Unsolicited Donations

Elliott convinced himself the entire event was an elaborate, terrifying prank orchestrated by the elite, untouchable frat houses on campus. The violet light was a flashbang. The weird tether was a laser pointer. It was the only logical explanation his deeply rational, nerdy brain could accept.

But logic began to violently unravel the next afternoon.

Elliott was working the front circulation desk, sipping terrible breakroom coffee, when a procession of delivery men in sharp suits marched into the quiet library.

"Delivery for Elliott Vance," the lead man announced, setting a sleek, black espresso machine on the desk. "And a delivery of Ethiopian Yirgacheffe roasted beans."

Before Elliott could object, the next man set down a leather messenger bag embossed with gold initials. Then came a catered lunch from a five-star Italian restaurant. And finally, a massive, obnoxious bouquet of rare black orchids.

The few undergrads studying nearby looked up, whispering. Elliott felt his face burn with fiery humiliation. He hated attention. He hated being the center of a joke.

"Take it back," Elliott hissed at the delivery men. "I didn't order this. I can't afford this!"

"It’s already paid for, darling."

Elliott stiffened. Stepping out from behind a stack of reference encyclopedias was Cassian Black. In the daylight, he looked even more impossible. He wore a tailored navy blazer and dark sunglasses, radiating an aura of absolute, terrifying wealth and predatory confidence.

Cassian walked to the desk, completely ignoring the staring students. He leaned over the counter, sliding his sunglasses down his nose to fix Elliott with that intense, crimson gaze.

"You looked exhausted last night," Cassian purred, his voice a rich velvet rasp. "I abhor terrible coffee. And you need to eat. You are far too thin."

"Are you insane?" Elliott whispered furiously, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Is this a joke? Because I'm not playing along. Take your espresso machine and your stupid, perfect hair and get out of my library."

Cassian’s eyes darkened. He didn't look amused. He looked deeply, dangerously possessive. He reached across the counter. Elliott tried to flinch away, but Cassian’s hand gently, almost reverently, cupped Elliott's cheek. The touch was ice-cold, yet it sent a jolt of electricity straight to Elliott’s core.

"No one jokes about what is mine," Cassian said, his voice dropping an octave.

A sophomore in a lacrosse jacket walked past the desk, bumping into Elliott’s chair and letting out a loud, obnoxious laugh.

Cassian’s head snapped toward the student. A low, inhuman snarl ripped from his throat. The temperature in the room plummeted. The sophomore froze, all color draining from his face as Cassian glared at him with murderous, glowing red eyes.

"Apologize to him," Cassian commanded, his voice echoing with a dark, unnatural resonance.

"S-sorry, dude," the lacrosse player stammered, backing away slowly before turning and outright sprinting out of the library.

Elliott stared at Cassian, his logical brain finally short-circuiting. The red eyes weren't contacts. The cold skin wasn't normal. The snarl was entirely predatory.

"You're a vampire," Elliott breathed, the ridiculous, impossible words falling from his lips.

Cassian turned back to him, his expression instantly softening into something terrifyingly devoted. "I am. And whatever that cursed grimoire did to us last night, it has bound my soul to yours. I spent the entire day trying to ignore it, trying to sleep, but my chest feels as though it has been hollowed out, and the only thing that fills the void is the thought of you."

"A soul bond," Elliott said flatly. "With a vampire."

"Yes."

"Right." Elliott grabbed his cardigan, threw it on, and grabbed his beat-up canvas backpack. "I'm going to take a mental health day. I am experiencing a severe psychotic break. Thank you for the espresso machine, my hallucination is very generous."

He marched out from behind the desk, intending to walk briskly to his tiny off-campus apartment and lock the door.

Cassian fell into step beside him, moving with effortless grace. "You are not hallucinating, Elliott. And you are not walking home alone. The streets are dangerous, and I refuse to let you out of my sight."

"I am a twenty-four-year-old man! I don't need a babysitter!"

"You need a translator," Cassian countered smoothly as they exited the library into the crisp Boston autumn air. Waiting at the curb was a sleek, black Rolls Royce. "The grimoire. You were translating the Sumerian text. If we are bound, we need to know exactly what the spell did to us. I have resources. I have a safe location. Come with me, Elliott."

Elliott stopped on the sidewalk. He looked at the impossibly beautiful, terrifyingly intense vampire. His cynical mind screamed at him to run. But the archivist in him, the desperate, nerdy researcher who had spent his life seeking answers, was fatally curious.

"If you try to bite me," Elliott warned, clutching his backpack straps, "I have a mechanical pencil in here, and I know how to use it."

Cassian let out a rich, breathtaking laugh. "I assure you, sweetheart, if my teeth are anywhere near your neck, it will be because you begged for them. Get in the car."