They hid the USB in the least romantic place imaginable: the flour bin.
“Developers will never look there,” Dima said dryly as he pushed the Tupperware to the back of the pantry in the office kitchen. “They think bread comes from glass cases.”
“And Irina’s people?” Mira asked.
He snorted. “They don’t… cook,” he said. “You’re safe.”
“Rude,” Aleksandr muttered.
“You don’t,” Dima said.
“I make… tea,” Aleksandr said, offended.
“My point stands,” Dima replied.
It had been two days since the cannery.
Two days since Mira had watched Subject 17’s empty eyes and offered a choice to a boy who might yet stab her.
Two days since Irina’s people had dismantled part of Kalugin’s monstrous machine and taken one of its cogs into their care/containment.
Two days since Mira had slept more than three hours at a stretch.
She stood now at the office whiteboard, marker in hand, listing tasks.
- Copy & encrypt cannery data - Draft memo for commission re: new evidence - Coordinate with Yulia on third clinic piece - Check on Dima (new) — vampire one - Check on Kostya’s aunt - Replace office locks (again) - Eat?
She added the last one almost as an afterthought.
Aleksandr, leaning against the opposite wall, read the list upside down.
“You forgot… ‘breathe,’” he said.
She drew a little checkbox next to “Eat?” and wrote *+ breathe*.
“There,” she said. “Happy?”
“Content,” he corrected.
Dima closed the pantry, dusting his hands.
“I need to call Yulia,” he said. “She’s getting impatient. She wants the juicy stuff.”
“I hope you mean the documents,” Mira said. “Not… any of this.”
She gestured vaguely between herself and Aleksandr.
“That’s… between you, your god, and the vampire union,” Dima said. “I don’t want to know.”
He retreated to his desk, phone already at his ear.
Mira capped the marker, tapped it against her palm.
“You’ve been… quiet,” she said to Aleksandr.
“Observing,” he said.
“What?” she asked.
“You,” he said. “Them. The… cracks.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “And?”
“And… I am… concerned,” he said. “About… you.”
“Because I’m not eating?” she asked. “We can get takeout…”
“No,” he said. “Because… you are… doing… too much. We all… are. But… you… most. You… carry… all… of this… in your… small… mortal… body. It… has… limits.”
She bristled. “Don’t call my body… small,” she said.
He smiled faintly. “Formidable,” he amended. “But… finite.”
She exhaled. “We don’t… have the luxury… of pacing,” she said. “Kalugin isn’t… sleeping. The commission… is dragging. Yulia’s… at risk. Your… new… pet…”—she meant the young vampire Dima, and he knew it—“…could bolt… or… snap… at any moment. If we… slow… too much… we lose… what we… gained.”
He stepped closer.
“Slow… does not… mean… stop,” he said, voice low. “It means… choose. You cannot… fight… on… every… front… every… day.”
She knew he was right.
That was what made it infuriating.
“Fine,” she said. “What do you suggest, oh ancient strategist?”
“Choose… one… battle… for… today,” he said. “The rest… can… breathe. You… can… breathe.”
She looked at the board.
Each task pulsed like an accusation.
“Data,” she said finally. “We… start… with… data. Copy it. Get it… to Yulia… and… Irina… in forms they can… use. After that… we… check… on… your… Dima. Then… food. Non-negotiable.”
He nodded, satisfied. “Good,” he said.
They set up in the back room, away from the windows.
Mira’s laptop hummed as it read the USB. She’d inserted it into an air-gapped machine—no internet, no network. Just documents and her.
The files unfolded.
More lab reports. Video logs. Staff rotations. A few heavily encrypted folders she set aside for later.
As she worked, Aleksandr prowled the room like a caged thing.
He paused at the window, looking out at the street three stories below.
“Your… city,” he murmured. “Always… moving. Even… when… it sleeps.”
“It’s… addicted… to motion,” she said without looking up. “If it stops… it has to… look… at itself.”
“Like… us,” he said.
She glanced up.
He was watching his faint reflection in the glass—or rather, the lack of one.
“You know,” she said carefully, “if… you… want… to… not… think… for a while…”
He turned.
“Yes?” he said.
“You could… feed,” she said, throat tight. “Properly. Not… bags. We… could… find… someone. Willing. Somewhere… safer… than your… club days.”
His eyes darkened. “This… again,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “Because… you’re… twitchy. You’re… pacing. Your… hunger… is… humming… so loud… it’s… making my… teeth… ache.”
He blinked. “You… feel… it,” he said.
“Yes,” she said bluntly. “In… the room. In… my… bones. In… the way… you… look… at… my… neck… when you think… I’m not… noticing.”
He flinched. “I—”
“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t… lie. It’s… okay. It’s… you. It’s… what… you are. I’m… the idiot… who invited… a predator… into her… apartment. I don’t get to… be… surprised… he’s… hungry.”
He looked… stricken.
“I told you—” he began.
“You told me… you’d… try… not to hurt me,” she cut in. “You haven’t. Yet. I appreciate that. But I also… don’t… want you… to starve… yourself… into… snapping. That helps… no one.”
Silence stretched.
