye. "There nothing to repay, Arcann," Endrali said with a smile. "Seeing you happy is enough for me. Getting to see the man you'll become..." Her fingers drifted to the side, tentatively brushing his scars, then with gentle deliberation when he didn't pull away. "Someone true. Someone better."

You make a great many things better. The thought stuck in his throat, his breath coming shallow.

Endrali's eyes searched his face, found something that made the shadow of nerves Arcann had sensed firm into resolve. "I care about you," she said, just above a whisper. "Very much. Maybe... maybe even..."

Love you.

His heart stopped, the ground seeming to fall out from under him. The second chance was more than enough, he'd never ask or expect more. His place here, her trust and friendship, they alone were beyond his wildest dreams. But if she meant what he thought...

"Why?" It came out rough and cracked with disbelief and Arcann had to step away from the beacon of warmth, of hope, she'd become. "After everything...." he said hoarsely. "Why?"

"Because I've seen who you are," Endrali said, following him with determination. "So much more than what anything--your father, your choices, your hatred and rage--had made you." Her hand came to rest on his arm, gentle but insistent. "Senya was right about the good in you, Arcann. She and I just brought it out."

Arcann turned to her, feeling the barriers that masked his wildest, more foolish hopes start to weaken. "I can't deny how much I've come to admire you, Endrali," he murmured. "Your strength, your courage, your heart. But I have done terrible things. To the galaxy, to you." His hands clenched and relaxed at his sides and he reached to trace the scar across her cheek.

His doing. Like so many other things, crimes innumerable against the galaxy, the Alliance, his own people.

"I never dreamed you would see me as anything but a former enemy," he confessed, his hand lingering against her skin. "But if you mean what you said..."

"I always do," Endrali said softly, covering his hand with hers to hold it in place as she gave him a playful smile. "And the way I see it, you've saved my life at least as many times as you threatened it now, so we're even on that account."

The airy comment startled a chuckle out of him. "I doubt the rest of the galaxy will agree. I cannot be absolved of my actions so easily. But if you can accept me" --love me, and his breath tripped on the improbable certainty of it shining unmasked in her eyes-- "I want to become someone you deserve."

An impossible task; she deserved the galaxy and more, but one he wouldn't shy from striving to fulfill.

"Arcann." Endrali traced a finger down over his lips and chin. "I already do. The good, the bad, when I say I care about you, I mean all of it. All of you. I... love you."

He'd never felt such nervousness from her, and it somehow made him feel better knowing the weight she gave such an admission.

"I... I didn't realize until just now how much I hoped to hear that from you," Arcann confessed, heart pounding and intensely aware of her hand still resting on his arm. "I care for you as well, Endrali. As friends, as... more."

I love you, too. The words tangled in his throat, caught on Scyva only knew what. But his sense must've blazed with them, because her grin and her joy crashed over him like a wave.

"Well, that's good to hear," she whispered with a giddy laugh.

He had to be dreaming. The best he'd had in his life, but... "Really?"

She pressed his hand closer to her check, smile brighter than the sun. "Would I lie about this?"

Arcann gave a breathless chuckle. "I suppose not." He shifted closer, swallowing hard. "I must confess this is... unfamiliar territory for me. I'm unsure what comes next."

"Well. Not that I'm terribly familiar with it myself..." Endrali grinned, biting her lower lip, and pulled him close to whisper almost conspiratorially, "I think this is the part where you kiss me."

---

The slowly rising warmth of hope and feeling the echo of her own burst forth in their full dazzling glory, filling her sense of him, as Arcann matched her smile.

"That I can do," he murmured, and made good, closing the remaining gap between them to press his mouth to hers.

Endrali grinned into it--she couldn't help herself--her arms around his neck for balance as he straightened and lifted her off her feet. Arcann wrapped an arm around her waist, other hand still cupping her cheek, and held her close until they parted, both all ragged breaths and thunderstruck smiles. He made sure she had her footing before he truly released her.

"How was that?" he asked, a touch playful but also genuinely checking.

"A very strong start," she said, tugging him close again. "Let me see if I can match it..."

She pulled him in for this kiss, hands cupping his jaw and trying to pour what she felt--the unchecked, unbridled joy running rampant--into it.

They broke with a gasp and Arcann rested his forehead to hers. "A likewise strong start," he murmured.

"Good." She didn't feel any inclination to move, perfectly happy to stand so close and try to wrap her head around one of her deepest wishes come true. "Oh! Thank you for the armor," she said after a moment, smiling sheepishly as she remembered. "I don't think I actually said that part out loud."

Arcann laughed--an actual laugh, quiet and deep. "You're most welcome." He smiled and linked his fingers between hers. "I would see you protected. The galaxy remains a dangerous place. I don't know what the future holds, Endrali, but I will face it by your side, if you'll allow."

"Of course," Endrali giggled and squeezed his hand. One thing she was sure about for the future, there would be challenges, for her, the Alliance, them. But they could handle it. Together. "Looking forward to it, in fact."

She pushed up on her toes to kiss him again, found him already moving to meet her, because they could. Everything was confessed, laid bare. And reciprocated, beyond all her hopes. Arcann loved her back. So Endrali giggled and deepened the kiss, because she could.

(At least until she started to lose her balance.)

(But he caught her.)

#queens fic #endrali jade #arcann #arcann tirall #endrali/arcan #ardrali #otp: undone by you #GOD #IT'S HEEEEEEERE #I LOVE THEM SO MUCH #swtor

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prolix-yuy · 2 years

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Reflective

Pairing: Max Phillips x F!Reader

Summary: His management style is effective AND refreshing. And as his executive assistant, you're partially to thank. But as your professional relationship blurs, are you getting too close to the middle manager monster of nightmares?

Word Count: 8.9k

Warnings: Explicit, 18+ MINORS DNI, horror elements and themes, graphic descriptions of blood including drinking, background character un-death, violence, fingering (f-receiving), vomiting (not descriptive), descriptions of a panic attack, a dabble of sleazy coworkers, playing fast and loose with vampire lore.

Notes: Heeeeeeere's LJ! I'm back from my October hiatus just in time for a Halloween fic! Thank you again to @harriedandharassed for the prompt "How does Max Phillips handle not being able to see himself in the mirror?" I was grasping at something to write for Halloween and this prompt came at the perfect time.

