He seems doesn't know how to appreciate my heartly sweetness and moves again.
This time, he's not testing.
This time, he's arresting.
We crash into the coffee table. It shudders. A glass rolls, doesn't break—miracle.
He pins me for half a second.
I bite down on my own tongue—just enough pain to trigger speed—and wrench free.
We separate, both breathing harder now.
My wrist stings.
His jaw bleeds.
And—damn it—he's winning.
Not by a lot.
But enough.
Enough to make me hate him more.
Then—
A distant sound cuts through the tension.
A rising wail.
Sirens.
Human sirens.
Close.
Getting closer.
We both freeze.
If human police walk in and see a wolf cop and a teenage girl-shaped vampire brawling beside a corpse—
No amount of "rational explanation" will save the night.
I lift a hand, palm out.
"Stop," I say, voice sharp and nod toward the window, toward the street below where blue light flickers against the glass.
"Humans," I say. "Now."
He hesitates for half a heartbeat—calculating.
Then his jaw tightens.
"You're coming with me," he says.
"Not a chance," I reply.
We lock eyes.
Two predators.
One problem: cops downstairs.
"Fine," I say. "We leave first. We argue later."
His gaze flicks once—bag, body, door, hallway.
Then back to me.
"Move," he says.
And for the first time tonight, we do the same thing without trying to kill each other.
We move.
Fast.
Together.
Nothing bonds enemies like the sound of human sirens climbing nine floors.
I clean the room with practiced efficiency, erasing us from the scene until it looks like nothing—and no one—was ever here.
The wolf watches.
Interested.
That's bad.
I've shown too much.
As I pull the door shut, I remember my manners.
"Goodbye, Miles," I tell my dear editor—still face down in the blood.
We hit the hallway.
Doors crack open behind us.
Faces peek out. Someone whispers, "What's going on?"
Blue light flickers through the stairwell window—police car on the street below, they are climbing fast.
The lift is at the far end.
But we can't move too fast with so many eyes on us—
especially with this wolf still gripping my arm.
I dislike him. Obviously.
We stop in front of the lift.
It's coming up--and I scent the police.
We are about to collide with them—face to face.
That's bad.
If they look at me—young, pale, wide-eyed enough to scream trouble.
Or at him—tall, bruised, blood still drying along his jaw—
that's trouble already.
I lower my head.
Immediately, a hand cups my chin and forces my face up.
My back hits the wall.
The wolf.
Then he kisses me.
Hard.
Wild.
Not tender.
Not sweet.
He is, one hundred percent, a good kisser.
A bloody cold man.
I dislike him—truly.
I cooperate.
He crowds me in, blocking every exit.
As the lift doors open, the officers glance over— and my collar has been dragged off one shoulder—
enough to make the whole scene feel indecent.
They walk past with the universal human look: Oh, for God's sake.
One of them immediately looks away, awkward.
The other mutters, "Jesus," like we've personally ruined his shift.
As soon as they disappear down the hall, I take my turn.
I open my mouth.
And bite.
Not a playful nip.
Not a romantic "oops."
A real bite.
Right into his lower lip.
I taste blood instantly—hot, sharp, animal-rich.
Delicious.
I should have known.
He's an Alpha.
For one moment, I can't stop myself.
Not every vampire gets the chance to taste a real Alpha.
The wolf jerks, just slightly. His hand tightens at my cheek for half a beat.
Then he forces himself to stay calm. He has to.
His lip splits. Red blooms fast.
He pulls back only a fraction—still close enough to look intimate.
Still close enough to look like we belong together.
His eyes lock on mine, gold and furious again.
My smile is sweet. Still.
His lip bleeds.
Perfect.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his glove, staring back at the curious men passing.
"That was unnecessary," he says, cold.
"You're not the only one who decides what's necessary," I say.
Then I slip into the lift and hit Close hard enough to offend the button.
"Goodbye, Wolf." I smile as if he can see it.
The moment I step out of Clifton Gate Studios, my phone rings.
Susan.
Of course. I know exactly why she's calling.
"Hi, Rox," She says, "We've something in Bristol. Clifon Gate Studios."
"Already handled," I say.
A pause.
Then a soft, satisfied hum.
"Good," she says. "I thought you might say that."
Yes, we have something to do there.
And we've already done it.
When I hang up, it hits me - both of my jobs are clear for tonight.
Yeah. Off duty now.
Then I turn and walk into the Bristol night like I didn't just bite a werewolf cop.
Like I'm still polite.
Like my whole life isn't a paperwork apocalypse waiting to happen.