“I… have… Irina’s… donors,” he said finally. “If… I… choose. I do not… have… to… hunt.”
“And why… haven’t you… gone?” she asked.
He hesitated.
“Pride,” he said. “Perhaps. Habit. We… always… handled… our own… hunger. We did not… line up… at someone else’s… table.”
“Also… you don’t like… owing… them,” she said.
“That too,” he admitted.
She chewed the inside of her cheek.
“You could… owe… me… instead,” she said quietly.
He stared.
“You do… already,” he said.
“Not like that,” she said, flushing. “I mean—”
She swallowed.
“I’m… considering… offering,” she said.
His eyes went very, very dark.
“No,” he said at once.
She blinked. “You don’t even know—”
“No,” he repeated, more forcefully. “Not… like this. Not… when you are… tired. Raw. Full… of… other… people’s… pain. It would be… like… drinking… from… a… wound.”
“But—” she began.
He stalked across the room, catching her shoulders in cool hands. Not hard. Firm.
“You… do not… understand,” he said, voice low. “What it… would… mean… for me. For you. For… us. It is… not… a… kiss. It is… not… a… favor. It is… a… bond. Stronger… than… any… you… have… tasted… so far.”
She swallowed.
“The red thread,” she whispered.
“Thicker,” he said. “Deeper. Blood… taken… is… different… than… blood… given… in drops. It is… hunger… and… trust… and… power… tangled. I am… not… confident… enough… in… my… control… to… take… from… you… safely… yet. And… even… if I were…” He exhaled shakily. “It would… tie you… to me… in ways… you… might… regret… later.”
She looked up into his eyes.
“What… if I don’t… regret it,” she said softly.
“You can’t… know… that,” he said. “Not… now. Not… with… everything… else… burning. You think… you… want… this… because… you… want… to… help. To… ease. That is… noble. It is also… dangerous. For both… of us.”
She hated that he was right.
She loved that he was.
“Fine,” she said, after a long, shaking breath. “Not… now. Later. When… you’re… less… twitchy. When… I’m… less… crazy. We… revisit.”
His grip on her shoulders softened.
“Perhaps,” he said. “Later.”
She covered his hand with hers.
“Go,” she said. “Tonight. To Irina’s… donors. Or… wherever. Take… what you… need. Safely. I… won’t… break… if you… do.”
He searched her face.
“You will… not… be… jealous?” he asked carefully.
The question startled her into a laugh.
“Of… what?” she said. “Some… random… vampire… with a kink… for… being… bitten? No. I’ll… be… grateful… she’s… taking… that… bullet.”
He huffed.
“That is… not… how… bullets… work,” he said.
“It is in my… metaphor,” she said.
He shook his head, faintly exasperated.
“All right,” he said. “I will… go. Tonight. After… we… finish… with… your… data.”
She nodded.
“And you?” he asked. “Will… you… let… yourself… rest… while… I… do… something… selfish?”
She hesitated.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ll… sleep. Or… at least… lie down… and… pretend.”
“Good,” he said.
He stepped back.
“You are… very… bossy,” he added.
“You love it,” she said.
He smiled crookedly. “Perhaps,” he murmured.
***
The donor house was nothing like the crypts.
Mira had expected decadence: velvet chaise longues, candlelight, people in leather collars. Instead, when Aleksandr stepped into the apartment Irina had directed him to, he found something that looked uncomfortably like any other mid-range city flat.
Sofa. Books. A cat.
The cat blinked at him, then decided he was furniture and went back to licking its paw.
The woman on the sofa looked up from her e-reader.
She was in her early forties, plump, with short, practical hair and a cardigan that had seen better days. Her pulse beat steadily in her throat.
“Ah,” she said, setting the reader aside. “You must be the new one.”
Aleksandr blinked.
“Yes,” he said cautiously.
She smiled. “I’m Lena,” she said. “I bake. I teach math to high schoolers. I donate blood… directly… on weekends. Sit.”
He did, perching gingerly on the edge of an armchair.
“This is… odd,” he said.
“For you,” she agreed. “For me, it’s… Tuesday.”
He huffed a laugh despite himself.
“You do this… often,” he said.
She nodded. “Irina… fixed… my ex,” she said matter-of-factly. “He liked… to hit… when he drank. She… removed… that… problem. In return, I give… some… of mine… to… hers. It’s… a fair… trade.”
He stared.
“You are… not… afraid,” he said.
She shrugged. “Of what? Dying?” She gestured vaguely. “I’m… mortal… either way. At least… this way… some… good… comes… of it. And… to be honest…” She smiled, a little wry. “It… feels… good. When they… don’t… take… too much.”
He shifted, uncomfortable.
“We are… not… saints,” he said. “We do not… absolve.”
She snorted. “Of course not,” she said. “You’re… addicts. But… some of you… try… to be… decent… addicts. That’s… something.”
He couldn’t argue.
She tilted her head.
“You were… starving… when you came in,” she said. “I could… smell it. Now… you’re… second-guessing. Don’t. It’s… easier… if we… both… know… why… we’re here.”
He exhaled.