This story will include horror elements such as violence, descriptions of blood and some graphic scenes. If that's not your cup of tea, scroll on friend! It was fun to go back to some of my horror writing roots, especially mixing it with the dry comedy of Bloodsucking Bastards. It's Max season babes, and I could not resist writing for this smarmy boy.

There is a part 2, which will post tomorrow. The Discord besties made an excellent suggestion right after I finished the story, and it was so good I needed an addendum. So without further ado, enjoy lovelies and Happy Halloween!

Cross-posted on AO3

If anyone asked Max Phillips what the worst part about becoming a vampire is, he’d probably tell them things like “not getting a tan” or “swearing off Italian food” or “always getting complaints about cold feet”. The last one was often followed by a lewd comment to get a pretty young thing in bed with him to prove it. It’s all farce, of course, clever little quips you’re sure he practiced just like you’d rehearse for a job interview. It gives you a funny little trill when you catch one of those lines again, because you know the truth.

He hates that he can’t see himself in mirrors.

Being Max’s executive assistant, you’re trusted with more than some of your colleagues. Well, that’s debatable, you’ve heard horror stories. But your friend Carla’s stories about her boss’ wife choosing his Peloton instructors for minimum hotness pales in comparison to your early morning runs to blood banks and private contracts with hospital cleanup crews. Max might not be a centuries old vampire, but he’s planning on getting there. You can’t live several lifetimes with a messy trail anymore.

Enter you.

The job listing had been normal enough: Executive assistant. Five years experience. Good references. Not squeamish. Discreet. It was the last three words that piqued your interest the most. You wouldn’t call yourself delicate, at least not for the things Max needed you to do. Your stomach turned when men wanted to stay the night, or your parents begged you to come home for Thanksgiving. Not so much when you had to bag a severed hand.

When it came to the interview you almost walked straight back out of his office before saying a word. The moment you saw him you knew his type. Arrogant, self-centered, prideful, smooth with a customer and cruel in the next breath if you were in his way. You’d seen too many people like him, avoided working with them at all cost. He was young enough that boomer sexism probably wouldn’t be an issue, but you could smell the demand coming off of him. He’d be a yeller, a paperweight thrower, or worse require you to be on call 24/7. You clocked him in a glance and felt the claw of escape behind your ribcage.

And then Max Phillips did something that convinced you to reconsider just as quickly. He stood from his desk, ushered you in, looked you and your resume over for a moment, and spoke.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Max Phillips, Director of Sales, and I’m a vampire.”

The quick introduction, complete with another curious word at the end, made you bark out a laugh.

“What kind are we talking about? Emotionally, mentally…” you rattle off, tight posture relaxing just a fraction. If he was joking with you, maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

“Oh you know, the usual kind. With the blood,” he says nonchalantly, baring his teeth dramatically when your eyebrows raise.

“You don’t say.”

“I do, actually. And you want to be my assistant.”

The conversation flows, with some fits and starts as you realize he’s not kidding. He is indeed a vampire, tossed out like his zodiac sign. The questions he peppers off range from highly professional (tell me a time when you performed well under pressure) to unsettlingly irregular (do you know how to remove blood stains from silk?). You shoot the answers back just as quickly, waiting for the moment when either the charade will drop…or you’ll get the job. Because you want it now. It’s easily the most interesting thing you’ll do in your whole life.

“I think that’s all I need,” Max ends abruptly, shuffling your resume into a pile with some others. Panic grips you, and you rush into your next sentence without breathing.

“Are there any concerns you have about my qualifications?”

Max raises an eyebrow and smiles, one that is much too charming to be in its path too long. Casting your eyes down, you glance at the worn-out toes of your nice interview heels, bemoaning getting them out of the closet for another failed interview.

“On paper you’re perfect,” Max says, and being in the same sentence as perfect skitters up your spine for a moment. You bat it away peevishly. “I only worry that you don’t have the constitution for what I’m looking for.” You shift on your feet, pull one corner of your lip between your teeth while you think. It makes you miss Max’s too-long glance at your mouth.

“I’ve watched all of the Saw movies,” you finally say, meeting Max’s eyes with determination. It makes him bleat out a laugh.

“Okay, not squeamish. Those are movies, though, and this is the real deal,” he teases. “Favorite vampire movie?”

“Let the Right One In,” you answer quickly, your face scrunching with regret seconds after. “Or Only Lovers Left Alive. I watched Queen of the Damned three times at a sleepover once. Have you ever seen Vampire’s Kiss? The one with Nic…” Max’s chuckle lets you trail off into silence.

“And you didn’t even say Twilight.”

You were signing employment paperwork the next day.

Most executive assistants put up with a certain layer of bullshit on a daily basis. Booking flights, picking up paperwork, schedule maintenance. You’d stood in line for four hours to pick up a previous employer’s new iPhone once.

Max had very different needs.

You were briefed on your duties in the privacy of his office. While he did reveal to you how many of his sales force were turned by his hand (or fang, you thought with a giggle), discretion was still a priority. He needed someone to go to his blood bank hookup a few times a week, take care of daytime activities when the sun beat down too hard. Body disposal on very rare occasions (so far only the one time) among all of the normal activities you thought you were signing up for.

The one duty that gave you pause, made you tap your nail on the printed line, was close to the bottom of your orientation packet.

“You need me to ‘maintain your appearance’?” you asked, looking up at Max from across the shiny acrylic tabletop. He was lounging back in his chair, knee pressed against the edge of the desk and spread out with boredom. He rolled his head to his shoulder as you flipped the page around to show him.

“Oh that. Yeah, I need you to check me over, make sure everything looks sharp, especially if I’m going to a big meeting.” You quirked a brow at him.

“Can’t you just look in…a…oh,” you said, slowing to a molasses vowel by the end.

“Yeah, mirrors and I haven’t been on speaking terms since Romania,” he sighed, one heavy thumb tracing the crest of his full lower lip. You tried not to notice the subconscious stroke.

“So you need me to…be your mirror. Make sure your hair isn’t a mess and you don’t have spinach in your teeth.” You were rewarded with a sheepish nod from Max. “Huh.”

“Huh what?”

