"Has Michael always been that aggressive?"
I glanced back at Ethan, who'd pulled off his suit coat and draped it on the back of a nearby chair. "Actually, yes. When we were younger and I spent summers here, Nick and I, sometimes Finn, would play together in the woods. Michael never played at anything. I mean, he participated in football, but it wasn't a game to him. It was a battle. He's always had a very serious demeanor. And it doesn't seem like he's loosening up with old age."
"Times are challenging for everyone," Ethan said. "But it's taken some supernaturals longer than others to realize and accept that. It's easier, I think, for them to name us enemies rather than consider the possibility they're surrounded by millions of humans who'd easily wish them dead."
I grimaced. "That's not exactly a comforting thought. Especially since it's undoubtedly true." I was sure we had human allies—those who didn't judge, those who were fascinated by our differentness, those who longed for our fame. But we'd been coming face-to-face with mostly the haters recently.
Ethan glanced around the apartment, gestured toward the open doorway. "Bedroom?"
"I actually have no idea." I'd spent a lot of time at the Breck estate as a child, but I'd never ventured into the carriage house. Why bother, when there was an entire mansion to explore?
I followed him through the door, found he was right. It was a small bedroom, with tall, exposed-brick walls. A bed covered in white linens and a buffet of pillows in shades of blue and green sat in the middle of the room, the head covered by a canopy of wispy tulle that draped romantically over the sides.
"Like the world's weirdest bed and breakfast," I muttered, dropping my bag onto the bed. There was an old-fashioned alarm clock on the bedside table and a copy of Cosmo. I hoped it had been left by a former guest and not a member of the Breck family who hoped to give me and Ethan a particularly exciting evening.
There was a small bathroom on the other side of the room. Pedestal sink, black-and-white-checkered floor, shower large enough for three. Very pretty, down to the monogrammed guest towels.
When I peeked back into the bedroom, Ethan stood with one hand on his hip, the other holding his phone as he reviewed his messages with a narrowed gaze. He looked more like the head of a Fortune 500 company than a Master vampire on the lam, but I wasn't complaining. Ethan might have been cunning, funny, brave, and generous . . . but he was also undeniably eye candy.
Tall, lean, and imperious, he'd been my enemy, and he was the opposite of the man I'd thought I'd grow to love. I'd expected to fall for a dreamer, a thinker, an artist. Someone I'd meet in the coffeehouse on a weekend with a satchel full of books, a pair of hipster glasses, and a tendency to quote Fitzgerald.
Ethan preferred Italian suits, vintage wine, and expensive cars. He also knew how to wield a sword, or two of them. He Mastered the House, and he'd killed vampires by his own hand. He was infinitely more complex and difficult than anyone I might have imagined.
And I was more in love with him than I'd imagined was possible. Not just infatuation. Not just lust. But love—complex and awe inspiring and utterly frustrating.
Nearly a year ago, I thought my life was over. In reality, it was just beginning.
Ethan looked up at me, frustration fading to curiosity.