⋆ Chapter 52

I got home earlier than expected—which, in vampire date world, meant the date had gone up in flames but not actual flames this time, so... progress?

Nope. Another trainwreck

Still in the stupid red dress and sore from walking in heels that had no right being legal, I collapsed onto the couch with a groan. My phone buzzed. I ignored it. Then it buzzed again. And again.

Cillian’s spare phone lit up on the coffee table. I reached for it with one arm, flopped on my back like a tired, overdramatic walrus, and unlocked it with a sigh.

Torrence. Again.

She’d sent three more messages since yesterday, all varying degrees of “Hey, I just wanted to explain myself,” and “I didn’t mean for things to get awkward.”

 Poor woman. She was just so sad. And I knew what it felt like to be ghosted by someone you’d overshared with. I’d been the drunk-texting clown on the other side of that conversation too many times to count. So yeah, I kept replying. Nothing flirty, nothing weird. Just enough to make her feel like she wasn’t totally crazy.

I knew he told me to block her after the first date, but… I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

I’d already messaged her a few times pretending to be him—kind, distant, polite-but-final. And she’d responded with more emotion than I expected. So now I just stared at her latest message, thumb hovering, guilt pooling in my chest like melted ice cream. I should block her. I really should.

Instead, I sighed and moved on.

I pulled up our chat thread and shot Cillian a quick text.

Me: your next date tomorrow evening will be with Madelaine Shrew. She’s 27. A personal gym instructor. Nutritionist.

I tossed my phone to the side, not expecting a quick reply. But nope.

Cillian: Did you limit the search to gym buffs and nutritionists, Pet?

I grinned. My fingers were already flying across the keyboard.

Me: You said you wanted a healthy Keeper, right? Don’t worry, Madelaine loves sunsets and has four pomeranians she calls her babies.

I giggled to myself as I typed it out, half from the mental image of four tiny diva dogs, half from imagining Cillian’s reaction. His dry, tortured reply arrived exactly on cue.

Cillian: I am in hell.

God, he made it so easy.

But before I could fire off something equally sarcastic, another message popped up.

Cillian: And this time, if things go poorly again… I’d like you to pretend to be the ex who is still very in love with me. Hopelessly obsessed.

I blinked at the screen.

Me: Are you kidding me??

Cillian: I’m not, Pet.

I groaned into a throw pillow.

Of course he wasn’t. Because why simply survive a normal evening when I could publicly humiliate myself on command?

I let out the longest, most dramatic groan known to womankind and flopped back against the couch. This man. This unholy, manipulative, ridiculously pretty man.

I tried to argue. Really. I fired back a bunch of question marks and insults and something about therapy. He ignored it all.

Fine. Fine.

I scrolled through Madelaine’s dating profile again, picked the most flattering photo, and sent it to him

Me: She’s your type, right? Come on. You can’t tell me she’s not your type.

His response was maddeningly fast.

Cillian: You don’t know my type.

I stared at the message longer than I meant to. Then I clicked the screen off and tossed the phone aside again.

"Sure I don’t," I mumbled, already curling up under my favorite throw blanket.

I didn’t respond after that.

Mostly because I didn’t want to ask the question that had started forming in my chest.

And definitely because I wasn’t ready to hear the answer.

I must’ve passed out like the dead, because when I woke up, my mouth tasted crap and my limbs were weirdly tangled. I shoved myself upright, blinked against the sun stabbing through the window, and shuffled toward the kitchen like a hungover cartoon ghost.

Coffee. Water. Something with carbs. I hit play on my mom’s voicemail while brushing my teeth—another ten-minute saga about a shell she found that she swears looked like a crying horse. I made approving noises through the phone speaker as I slathered peanut butter on toast.

When I finally remembered to check Cillian’s burner phone, my stomach dropped.

Torrence. Again.

There were more messages on his dating app profile. I sighed and tapped into the thread, skimming past the midnight ramble she’d sent last night. I figured it was time to gently shut things down—no ghosting, just a polite fade out.

Me (as Cillian): Good morning. Wishing you a beautiful day ahead! :)

Sweet, neutral, no hooks for follow-up. The kind of text that practically says “we’re done here.”

Or so I thought.

Not even five minutes later, my phone buzzed. Then again. And again.

Torrence was on a roll. She was sending me—no joke—a full parade of romantic couple getaway reels. Sunset resorts in Santorini. Matching bathrobes in Iceland. Those pods in the Maldives with the glass floor and mood lighting. I blinked down at the screen as another reel popped up titled “Top 10 Spots For Vampire-Lycan Love Retreats.”

Was she… suggesting these? For her and Cillian? Was this her weird way of asking for another date?

“Oh my god,” I muttered, dragging my thumb across the screen.

I wanted to feel bad. I did feel bad. But also… this was rapidly becoming unhinged. Poor Torrence needed to get off social media and into therapy.

I was mid-sip of coffee and trying to decide if I should block her or just leave her on read when someone knocked at the door.

I froze.

It was early—too early for deliveries or salespeople or even nosy neighbors. I peeked through the peephole. A guy stood there, maybe late twenties. Tall, lean, and clean-cut with a nice smile and sharper cheekbones than anyone deserved at this hour. He wore a fitted black coat and had a look like he belonged in a Scandinavian thriller series.

When I opened the door a crack, he smiled wider.

“Matilda Parker?”

I blinked. “Uh… yes?”

“Hi.” He nodded politely. “I’m Rafael. Xavier’s future beta.”

I stared at him, my brain scrambling. Xavier as in...

“What?”

“Beta. Like second-in-command. Well, future… second-in-command” he added helpfully, like I might be confusing it with a vitamin or a software update.

I opened the door wider, heart already tripping over itself.

Well. This was new.