“What else is true about vampires? Or fake, I’ll take either,” you asked, crossing your legs and settling into the wildly uncomfortable modern chair. Max’s smile turned secretive, and that was the first moment you felt him brand you his confidant.

“The sunlight thing is a bummer. I miss the beach, and swimming in the ocean. Garlic just makes my mouth go numb. Inviting someone into your home has a lot more loopholes than you think. And the sign of the cross does jack shit.” You nodded, making a mental list of even more questions to pepper into everyday conversation.

“Why do you think that all is? Because you’re essentially…undead?” you prodded, getting another bark of a laugh from Max and a dangerous glint in his eye.

“Hey, undead is a little harsh. It’s more like…a virulent vitamin deficiency. If I don’t get what I need, everything starts to shut down.” Max pondered on this analogy for a long moment, looking at a dull mass-produced corporate painting.

“But all the superstitions…like why are those true?”

Max shrugged, running his thumb along the inseam of his dress slacks in a way that pulled your eyes to his thick thighs.

“It’s not like there’s a manual for this. Half the stuff is supposed to be because I ‘have no soul’,” Max made finger quotes as he says this. “But mirrors stopped being silver backed ages ago and I still have to be careful when I go into the men’s room.” He shrugged, taking an exaggerated sip from his iced coffee straw. “I just know what works and what doesn’t, and you just need to help with those gaps, pretty girl.”

You almost choke on your tongue, shooting Max a warning look. He raises his hands in deference, but keeps a raised brow.

"Sorry, I call it like I see it. Can't have someone with poor taste in charge of my appearance."

"Yeah and if you don't want to walk in to a meeting with HQ with a Kick Me post-it on your back, you'll be mindful of that mouth of yours."

The crinkles around Max's eyes deepen, something knowing passing by, but he nods in acquiescence.

It’s honestly not as bad as you thought it might be. You could even call it boring. Max thankfully isn’t a paperweight thrower, though he does speak to most of his subordinates like they’re idiots. Never you, thankfully, he’s all smiles and winks and traded comments during your daily interactions. You’ve never been happier to be wrong.

Routine is your master, and you follow its pattern to the letter. It’s what makes you a great assistant. First thing in the morning is Max’s coffee order, set on his desk atop a coaster you provided when you saw the coffee cup stains. He whirls in, all noise and breeze, and you help him get ready for his morning meetings. A straightened tie - you can practically knot one blindfolded now - a quick sweep of fingers through his short hair, a pantomimed smile so he shows you his teeth. It’s all utilitarian, fast, not thrilling or intimate in a way you’d rarely been with a man. Of course not. That would be…unprofessional.

Lunch involves a teakettle, a blood bag, and a deep bowl that you use to warm his meal. All done in the safety and privacy of the kitchenette in his office. You pour the contents - a balmy 98.6 degrees by the time you’re finished - into a silver to-go cup, which he takes with appreciation when he bursts in. The first few weeks you left right after, but once you were more settled he asked you to stay while he sipped on his “lunch”. The conversation was always interesting, if not a little one-sided.

“You really don’t want to eat like, a salad or something? It’s just O-Positive Capri Suns for the rest of your life?” you asked, stabbing at some lettuce in your tupperware. Max laughed, a braying short one, and put his chin in his hand.

“You can technically eat cardboard and not be hungry, but it’s not food, pretty girl,” he replied, a shit-eating grin stretched across his broad face. You'd scolded him enough about the nickname that it's almost a joke now, except for how those words made you feel. His lips were a deeper red, and the sight plucked at something forbidden in your chest. Not disgust, more like morbid fascination. The sight pulled something primal to the surface, his tongue several shades darker when he licked an errant drop back into the lush cavern of his mouth.

You are not allowed to be lusting after your vampire boss is your mantra when thoughts run rampant.

The afternoons tend to be boring, filled with schedule juggling or email management. Max is often occupied through to the end of day, so you’re left to your own devices. You have a lot of “guys” now, as Max calls them. A blood guy, a disposal guy, a law enforcement guy. It makes you feel important in a way other jobs have lacked. You spend your afternoons making arrangements, both professional and personal, for your boss. It’s when you get the bulk of your work done, but it’s also when you have to be most on guard.

You see, Max has a few other “hungry” employees, and as the day grows long they tend to saunter by and watch you with barely veiled appetites. Brad in sales is the boldest, leaning over your desk and making a show out of smelling you with half-lidded eyes. Creepy. You’d told him off several times, but as he likes to say with just the right amount of douche, “I’m a closer baby, I always get the deal.”

In the metaphor you’re not sure what part of the “deal” you are, but you have no intention of finding out. Enough polite excuses and faked phone calls have kept him at bay, but you worry what might happen if he gets bolder, or gathers a few more vamps to sway your opinion. Is there a clause in your contract about not getting turned into a creature of the night? You should have checked.

The end of the day is often a quick affair. Max gets a debrief of anything important that came up, and what’s on the docket for tomorrow. Normally he packs up his suitcase with a little small talk, bids you a good night, and is off to do…whatever a vampire does when he’s off work.

Today, however, the script has a few additions.

“What’s wrong?” Max says, movements slowing as he takes in your shaking hand placing an itinerary on his desk. You tighten, smile forced.

“Nothing! Just fine,” you spit out, which only increases Max’s suspicion.

“Did something happen? Did someone say something to you?” he asks, voice dropping to a low fuck-that’s-hot register. You swallow hard and will something, anything to come to mind.

“Just Brad being Brad. I don’t think he’s turned anyone in a while and he’s getting desperate,” you try to chuckle lightly, but Max’s eyes darken. He stands to his full height, shoulders straining against his jacket. Planting his hands on his hips, he pins you in his sight.

“Did he touch you?” This is a true growl now, and Max’s face changes into a terrifying mask, perfect teeth suddenly lengthening to points as he fights against the rush. Your mouth drops open, but only monosyllabic words come out.

“No. Safe,” you gasp, and the simple admission sobers Max. His jaw ticks, rolling his shoulders and jaw until the transformation recedes. You wish your heartbeat could slow that quickly. After a few steadying breaths, Max finally turns back to you.

If his gaze was electric before, it’s damn close to lightning when your eyes meet. The jolt pulses in your veins, and his nostrils flare briefly.

