My cat, Spike, mewed in greeting as I pushed open my front door and stepped inside my apartment. He wrapped himself around my legs, almost tripping me as I fumbled for the light switch. It was our daily routine; he pretended he was happy to see me and I kept him well-stocked in kitty litter and catnip.

I reached down, patting him on the head. He took the public display of affection for exactly three seconds, then darted over to his food bowl, looking up at me with accusing eyes. I should have gotten a dog. They weren’t so judgmental.

“I know, I know,” I said, reaching into the cupboard to grab the cat food. “I’m late. There were a lot of people there. I couldn’t just turn them away.”

Spike seemed to roll his eyes at this. He had no issues with turning people away. In fact, turning people away was his typical MO. I was the only one he allowed to touch him and then only sporadically when he was in the mood. Otherwise we both kept to ourselves, the consummate roommates.

“You should be happy,” I scolded him. “Darla wanted me to go out for drinks. I could have been hours later.”

Spike swished his tail, his eyes not leaving the bag of food. I sighed. He knew better than anyone that I would never have taken Darla up on her offer. She knew it, too, when she’d offered. But she always did, anyway. As if she felt guilty going out and having a good time while I returned to my empty (sorry Spike) apartment alone.

But I didn’t begrudge her a good time. And I wished she wouldn’t begrudge me my solitude. She couldn’t understand how I could live in a tiny apartment with towering bookshelves on almost every available surface. She’d told me a thousand times I should move—I had the money now—I could get a real house. With a real library and a master suite with a Jacuzzi tub and walk-in shower.

But while the library part sounded cool, I wasn’t interested in a house I could get lost in. This place was mine. Cozy, cramped, but comfortable. I felt safe here. Spike and I had our routine down and there were no surprises. Nothing to bring on the anxiety. It was my haven, my retreat when things in the outside world got to be too much. When the signing lines were long or the fans were rowdy, I could picture this place. My well-worn sofa, my Apple TV. My faithful computer in the corner, surrounded by vampire tchotchkes that fans had sent me over the years. It all dampened the screaming anxiety to a dull roar.

No granite countertop or six burner range in the world could make up for that luxury.

I sat down on the couch in question now, fidgeting a little, still wired from the event. I hated that feeling—being tired, but unable to sleep. On nights like this, if I didn’t do my trick, I would be up for hours, staring at the wall, actively trying to keep the panic at bay as I thought back to all the people. Surrounded by people.

I leaned back on the couch. They were all friends, I told myself, going through my routine. They all loved you. They loved your books. They only wanted to meet you. The flashes from their smart phones burned against my irises. They wanted to post your picture on Facebook to brag to their friends. They’re part of your family. They love Jonathan, they love Maisie. They love you.

Except the guy who hadn’t.

My gut clenched as my mind flashed back to the tall, dark stranger at the back of the room again. Logan Valcourt. Hot asshole extraordinaire. Why had he come? What did he want? His eyes seemed to burn into me, even now. Cutting and cruel and angry. Why had he bought a book? Why had he said those things about me?

Not that they weren’t true. At the end of the day, he was right. What I wrote about vampires? Just a mash-up of what I’d seen on TV and read in other books. I hadn’t done any real research into the entire mythos—just sampled popular culture and made up the rest. It usually made Darla and I giggle when people would write online about how my vampires were “realistic” unlike other authors’. How could something made up be real?

And as for the not knowing men, well, that was more than a given. I hadn’t had a boyfriend since before. And I doubted I would ever have one again. But that suited me just fine. After all, I had a busy, successful life. I had dozens of well-loved book boyfriends. And I had Jonathan. Jonathan, the perfect man. The perfect vampire. The one who could always guarantee me a happily ever after.

Real life was just too risky.

I walked over to the keyboard and smiled. “Hey Jonathan,” I whispered, feeling a little silly doing it. I sank down into my computer chair and loaded up my latest work in progress. Dreams with the Vampire would be the fourteenth novel in the series and I was determined to make it the best.

I began to type.

---

“Jonathan are you okay?”

Maisie looked up to see the vampire stalk into the room. She frowned.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, taking a worried step backward. She’d never seen him like this. His eyes were cutting, cruel. Angry.

He grabbed her and shoved her against the wall. His lips pressing against hers, cruel and punishing. She opened her mouth to protest and his tongue dove in.

“You think you know everything, don’t you?” he snarled as he came up for air. “But you know nothing at all.”

---

I leaned back in my chair, frowning. Where had that come from? Jonathan did not accost Maisie. They were in love. They respected one another. She was safe from him. He never scared her.

He wasn’t like him.

I shuddered as the all too familiar fear trickled down my back, causing my pulse to rise and my heart to beat faster in my chest. I rose from my seat, checking the windows, checking the doors. That was another nice thing about having a small place, though I wouldn’t have admitted this to anyone. But it was easy to keep on top of. I checked the windows again, then the door. But my pulse still raced.

And so I walked over to the bookcase. I grabbed the box. The beautiful handcrafted wooden vampire puzzle box, made from wood harvested from the Carpathian Mountains. It had been stained turquoise blue on the outside and lined in the richest velvet on the inside. I ran my hand across the top of it, taking a deep breath. Just seeing the box gave me back a small bit of control. Sometimes that was all I needed.

But not tonight. Tonight with the huge crowd, with the man who looked like Jonathan but wasn’t. Tonight I needed something more. And so I opened the box and I pulled out the razor blade. It gleamed in the candlelight of my apartment and I sucked in a breath. Then I put it to my arm, closing my eyes. Letting all my worries flee my mind as I concentrated on dragging the blade down the inside of my arm. Watching the small trail of crimson appear behind it.

It was beautiful.

And I was at peace once again.