“Consent,” he said. “Important.”
She nodded. “I… consent,” she said clearly. “To… you… taking… some… of my blood. Not… enough… to… make me… faint… at work tomorrow. Enough… to make… whatever… you have to… do… not… kill… you… faster.”
He swallowed.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
She shrugged. “We… help… where we can,” she said. “Try not to… make me… regret it.”
He smiled, small.
“I will… try,” he echoed.
He moved closer, kneeling at her side.
“Wrist or neck?” she asked, practical.
“Wrist,” he said promptly. Neck… was too… intimate… for this.
She offered her arm.
He took it gently, fingers wrapping around the soft flesh. Her skin was warm. Her pulse jumped under his thumb, then steadied.
He looked up.
“Last chance… to… back out,” he said softly.
She rolled her eyes. “You sound like my ex before he proposed,” she said. “Get on with it.”
He laughed once, then let his teeth slide.
The skin parted with the familiar, obscene ease. Blood welled, hot and immediate.
He drank.
It hit him like opening a window in a suffocating room.
Human blood, fresh and willing, flooded his senses. Taste—salt, iron, citrusy high notes of whatever cheap wine she’d had with dinner. Under it, a steady undercurrent of something… kind.
He took… carefully.
With every swallow, his body remembered. His shoulders dropped. The constant, buzzing edge of hunger dulled.
He pulled back before he wanted to.
He licked the wound closed gently. The skin knitted. A faint crescent of teeth marks faded like a shadow.
Lena exhaled.
“See?” she said. “Not so scary.”
He sat back on his heels, eyes closed for a second.
“Thank you,” he said again.
She waved a hand. “Tell Irina to send you less often than Sergei,” she said. “He’s… greedy.”
He smiled.
“I will,” he said.
As he left, full in a way he hadn’t felt in decades, he realized something that made him stop halfway down the stairwell.
He felt less dangerous.
Not to Lena. To Mira.
The thought unsettled and reassured him at once.
He stepped out into the cold night.
Snow fell, lazy this time.
He turned toward Mira’s building without thinking, the pull of her presence as real as any compass.
***
She was waiting for him.
Not by the door, wringing her hands, as some part of him had irrationally feared, but at the kitchen table, laptop open, mug of tea in hand, hair piled on top of her head in a lopsided knot.
“You smell… different,” she said as he hung up his coat.
He blinked. “Better?” he asked.
“Happier,” she said. “Less… sharp.”
He huffed. “Lena… makes… good… blood,” he said.
She smiled crookedly. “You met Lena,” she said. “She’s… terrifying.”
“In a… friendly… way,” he agreed.
They hovered in the small space between table and counter.
“So,” she said. “Does this mean… you’ll stop… staring at my jugular… like it’s… a croissant?”
He flinched. “I—”
“I’m joking,” she said quickly. “Mostly.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Yes,” he said. “It helps. A lot.”
“Good,” she said.
They looked at each other.
The kitchen felt warmer than it had an hour ago.
“You went… out,” she said. “Did… something… selfish. I… laid… down. Watched… a stupid… show. Ate… actual… food. Are you… satisfied?”
“Yes,” he said. “For… tonight.”
“Good,” she said.
She took a step closer.
“So now,” she said softly, “we can… both… be… selfish.”
His breath caught.
“What… do you… want,” he asked, voice low.
“Right now?” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
She reached up, fisted her hand in the front of his shirt, and pulled him down.
The kiss this time was neither desperate nor careful.
It was… hungry. But in a different way.
He tasted Lena’s blood faintly, but under it—over it—was him. His tongue, his teeth, the way he made a soft sound when her fingers slid into his hair.
Her body pressed against his, fitting along the lines she was beginning to learn.
He backed them up until her hips hit the counter.
She gasped into his mouth.
“Slow,” he murmured against her lips.
“You said… tonight… we could… pick… one… battle,” she whispered. “I… pick… this.”
He laughed, breathless.
“Bossy,” he said.
“You love it,” she said again.
“Yes,” he said. “I do.”
They didn’t make it to the sofa.
They didn’t need to.
He lifted her effortlessly onto the counter, standing between her knees, his hands braced on either side of her thighs. The world narrowed to the heat where they touched, the soft drag of his fingers along her waist under her shirt, the way she arched when his mouth traced her jaw.
He was careful.
Even drunk on Lena’s blood and her, even with centuries of predatory instinct humming in his bones, he kept a tight grip on the line they’d drawn: lips, hands, the flush of skin. No fangs. No punctures. No blood.
Not yet.
When they finally pulled apart, foreheads pressed together, breathing hard, the tea on the table had gone stone cold.
“Slow,” she said again, more to herself this time.
He kissed the tip of her nose.
“Slow,” he echoed. “But… not… still.”
She laughed, giddy.
“Tomorrow,” she said, “we go… back… to being… responsible.”
“Yes,” he said. “Tomorrow.”
Tonight, in the small refuge of her kitchen, with the flour bin hiding a USB that could topple men and his mouth tasting of generosity and choice, they allowed themselves a moment that was not about ghosts or politics or hunger.
Just… about each other.
***