“I’ll take care of it,” he says, all smooth professionalism like you haven’t just watched him vamp out because a coworker was a sleaze. You nod once, grateful, trying to ignore the sweet friction taking a step back gives to your core.

“Will there be anything else?” you ask, the customary end to your daily exchanges. Max gathers his briefcase, movements purposeful but fast.

“Nothing more, enjoy your night,” he answers, slipping past you with a wave of copper and musk that can’t be hidden by his Hermès cologne. You echo the sentiment but wait to take a full breath until you hear the elevator ding.

The next day Max walks in like a goddamn gladiator, powerful strides and testosterone rolling off his wool jacket. You can sense him before you see him, sometimes wondering if that’s part of the power he wields.

“Good morning!” he booms out, coming to a stop in front of your desk. You type out the end of your sentence and turn to him, smile at the ready, when your eyes drop to a box in his hand. The smile twists to confused amusement.

“What’s that?” you ask as he places the box in front of you with a pat to the silk bow neatly wrapping it.

“Happy six months of working here,” he says with more pomp than necessary. You narrow your eyes; it’s only been four, but his face is eager so you shrug it off. The bow is buttery soft under your fingers, and your heart rate ticks up rapidly. The box hinges open, and nestled inside is a women’s Rolex watch.

Your breath catches in your throat. It’s stunning, the perfect mix of feminine and authoritative. Gleaming oystersteel and everose gold, diamonds circling the watch face laser etched with delicate leaves. It’s easily worth four months of your pay. Your mouth drops open in disbelief.

“Max, I can’t…” you start, but he places his palms on your desk and leans close, tilting his head to one side to favor your cheek with his spearmint breath.

“Wear it. No one will dare touch you, pretty girl. I promise.” His eyes are darkly confident, and the reassurance does ease the shock of the gift.

“Okay,” you manage to squeak out. “Thank you, Max.” He nods once with a lopsided smile before returning to the usual routine of your day. While he settles in, you slide the ungodly expensive timepiece out of the box and onto your wrist. It snaps shut in a perfect fit, and the thought of Max demonstrating your wrist size to the sales person makes heat radiate in your cheeks.

Miraculously, he was right. Brad spies you in the afternoon but one look at the watch has him about-face and leaving twice as quick as he came. At lunch the next day you ask Max about it. He smiles conspiratorially, leaning up against his desk to look down at you seated with your sandwich. You might have thought he was trying to cop a peek at your cleavage, but you had a turtleneck on today, and his eyes didn’t roam from your face.

“The sign of the cross doesn’t do shit…for me. I wasn’t a church-going kid, never got into anything organized. For a talisman to work, the belief has to be twofold. You have to believe it will protect you, and they have to believe it too. So if you want real protection against something out to get you, you have to know them intimately.” He pauses, thumb absently rubbing along the line of his bicep where he’s folded his arms. “If you both believe, anything can work.”

“Like this?” you ask, lifting your wrist with a twist. A flash of something passes over Max’s face before he gives you a lopsided smile.

“You believe it protects you?” he asks, his voice dropping into a softer lilt. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

“You told me it did.”

“And they all believe it does, because I gave it to you.” An unspoken phrase hangs between you.

I’ll protect you.

“Could have chosen something less flashy,” you joke, needing to cut through the heaviness in the air. Max’s smile cracks his face, shaking his head as he moves to his side of the desk.

“Where’s the fun in that? You’re adorable when you’re flustered.”

"And you're on thin ice, Max."

"My favorite place to be."

When it’s actually your six month anniversary, Max schedules a dinner for you. Private chef, live music, a beautiful venue. He told you to bring whoever you wanted, and his name dances on the bow of your lips for a moment. You thought hope might be in his eyes that you’d let it spill. But cowardice struck, and instead you brought your two sisters. They gush over the decadence.

“Are you sure he doesn’t want to fuck you?” One says, forking another mouthful of the best chocolate cake you’ve ever tasted into her mouth. “This is like, fourth date level extravagance.”

“He’s my boss, god. Just shut up and eat.”

“I’m just saying, my husband takes me to the Cheesecake Factory, and while I will never say no to another round of Bang Bang Shrimp, this is above and beyond what anyone would expect from your boss.”

Your other sister doesn’t say anything until you’re alone.

“Just…be careful. This could get really messy.”

Oh you have no idea.

You nod, folding your hands under your chin and looking out at the glittering skyline.

“I will, I promise. We just have a…different working relationship than anyone’s used to. But he’s never made me feel uncomfortable.”

Quite the opposite, really. You’ve never been so comfortable with another person in your life. You’d given him floss picks and wiped shaving cream from behind his ear, smoothed flyaways and cupped his chin to inspect an uneven sideburn. He’d let you touch every part of him without comment, brushing lint from his broad shoulders and tucking inside-out pockets back into their rightful homes.

In return, he treated you with respect. Apart from the nickname, which you won't admit you've come to enjoy, he treated you kindly and professionally. He was a womanizer, but not with you. You weren’t naive, he was definitely fucking plenty of women in the last few months you’d been working for him. Sometimes you saw the ghosts of them in his suitcase, or crumpled in pockets. Once you’d been ready to knock on his closed door but high, breathy moans held your hand at bay. Janet from Web Design left an hour later (impressive, though you’d never say it) and Max called you in shortly after, hands freshly washed and the heavy musk of sex combating faux floral notes of air freshener. Neither of you addressed it.

The difference, you assumed, was professional. He lauded your work, told you how much he appreciated how smooth you made everything for him. He wouldn’t want to fuck that up for a quickie over his desk. Or against the mahogany door. Or on the kitchenette floor, his reddened lips leaving sticky trails on your breasts.

The blast of chill outside the restaurant sobers your thoughts. You send a text to Max, thanking him for the dinner and sending a couple selfies of you and your sisters. His return text is swift.

You deserve it, pretty girl. Looking gorgeous.

The wine loosens your inhibitions just enough to send a text back.

What?

Instant response.

Guess.

Your hands start shaking too hard to respond, suddenly feeling much tipsier than you thought. Typing a hasty, “Thanks again, good night,” you get into the cab and spend the ride home regulating your breathing. Max doesn’t respond.

