Xavian didn't stay much longer after that.

  The conversation died slowly, both of us running out of things to say. Eventually he straightened from the dresser and gave a small shrug like the moment had simply reached its natural end.

  "You should eat something," he said.

  "I'm not hungry."

  He didn't argue.

  Instead he glanced toward the door.

  "My brother is waiting."

  That made my stomach twist again.

  "Right," I muttered.

  Xavian paused at the door for a moment, studying me the way he always seemed to—quietly, thoughtfully, like he was trying to solve something.

  Then he opened the door and stepped out.

  I heard low voices in the living room.

  Cazaro's deeper tone.

  Xavian answering.

  Then the front door opened.

  And closed.

  Silence filled the apartment.

  For a while I just sat there on the edge of the bed.

  My head still hurt, though the pounding had dulled into something heavier and slower. The apartment felt strangely hollow without the tension of three other people inside it.

  The pasta water had long since gone cold in the kitchen.

  I didn't move.

  Minutes passed.

  Then an hour.

  Then another.

  I stayed in the room, staring at the wall or the floor or the ceiling, replaying the morning over and over in my head.

  Zane's voice.

  You are a blood whore.

  I squeezed my eyes shut.

  The anger from earlier had burned itself down into something quieter now. Not gone—just sitting deeper.

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  Anger at my editor.

  At the church.

  At the stupid article that had somehow unraveled everything.

  At Zane.

  At myself.

  Outside the apartment, I could hear the faint sounds of the building moving through the day. Doors opening. Someone walking down the hallway. Pipes clanking softly in the walls.

  Life going on.

  Eventually the room started to feel suffocating.

  I let out a long breath and pushed myself off the bed.

  My legs still felt a little weak, but the dizziness from earlier had mostly faded.

  "Okay," I muttered.

  Enough hiding.

  I walked out of the bedroom and grabbed my keys from the counter. The apartment looked exactly the same as it had before—cheap furniture, cluttered shelves, the pot of forgotten noodles still sitting on the stove.

  I ignored it and headed for the door.

  The hallway outside was quiet when I opened it.

  But something bright caught my eye immediately.

  A piece of red paper had been nailed to the door.

  My stomach dropped.

  I already knew what it meant.

  I didn't even need to read it.

  Pastor Eric.

  The church.

  Exile.

  My hand hovered over the paper for a second before I pulled it free.

  The words confirmed it.

  I was no longer welcome.

  Not at services.

  Not at gatherings.

  Not anywhere connected to the church.

  Pastor Eric would not allow me back.

  I stared at the paper for a long moment, the hallway suddenly feeling colder around me.

  Then I let out a small breath.

  And realized something quietly devastating.

  Everything I had grown up with was gone.

  I kept walking.

  Standing there in the hallway wasn't going to change anything.

  The red paper crumpled slightly in my hand as I moved down the stairs, the wood creaking beneath my feet the same way it always had. The building smelled like old carpet and someone's cheap laundry detergent drifting out of an open door.

  Normally it would have felt familiar.

  Today it just felt empty.

  By the time I stepped outside, the afternoon air had cooled a little. The street looked the same as it had earlier—cars passing, people walking, the city continuing without caring that my life had just been quietly dismantled.

  Good.

  That made the next part easier.

  Because if anyone saw me walking toward the newspaper building, it would look like I was doing exactly what someone in my situation would do.

  Picking up my final paycheck.

  The lie slid neatly into place.

  The walk didn't take long. My editor's building sat three blocks away, an old brick structure with faded lettering above the door that had once looked impressive and now mostly looked tired.

  Inside, the newsroom buzzed with its usual energy.

  No one stopped me.

  No one questioned why I was there.

  I walked straight past the desks and toward the back hallway where my editor's office sat.

  Then I knocked once and stepped inside before he could answer.

  He looked up from the papers on his desk.

  His eyes widened slightly.

  "Well," he said.

  "I didn't expect to see you back so soon."

  I shut the door behind me.

  The click of the lock sounded louder than I intended.

  "I landed with a vampire," I said.

  The words came out fast.

  Direct.

  He leaned back in his chair immediately, interest lighting up his face.

  "You what?"

  "And I discovered something odd."

  Now he was fully focused.

  He gestured for me to continue.

  "What kind of odd?"

  I rubbed a hand across my temple, trying to put the experience into words.

  "It's fuzzy," I said.

  "What is?"

  "The thinking."

  His brow furrowed.

  "In the Blood Bank," I continued. "Your head feels... wrong."

  I struggled to explain it.

  "Even without a drink."

  I thought back to the alley.

  The moment Airis touched my neck.

  "How wrong?" he asked.

  "Like you can't think straight," I said.

  "Like you're drugged."

  My editor leaned forward slowly.

  "But you weren't?"

  "No," I said firmly.

  "I didn't take anything."

  The room went quiet.

  For a moment he just stared at me.

  Then slowly, a very different expression spread across his face.

  Interest.

  The kind that meant I had just found something big.