I Resurrected around six in the evening.

I take a shower at seven.

At eight I dare go to the blackout curtains that cover my bedroom window and peek outside. Only to slam them shut. It’s only twilight, the sun has long since sunk below the horizon. But even that minimal light is enough to make my eyes burn with incredible pain.

At nine, I lie on my bed, staring up at the ceiling.

Thousands of thoughts are racing through my head. One event after another that has happened, is happening, or will need to happen in the very near future.

I died four days ago because I leapt in front of a stake meant for Cyrus. A spy infiltrated this house, intent on killing Cyrus. Just days before that, they ransacked the house. They looked for evidence that the King was indeed here in Greendale, Colorado.

Cyrus has had thousands of enemies over the centuries. As I think back, I know there have been countless attempts on his life. None of them successful.

I look toward the door, to where the hall is. To where Cyrus killed the man who ended my life.

Maybe this individual acted alone. Maybe not. Maybe this isn’t over.

I look back up at the ceiling. I’m not ready. I’m not ready to jump back into this life, these deadly games.

So I turn to something more familiar.

Rath.

I search, trying to find that name in the past. To recall any previously forgotten knowledge about him, but there isn’t anything. Nothing at all.

But Logan knows exactly where he is. I know what needs to happen now. He was to remain in the House of Valdez’ custody until I died.

It’s time for his release.

I let my mind wander, trailing from one thought to the next.

The betrayal I felt as Rath told me the truth about why he came into my life. The coldness of his cell. The strength of Edmond Valdez and the words he spoke to me. The hints at my birth mother.

I think of the gladiator game Cyrus made them play as punishment.

Punishment for the show they created for him.

Punishment for thinking Sevan…my story, would serve as entertainment.

The look in Cyrus’ eyes fills my vision. The brokenness I witnessed in his eyes. The way his hands fisted. The pain of centuries in his gaze. The sob that ripped from his throat when I left him to grieve.

I raise my hands to my chest, holding in the pain I felt for him then.

I may be two people right now, trying to figure out how to be one.

But in this moment, I’m Logan Pierce.

I’m that woman who read his pain. The one who dared speak out against a House of immortal vampires to end the tale that gave the man I love so much pain.

A breath of agony sucks into my chest suddenly. I bite my lower lip to hold in the cry of anguish and pain and longing.

I sit up in the bed and look over at the clock.

11:21.

Please, Logan, Cyrus begged me as he caressed my arm, my body. Don’t make me wait.

Guilty? I had asked him.

The guilt of feeling as if I am betraying my wife, he had whispered to me as I lay there dying. Because when I look at you, Logan…

My hand pulls the door to my bedroom open.

It never ceases to amaze me, every time I Resurrect, just how truly incredible being a vampire is. The absolute sense of balance. The feeling of strength and power that flows through my veins. The perfect clarity of vision. And the crystal clear hearing.

Cyrus is in his bedroom.

I hesitate with my hand on his doorknob for just a moment. I’m a shaking, trembling mess. It’s incredible that emotions can even outweigh my vampiric abilities. Can bring me to my knees.

In this moment, I let go of the past.

In this moment, I close off Sevan. And I’m just Logan Pierce.

I twist the doorknob and push the door open.

It’s dark, but I can see clearly.

He stands beside the window, looking out over the property. But he looks over his shoulder at me, his eyes waiting.

I let my own wander over him. He wears a pair of jeans. His feet are bare. A gray t-shirt hugs his form nicely.

I push her away. The woman who knows every inch of this man. Who has touched every surface of his body.

I don’t want to be in this moment with her experience in my head.

Right now, I just want to be Logan.

Cyrus stares at me, waiting for my cues. But I see it in his eyes, the burning. The embers. The desire—for a lot of things.

I step inside and close the door behind me.

Slowly, I cross the room through the dark. One step at a time I approach Cyrus, holding his eyes the entire time.

He’s silent, but his eyes say a million words. They run up and down me as I cross the space. I wear an oversized shirt that falls halfway to my knees. His eyes take in my legs. Linger on my shoulder where the neck of the shirt has slid off.

I stop just inches from him and let my eyes fall to the space between us. I reach for his hand and lace my fingers into his.

“We may have pretended for a few weeks,” I say quietly. My heart is racing, my blood surging through all the feminine parts in me. “Put on a show. But in the end, it was real for me. It did things to me.”