Minor issues aside - a rowdy employee or two, some tense negotiations, a race to the finish one month for sales - you like your work. You’re considering settling in, maybe not looking for the next big thing for a little while. The pay is good, the benefits are better than most, and you’re happy. For the first time in years, you actually look forward to coming to the office. And a tiny part of you that you hide away knows why.

The start of October is always a favorite time of year for you. Scary movies in abundance on TV, fall decor, and the excitement of heading into the darker months. Thanksgiving and Christmas are fine in their own rights, but Halloween is your personal favorite. You don’t add frivolity to your desk beyond a tiny pumpkin next to your pen cup, which Max eyes with a wry little smile, and a bucket of Halloween candy that anyone is welcome to dip into. It twists the mood just a fraction away from corporate dullness to corporate-appropriate holiday spirit. You even catch Max with his hand in the candy jar once or twice, waving a snack-size Twix or KitKat as he comes and goes.

You do wonder if the childishness of the holiday is something Max dislikes.

“It’s a little naive,” he bemoans, swallowing the dregs of blood from his insulated mug as you wash your tupperware in his kitchenette sink. Wordlessly you hold a hand out for the empty cup to clean. “Seeing everyone gallivanting around, pantomiming monsters, when they’re all too real.”

“More than vamps? Friends with any werewolves?” you tease, soaping up the sponge designated for Max’s lunches and scrubbing the congealed mess out of the lid threads.

“Would you like to meet one?” he answers, a sing-song mockery of your own joke.

“God no, I have enough supernatural shenanigans with you,” you laugh, washing your hands clean so you don’t smell of copper. You’re careful to slide the gifted Rolex back around your wrist when you’re finished, a ritual Max watches closely every time. Clearing your throat, you gather up your lunch bag and move to leave.

“Maybe a Halloween party would be good for morale,” Max says nonchalantly, voice stopping you in the door. You wrestle the smile off your face before turning back to him.

“Would you like me to arrange something?” you ask, failing to keep your expression breezy. Max flashes that conspirator’s grin that drums up excitement in your chest.

“Please.”

The office latches onto the party date, only a couple days before Halloween proper. There will be food, drinks, a few small prizes for best costume and raffles. You count down the days with mounting excitement, the spirit of the season making you bouncier, lighter in and out of work. Max teases you about it.

“So you’re not going to tell me what you’re going as?” he wheedles, watching you lay piles of paperwork in neat folders on his desk. You shake your head, clucking your tongue when you notice you’re one short.

“Half the fun is the surprise,” you call over your shoulder as you speed back to your desk and return with the final folder. Max doesn’t even pretend he’s interested in the documents. “What are you going to be?” His eyebrow cocks, shaking his head with derision.

“I’m a vampire, honey, I am my own costume,” he drawls, making you roll your eyes.

“So I should expect a cape with a high collar? Some dollar store plastic fangs? Hair gel?” you tease, making your hands into claws over the desk. “I vant to suck your blooooood!” you mime in your best Dracula impression, getting your own eye roll in return.

“If you’re not telling, I’m not,” he throws back, finally scooting forward in his chair and opening one of the folders. You straighten up, triumphant, and leave him to his work.

The day of the party greets you with excitement. You made the decision to go subtle, since you’ll be sitting in costume all day. Your coworkers would have time to change before the party, but you were organizing and didn’t have that luxury. So on went a sensible white blouse, a black pencil skirt, and sheer black nylons. Slipping them up your legs, you grind your lip between your teeth. The back seam of the nylons, paired with the black stiletto heels you found in your closet, turn the dress from something mundane to possibly recognizable. When you turn your back to the mirror, crossing your ankles prettily, one of the most recognizable movie posters in history pulls to the forefront.

You could give Maggie Gyllenhaal a run for her money.

The last piece - an addition that turns the costume from seductive to silly - you tuck into the chest pocket of your blouse before leaving.

The day passes quickly, Max calling to tell you he’s meeting with HQ through lunch and to get the festivities started without him. You usher in the caterers, laughing with your coworkers when they ask what your costume is. So far the cover story works, and they all enjoy the clever play on words.

The party is in full swing, raffle tickets being handed out and drinks starting to flow, when Max enters. His voice precedes him, and it’s a good thing it does because if you didn’t have that brief moment to gather yourself your mouth would have dropped open.

It’s a perfect recreation of Gary Oldman’s Dracula costume. It’s so on the nose a laugh almost bubbles out if you weren’t breathless. He’s swathed head to toe in dove gray, save for the sharp shock of black around his neck, the shine of his shoes, the rich dark leather of his gloves. The waistcoat pulls tantalizingly against his stomach, a bright silver pin at the base of his throat. He’s slicked his hair into a side part, small blue-tinted glasses perched halfway down his curved nose. Leaning on the walking stick and crossing his ankles, he makes a sweeping “ta-da!” motion with his hand. Applause erupts, giving you cover to gasp in some much-needed air.

“To All Hallows' Eve,” he croons, sharing secret looks with the team members you know are his brethren. By the time he catches your eye across the room you’ve finally comported yourself, smiling brightly at his nod.

It takes him some time to get to you, fighting through the crowd of people wanting to rub elbows and make an impression. He gives them all their five minutes of fame in his presence, annoyance slowly ticking up with each stop. You keep busy organizing the raffle, handing out voting sheets (Max will certainly win best costume) and watching him out of the corner of your eye.

It’s at the first lull in your duties that Max slides up next to you, a warm hand on your lower back. It makes you jump, but settle quickly when his impressed smile comes into view.

“I think I know what you’re supposed to be,” he murmurs, coming to stand in front of you to get a better look. His brow furrows when his gaze lands on your breast pocket. “Hmmm, maybe not. So spill, what’s your costume?” he says, leaning on the cane and dragging his gaze up and down your body. Aiming for a carefree smile, you tap on the little calculator peeking out of your pocket.

“I’m someone you can count on,” you enunciate, the confusion and realization swirling in his eyes until a laugh bubbles out, shaking his head.

“I can’t believe you came to the party as a pun,” he chokes out, both of you now giggling next to the bags of chips and finger sandwiches. When he finally gets control of himself he nods approvingly.

“Well, you might not win best costume with that…” You shrug, conceding, “but I’d give you the prize if you admit what you actually came as, pretty girl.”

