Vamp

“Well, then.” Rudolf nods toward Seleme, then back at Dimitri and me. “We’d best be moving on. The pumpkin carving contest will start in a few minutes. Will you both be carving tonight?”

I glance at Seleme to find her smiling at me, and my heart races, sure that the heat between us must be something everyone is feeling. It can’t just be me.

“No, I don’t think so,” I reply, but Dimitri chuckles then slaps a hand on my shoulder with a hard squeeze.

“Yes, he’s signed up. You should see his work with a knife.”

I snap my head around to glare at my friend.

“What? I signed you up.” He shrugs. “You know you’ve got knife skills; I want to see you do your magic on a pumpkin head.”

“Brilliant.” Seleme’s voice snuffs out any vitriol I might have been tempted to fling toward Dimitri. “May the best woman win.”

With that, her father places his hand on her lower back, and they work through the crowd as I watch. They stop and greet guests, and I want to kill every man that comes near her, but first I’m going to take out my friend. I turn to see him sipping his champagne, eyebrows pulled up, looking at me over the rim of the glass.

“What the fuck, Dimitri?”

He raises one hand, palm upturned. “You need to lighten up. What have you done for fun since you got out? Huh?” He blinks, waiting for my answer, then grins when I don’t give one. “Exactly. And tell me you don’t have knife skills, Ranger Boy.”

“Dishonorable discharge, remember? A little thing called prison? Maybe I don’t want to be reminded of all that.”

“Fuck dishonorable discharge, and fuck prison. You’re a fucking hero as far as anyone with any sense is concerned. Without you, innocent people would have lost their lives, and that CO of yours can suck my—”

“Stop.” I hold a hand up, pointing at his laughing eyes, a scowl twisting my face. “I’m not talking about it, and neither are you. Moving on.”

“Yeah, well. I’ve known you since you were a kid, and as much as I’d like to think I taught you everything you know, truth is, your ability with a knife is all you.”

He’s right. Since I was a little kid, knives have always fascinated me. Much to my mother’s horror, I took to knife throwing when I was about ten, and from there, I learned to carve, balance and do nearly every knife trick in the book.

In the Rangers, it served me well, saving my ass more than once in close quarters, most recently during a rescue on a deep security mission in Afghanistan. A mission that turned to shit when my commanding officer decided to sell us out. If the enemy hadn’t been so incompetent at checking me for weapons, I wouldn’t be here right now.

Not that I had any proof. I was the only one that knew he was the traitor, and when it came down to his word against mine, I guess his carried more weight.

“Hey.” Dimitri snaps his fingers. “You gotta take your place, man.” He nods toward the front of the ball room where long tables skirted with black fabric are lined up.

Pumpkins stand in rows on each, some with children standing behind them, adults poised behind them to help, and others with adults on their own, smiling at the crowd. There are numbers in front of each pumpkin, and I groan as Dimitri shoves me forward.

As he does, it’s Seleme that I see. Her eyes flit toward me, and there’s a flush on her chest as she steps behind the center table, taking her place at one of the largest pumpkins, that incredible red dress striking against her creamy skin.

I make my way forward to a man with a clipboard, an ax sticking out of his head.

“Name?” He asks as I reach the tables.

“Maxim Forsythe.”

He runs his finger down the page and smiles. “Forsythe, yes. You are all set, pumpkin number thirteen.” He points. “Right there, second table on the second row.”

I blow out a long breath and work my way behind the excited youngsters as they assess their pumpkins, and the crowd hums with interest as they gather to watch the spectacle.

But for me, she’s all there is, seeming to glow in the electric light from a crystal chandelier right above her head. I know I’ve saved everything for her. I take my spot at number thirteen, trying to control the low growl that seems to be a permanent new noise I make whenever I see her.

I don’t fucking care. I’ll growl the rest of my life if it means she’s close to me. If it means I get to look at her.

Because she will be mine. I don’t know how, but I know it will happen.