“The past few weeks-”

“Please don’t say anything,” I say, cutting him off. My eyes wander over him, taking every bit of him in, but never quite meet his eyes. “Please just let me have this.” I pull our hands up, resting them against my chest. “For just this night, please just be with me.”

I know he can feel it, my heart thundering inside of my rib cage. The sensation of his skin, his hand against my chest, it’s overwhelming. I crave his touch. After the past few weeks of longing, of imagining, of fantasizing what it would be like to be touched by Cyrus, here I am.

I asked him not to speak, so he doesn’t.

Instead, he wraps his hand around my waist. He draws me in close and he wraps his other hand behind my neck.

I let my eyes slide closed. I wrap my arms around the man who has done such complicated things to my heart. I run my hands up his back, appreciating every muscle on his body.

His breath warms my neck as it comes out in a big sigh. It sends a wave of goose bumps across my skin and I let my head fall backward as a little sound escapes between my lips.

It’s just a slight brush at first, his bottom lip against my collarbone. So soft I can’t even feel him, only his warmth. But then it happens again, and once more. He shifts, and soon his lips are pressed to the side of my neck, slowly working their way up to the hollow beneath my ear.

I let my hands fall, slowly sliding down, tracing along Cyrus’ sides, until they catch on his belt. Through the dark, my fingers search, until they find the hem of his shirt. They slide under the fabric, and my breath catches when they come in contact with flesh.

A needy groan escapes Cyrus’ mouth when I touch him and the frenzy in me doubles.

I’ve fantasized about this dozens of times over these past few weeks. Wondered what my view would be with his shirt removed. Wondered how he would feel. Wondered how he would smell from this close. Wondered what kinds of sounds I could make him make.

His hand slides down, dips dangerously low on my back.

I continue letting my hands slide up.

Over his stomach. Over rises and falls.

Up over his chest muscles.

And it’s not enough.

In a swift motion, I pull further up, and Cyrus raises his arms, letting me remove his shirt entirely.

I place one hand on his chest, the other slowly sliding up his arm, appreciating his sculpted body.

Possessively, his hands grip the fabric at my hips and pulls mine to his. His lips come to my jaw, moving up. My entire body ignites with electric sparks when he gently pulls at my earlobe with his teeth.

I moan, utterly satisfied and craving a million degrees more of his touch.

His grip on my hips tightens and I rise up onto my toes. As if I weighed nothing at all, he lifts me, spinning in one motion. He pins me against the wall, his hips holding me in place, pressing hard into me.

His eyes hold a dim glow of red, but I can tell, mine are brilliant and bright. I can’t hold anything back right now. Can’t think straight to do so in the moment.

My hands return to his chest, relishing in the feeling of my skin against his.

Cyrus takes the hem of my shirt and in one swift motion, pulls it up and over my head and lets it fall to the floor at his feet.

His mouth once more returns to the hollow at the base of my throat and my head falls back against the wall. My hands rise up, fisting in his hair. My fingers lace through its thickness.

Another fantasy fulfilled tonight.

His hands caress my back, rising up, his fingers splayed, as if trying to gain every inch of contact possible. I arch into him, needing more. Craving more of him.

“Logan,” he breathes against my flesh.

And a wave crashes down on top of me, drowning me.

My hands come to either side of his face and his eyes meet mine.

Longing. Lust. Desire.

And I want it to be there. Maybe it is, but I’m too scared it isn’t real:

Love.

“Say it again,” I beg him.

He watches me for a moment, and I know he has to be overanalyzing my request.

But the heat does not diminish in his eyes.

His grip on me tightens, and he steps away from the wall. My legs stay wrapped around his waist and he carries us to the bed in the middle of the room.

Gently he lays me down on it, hovering just above me, his eyes locked on mine. His hands come to my hips, and slowly the right one trails down. His eyes wander. To my stomach. To the black panties I wear. Up, over the bra I wear, over the rise of my breasts.

He dips, pressing his lips to my stomach. “Logan,” he whispers against my flesh.

Once more, my hands come to fist in his hair. I arch against the bed, anxious and eager for his touch.

“Logan,” he says again. His eyes slide closed and he draws my knee up, holding it against his side.

My eyes flutter closed and every cell in my body is focused on the sensation of his hands exploring my body.

I love you. The words echo in my brain.

But there are too many sides to this. Too many complicated aspects. And the words cannot come past my lips. Not yet.

For now, I can just touch him. I can just exist in this moment, being with Cyrus. Finally.

Finally.

Me and Cyrus. Together.