Time slows to sticky seconds as Max inches closer to you, eyes sliding over your shoulder, tracing the curve of your neck, lighting for much too long on your lips. He knows, knows you wore the outfit from Secretary and for no one else but him. You keep your stare trained on his face. It’s not the first time you’ve considered throwing out professionalism in favor of hunger. It’s not like anyone else has been upholding your rigorous standards. Would it be so bad to let Max chase his desires with your body? To bloom underneath him, above him, around him? Would you like the taste of his mouth, coppery and thick?

He’s close enough to be more than professional but not so close to be indecent, hot fingers tracing the band of the Rolex circling your wrist. Your mind blearily wonders if that’s when you let down the wall that kept him out. His eyes finally meet yours, a question in their depth, before his face contorts and he steps back quickly, a grimace painting his features.

“Are…” You swallow, mouth torturously dry. “Are you okay?”

He nods, fighting on a smile and straightening with effort.

“Yes, sorry, I was…busy this afternoon, haven’t eaten yet.” He raises his hands in defense at your scolding glance, the tension back to a bare simmer.

“Well go get a drink, I won’t announce the winners until you get back,” you say breathlessly, giving him a dazzling smile that he returns shyly. The tables are turned for once in your favor, and you savor watching Max on unsure footing. “Do you need me to heat something up for you?”

“No, I’ve got it taken care of,” he assures you, making his way to his office. A wave back at you is the last you see before he closes the door.

Finally able to make sense of what’s going on, you get back to the party, mingling with the girls you like from marketing and keeping tabs on the liveliness of the party. Max doesn’t return, the time to announce the costume winner closing in. You worry at your cuticles, his absence starting to toll on your mind. What if he was passed out in his office, weakening by the second? While you were out here with coworkers that had never given you a second glance?

Your resolve snaps, mother henning be damned, as you move to Max’s office. The din of the party muffles your voice, stepping close to listen at the door.

“Max?” you call, with no answer. Heart thumping, you test the handle. Locked. A quick trip to your desk has the spare key in your hand, ready to slot into the lock.

“Max, it’s time for the announcement, I didn’t think you wanted to miss it,” you say, and this time you hear something. A low, pained groan.

The key slams into the lock, turning frantically as you whip the door open, two steps in with it shutting heavily behind you before you register what’s happening.

Max is not alone. And he’s…

He’s…

Oh fuck.

It’s easy not to see the monster when it looks like a middle manager. It’s easy to pretend the blood is a beetroot smoothie, or that the stains on his shirt are red wine. When Max makes it seem so dull, so boring, you sometimes forget he’s something strange and powerful.

But when you’re face to face with the truth, it all comes rushing to the forefront.

Max has Janet, the pretty thing from Web Design, spread out on his lap, her hands gripping the armrests of his chair. One hand is covering her mouth, leaning her head back to loll against his shoulder. The other is buried under her skirt, and from here you can see wetness shimmering inside her thighs. The lewd flexing of his forearm working her with those fingers you covet day in and day out almost distracts you from what’s actually happening. Almost.

Dragging your eyes up, you take in the true horror of the situation. You recognize the change, his face contorted with lines of deepening purple and red streaking his skin. The same that you saw when you told him about Brad. His mouth is latched onto Janet’s neck, red oozing around the seal of his lips. He’s groaning, swallowing thickly as you imagine mouthful after mouthful of her blood pouring down his throat.

The slam of the door drags Max’s eyes up, his eyebrows shooting into his hairline when he sees you. Mouth popping off Janet’s skin, he growls your name, deep and drunken. The loss allows blood to spurt from Janet’s neck, thick droplets spraying across her bare legs, the carpet, his desk, staining papers you laid there just this morning. Your stomach churns violently, legs weakening as Janet thrashes against Max’s hold. He tears his eyes from you to look down at the mess, a rough, “shit,” falling from his blood-stained lips before he fits his mouth back to the ring of teeth.

There is nothing darkly romantic about this now, no suave vampire lover sipping delicately from a young debutante’s neck. Blood sluices down to stain Janet’s pink top a deeper red, her face painted with rusty smears that gather between his fingers. Max pounds his fingers inside her, the telltale spasm of her orgasm accompanied by the liquid squeak of her flats slipping in her own blood. He withdraws, a sticky string of her cum trailing across her thighs. Pressing her flush to his chest, he sucks and growls and hums until Janet goes still, fingers falling away and body slumping. The pop of his mouth off the wound lets a dribble slip between the swell of her cleavage, more still smeared and dripping from his mouth. He sighs with relief, thick tongue lazily licking at the mess around his lips. He bands his arms around Janet and lifts, folding her face-down on his desk, legs dangling limply over the edge. Her eyes are sightless, blood smearing onto the Meyer report.

A maddening thought - you’d have to reprint that - spikes through your consciousness.

Max stands, swaying slightly as he rolls his shoulders, finally looking at you trembling in his office. His eyes are blood red, human only in that he sees you with them. Realization flits across the face you barely recognize, smile going predatory. As if a body isn’t lying mere inches from him, he places his hands on his desk, leaning over to give you a sultry look.

“Come here, pretty girl,” he purrs, a sound that vibrates in two tones. It makes your fight or flight instinct claw up your spine. Specifically the flight part. The fight part is warring against the fiery arousal burning in your belly at Max’s slick mouth, the generous tenting in those gray pants, and the rabid desire in his eyes. Fear sharpens your pulse, and you know it would take barely anything to make you cum with a wail if he’d only touch you.

“Can smell you from here, little secretary. Know you want me to devour that juicy pussy.” Max lengthens his neck, closing his eyes and inhaling with a satisfied moan. Flecks of blood dot the gray waistcoat, jacket abandoned in a heap on the floor. The black shirt hides the color but not the wetness of what Max could not eat. “I would, you know. I would eat you even if I was full to bursting. Let me taste you, pretty little thing. I want you on my tongue. I’ll make you cum so hard you’ll wash me clean.”

He’s prowling around the table now, steps soft and light, and you’re a frozen gazelle with a tiger approaching. No, that’s too grounded, too finite. You’re a candle flame in the middle of an ocean, a moment away from being swallowed up. Your face is wet; you’re crying. You’re scared. You’re so aroused it hurts. You’re so in over your head you’re drowning.

You can’t breathe.

Realization flickers over Max’s face and you watch him change. The veining and depth of his features recedes, eyes clearing back to soft brown as he slows his advances even further.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay, I’m not…I’m not gonna hurt you.” He turns his palms up, keeping his distance as you struggle to let air back into your lungs. The first whoosh makes you so lightheaded you stumble back, falling to your knees. Max goes down to his knees with you, one hand outstretched but still too far to touch. You can’t stop shaking, taking in big gulping breaths. Max waits, a drip of blood from his chin shocking him into scrubbing his sleeve over his face. Most of the gore vanishes, but the pink hue remains.

“I’m not gonna hurt you. I would never hurt you,” he tries again, scooting another pace forward. “I’m sorry, you were never supposed to see that. I fucked up, please…”

His hand brushes your ankle and you know you’re going to be sick. Bile rushes up your throat and you scramble blindly for the trash bin. You make it just in time, emptying your stomach with retching sobs. A warm palm strokes your shoulder and you snap your arm out, head still hanging.

“Don’t touch me!” you rasp, and the hand is gone, letting you finish shuddering and coughing into the bin. When your stomach stops cramping you crawl away, ignoring Max’s concerned face in your periphery. You lost one of your shoes, picking it up from its topple onto the floor and holding it in your hand like a weapon.

“Please, look at me,” Max begs, and you finally take him in. He’s much more the Max you know, but so different now. Same hair you arrange for him, same soft-shaved face you touch more than you actually need to. Same brown eyes that look to you for guidance. But when you look closer you can see the film of blood on his teeth, droplets clinging to his eyebrows, and a never ending hunger in the depths of his eyes.

You scramble to your feet, hobbling in one shoe. Max stumbles back up to your height.

“Pretty…?” he begs again, but you’re opening the door, striding out into the ruckus of the party. A couple people turn, eyes expectant until they see you. Confusion, or realization, turns them back around to ignore you. Heart thumping in your throat, fear pangs through your chest. Is there any blood on you? A quick inspection finds none, so it must be your haunted expression and disheveled appearance that inspires discretion.

Unable to spend another moment in this building, copper still strong in your nose, you stuff your shoes in your bag and try to hurry out the back door. You need to get home, behind a locked door, maybe several. Somewhere you can think, get a level head, figure out what to do.

Then Brad steps into your path, and your stomach plummets again.

“Hey, where are you going? You haven’t announced the costume contest winner yet!” he laughs, blocking your path. Stepping to the side, you watch in dismay as he does the same. Again, but the other way, and he follows. Tutting, he nods at your Rolex.

“Seems like this is just an expensive gift now,” he bemoans, dunking you in clarity.

You have to believe it will protect you.

Nothing can save you now.

Only yourself.

Another step-dodge hides your hand diving into your bag, and when Brad grabs your wrist you swing your arm back and drive your stiletto into the side of his neck.

“What the fuck?!” he shouts, hands coming up to staunch the dark blood seeping around the wound. Faintly you hear Max’s door open and the party drop to silence, but you leave the noise as you burst into the stairwell, racing to your car and away from the hell behind you.

Max stumbles out of his office as the door slams behind you, clothes sticking to his skin and mouth full of metallic tang.

“Bitch put her heel in my goddamn neck!” Brad shouts, stomping up to Max. “Your assistant needs some fucking discipline Phillips.” He must have more to rant about, but two swift hands snap Brad’s head clean around and off, letting his body crumple to the floor. Max watches with disinterest, pinching the bridge of his nose and inhaling long and deep before tossing the head to join.

“Okay people, cleanup protocol,” he calls out, and the vampires in the crowd all look at each other.

“Boss?” one of them says, making Max snap his attention to them in frustration.

“You heard me, we’ll start relocation tomorrow.”

Max ignores the screams of his turned subordinates feeding on the human ones, his eye catching the glint of something on the ground. He kneels, heart sinking at what he finds. The Rolex, her talisman. Picking it up, he turns it grimly in his hands. Brad shouldn’t have been able to touch her, not with this. As long as she still believed it worked.

“Fuck,” he whispers, rubbing his thumb over the face, an errant smear of blood clouding the crystal.

You get the call on Sunday afternoon, a whole weekend spent locked up in your apartment and stressed over what Monday would bring. The unknown number is the district manager letting you know that your office is being outsourced, effective immediately. Do not return to the building, please ship company property back to HQ, on and on. Part of you is relieved to not have to step foot back there. The morbid voice in the back of your mind whispers that there’s more to it than cheaper labor. You let that voice fade in favor of relief.

With enough savings for a few months out of a job, you begin the search anew. HQ gave you a generic recommendation letter, which should be enough for your new employer. It would have been preferable to have one from Max, but thinking about what it might say gives you hysterical giggles.

Can warm blood up to body temp perfectly.

Handles high stress situations such as scheduling a body dump.

Looks into my eyes like she’s known me forever.

You force yourself out of this line of thought.

Three weeks after you ran out of that building for the last time, you get an email.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Can we talk?

Your fingers hover over the keys, throat tightening. The hysteria died down after the first week, your trips outside cautious over the second, and finally a sense of calm had settled back into your life. Did you want to invite chaos back in?

To: [email protected]

Subject: When?

Your reply sends and moments later your inbox pings again.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Now?

Your face scrunches in confusion before the sharp buzz of your front door bell jars you out of your chair.

“Fucking…Max, give a girl a minute,” you curse, smoothing a hand through your hair and shrugging at your loungewear attire. Padding to your intercom, you click the button to activate the video screen. No one is standing on the stoop of your apartment. Confused, you press the talk button.

“Hello?”

“It’s Max.”

You’re stunned into silence before a smile creeps onto your face.

“You’re not visible on cameras too?”

“Ha ha, yeah I know, it’s great for a life of crime,” he drones out sarcastically, and even though you can’t see him you can imagine that mocking face.

A ball appears in the back of your throat. You missed him.

Buzzing him up, you wait at your door, leaning in the entryway. You don’t think he’s here to violently tie up a loose end, but you could be wrong. Your good judge of character has been suspiciously absent in the last eight months.

Three swift knocks and Max is standing in your doorway, holding a bouquet of sunflowers. You’d assumed he’d be in a suit, but this one is more casual, no necktie and his collar open. He’s wearing a cocky I-knew-you-missed-me face, but underneath there’s a current of worry, concern, and care that warms you.

“Oh, you never told me,” you say, holding the door open thoughtfully, “what are the loopholes for entering someone’s home without being invited in?”

Max’s eyes crinkle up as he rolls his eyes. There’s the man you’d been falling for.

Oh.

Oh wow.

Shit, that’s the first time you’d thought that.

“So in the movies it sounds so formal. Like ‘may I enter your home?’ and the other person has to say ‘yes, you may,’ but nobody talks like that anymore. You can just say come in, and that’s it. Or I can ask if I can come in and if you say yeah, that’s good enough. I’ve even had people tell me to come get a hug, or get out of the cold, and that worked too. Human language has evolved so much and…I am absolutely babbling like an idiot right now.” Max trails off and you stifle a smile behind your hand. It pulls a relieved one onto his face.

“I missed you,” you say, the words coming easier than you expected. Max’s eyes soften.

“I missed you too.”

You look at each other in silence before you snap back to the previous conversation.

“Oh, shit, right, yeah come in,” you stutter, Max crossing the threshold and handing you the sunny bouquet. The plastic wrap crinkles around your fingers, making for a good distraction as you move to put them in water while Max hangs his coat.

It takes you a few minutes to snip the stalks and place them in a vase, and then a few moments more to ask Max if he’d like something (“whatever you’re having”) and brew two cups of black tea. Entering your little living room, you find Max sitting at one end of your couch, thumbing through a travel book. He puts it down to accept the tea, setting it to cool on the coffee table. Placing yours beside, you settle into the couch and try to think of where to begin. Thankfully, Max starts.

“I’m sorry you had to see any of that after all that you’ve done for me. It was inappropriate for me to feed at work, even more so to scare you. It was wildly unprofessional and I completely understand if you don’t want to be associated with me after that.”

You blink slowly at him, absorbing this carefully rehearsed apology. He waits for your response, damnation or salvation.

“Is Janet okay?”

You watch his face cooly as he struggles through a few different emotions. Confusion, incredulity, amusement, relief.

“Yeah, Janet’s fine, I turned her. She’s moving to England, not as much sun.”

Silence slips between you before you break into giggles, Max following along as the tension unwinds. When your breath stops hitching you give Max a warm smile, picking up your mug to take a sip.

“Sounds like HQ just wanted to sweep all this under the rug. Would it always have ended up this way, or was the party to blame?” Max shrugs, arm slung over the back of the couch and ankle resting on his knee.

“It’s different every place I go. Sometimes it’s longer, other times it’s only a few weeks. You made it easier,” he says, a blanket of fondness warming your lap. Tracing the lip of the mug with your fingernail, you sort through what you want to say next.

“Before the party…was something going on between us? Or is that some weird vampire thing to make humans easy to manipulate?” Peering through your lashes, you think you see Max blush.

“I can assure you I did not use my supernatural powers of suggestion on you. Only on difficult clients,” he laughs, tilting his head lazily onto one shoulder. “Yeah,” he adds quieter, face turning to his lap. “Yeah, there was something going on between us.” Slowly, giving you time to shy away, he reaches out to brush his fingers along the inside of your knee. A trill of excitement flutters through you. “I hope it’s still there.”

Just as cautiously, you reach out and let the tips of your fingers meet, his hand turning over to cup them in his palm. The softness of his skin entices you to stroke along his broad palm, the undersides of his fingers, until he moves to lace them with yours, joints stretching pleasantly around his larger ones. When you get the courage to look up he’s regarding you with quiet wonder, lips parted. You smile at him, eliciting one in response.

“I have something for you,” he says, voice tight as he digs into his pants pocket. It’s a smaller box than the first gift he got you, and you release his hand to take it. Sliding the top off, you’re treated to a delicate silver chain.

“I don’t think the Rolex quite expresses what I’d like us to be now,” Max says, lifting the chain out of the box. It’s even more dainty in his hands, thick fingers struggling briefly with the clasp.

“So you’re not asking me to keep being your assistant?” you say, pulse pounding in your ears so loud you’re sure he can hear it.

“Put this on and I’ll show you what I’d like us to be,” he says, a soft challenge but no fire in his eyes. Instead there’s a question, one that you’d struggled with in the weeks following the party.

Could you handle this?

Pushing up on your knees, you gently lift one leg over Max’s lap, settling on his thighs. His eyes widen, then that bratty smile comes back to grace his face.

“I’m waiting Max,” you tease in a sing-song lilt. He lifts the chain to loop around your neck, fastening the ends together. It hangs cooly against you, sensation slowly disappearing as it warms to your skin.

“This will protect you, if you believe in it,” he says, and as he breathes the words he leans up to place a soft kiss to your collarbone, pressing the chain between his lips and your skin. “It will protect you from those with ill intent,” he continues, trailing his lips along the necklace as he places another kiss at the base of your throat, “because I will never let another creature, living or undead, bring harm to you.” Here he places an open-mouthed kiss on your sternum, a tentative lick pebbling your skin. “And it will protect you from me,” His mouth moves up the other side of your neck, peppering kisses along the way, “because I will never lay a hand on you that you’re not begging for.”

You bury your hands in his short locks, scratching your nails along his scalp. The groan he lets out makes him circle you in his arms, sliding you down his thighs to sit tight against him. His breathing becomes erratic, and he rolls his hips below you.

“I’ll never…fuck, I’ll never drink from you. I’ll never bite you, I promise,” he growls, and now his mouth is hot and possessive on your neck, sucking and scraping teeth up to worry behind your ear.

“I like biting,” you whisper back, grinding lightly on him. “Only these teeth, though, not the sharp ones.”

The dark chuckle he makes precedes him pulling you back, looking up at you with wide eyes and a damp mouth.

“I still want you to be my assistant, though, I’m a mess without you,” he pants, eyes glittering with mirth. Shaking your head with a sigh, you dip down to capture the mouth you’d been coveting. He tastes like bitter tea leaves, coffee, and the primal coppery heat of blood on the back of his tongue.

It’s a taste you could get used to.

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