Darian drove through the night, the tires humming beneath him like a lullaby he couldn't afford to listen to. The night stretched long and black around him, haunted by memories of a house full of murderous vampires, silver-laced blood, and hands that had gripped him far too intimately. His shoulders ached, and his body throbbed in ways he wasn't used to.
When the flickering neon sign finally appeared in the distance like a beacon, it read VACANCY, humming with tired electricity.
He pulled into the parking lot and parked crooked, too drained to care. As he stepped out, his body protested—muscles tight, one leg sore enough to make him wince.
He adjusted his collar, ran a hand through his tousled hair, and rolled his shoulders. Even sleep-deprived and disheveled, Darian looked frustratingly good—his shirt slightly undone, skin still warm from the adrenaline, and a lazy confidence in the way he moved.
The front office door jingled as he stepped inside.
Behind the desk sat a woman with thick glasses and a knitted shawl pulled over her shoulders. Her name tag read Edna, but he didn't need it. He grinned the moment he saw her.
"Well, well, if it isn't Edna Mae," he drawled, leaning on the counter with one arm. "Still running this place I see."
Edna looked up, and the moment she saw him, her lips parted in surprise before curling into a smile that barely hid her blush.
"Darian Voss.As I live and breathe," she said, adjusting her glasses. "Been a long time since you passed through."
Darian winked. "Figured I'd give the people of Riverhood a break from me. Thought I'd bless you instead."
Edna laughed, trying not to look too long at the sharp line of his jaw or the way his pants hung low on his hips like sin. "You look like hell," she teased, though her voice softened. "Tough night?"
"Let's just say I had an educational experience," he said smoothly, his smile slipping into something quieter—still charming, but darker underneath. "And my back could use a bed that doesn't try to kill me."
She slid a keycard toward him with a smirk. "Room 9. Don't go seducing the cleaning staff again. I'm still getting complaints from last time."
"No promises," he murmured, taking the key with two fingers and letting them brush hers just long enough for her breath to hitch. "Unless it's your room I'm breaking into."
Edna blushed so hard she had to look away, waving him off. "Go sleep, you devil."
"Now you're just talking dirty."
Darian chuckled lowly, pushed off the counter, and made his way out the door with that easy, dominant swagger that always made people stare—even when he was bruised and bone-deep exhausted. The door clicked shut behind him, and the night took him again.
He made it to Room 9 and dropped his bag to the floor with a thud.He didn't have to pay all he needed was his charm.
Inside, the motel was the same as he remembered—walls that hadn't seen a fresh coat of paint since the 80s, a faint smell of lemon cleaner and smoke, and a bed that squeaked even when he looked at it too hard. Perfect.
He collapsed onto the mattress, shoes still on, eyes burning behind his lids. The flirtation was already fading into background noise. He didn't even care about the ache in his leg or the faint bruises on his neck anymore.
All he wanted was sleep.
No vampires. No blood. No soft mouths whispering things he wanted to forget.
Darian was out cold the moment his head hit the pillow.
Not even the creaky springs or the faint hum of the motel's ancient heater could keep him awake. His body finally gave in, every muscle sighing into the stained mattress. For the first time since that house full of vampires, he let himself drift—no control, no pretense. Just exhaustion pulling him under like deep water.
Until—
BANG.
Darian jolted upright, one eye barely open and a snarl already forming on his lips.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
The wall behind the headboard shook, rattling the cheap artwork of a boat in a stormy sea. He rubbed his face, dragging a hand down it slowly, like that would help make sense of the sound.
Then came the rhythmic thump of something—no, someone—slamming into the wall again.
Darian groaned and flopped over. "Oh, for fuck's sake…"
He waited, hoping it would end quickly. It didn't.
"Shut the fuck up!" he barked, voice hoarse but deep enough to rattle the lamp. "We get it! You're flexible!"
No response.
BANG. BANG.
Darian rolled onto his back, eyes wide open now and fully aware of the wet stickiness between his thighs. The thin motel sheets were doing nothing to help. He cursed again under his breath.
"Un-fucking-believable."
He dragged himself out of bed, limping slightly as he made his way toward the bathroom, muttering threats to himself and whoever was next door. "Can't even screw a vampire without the whole damn universe trying to punish me."
He shoved the bathroom door open—and immediately recoiled.
The scent hit first. Bleach and mildew. Then came the sight:
The sink was stained a sickly orange, the faucet crusted over with something unholy. The mirror was cracked in the corner, smeared with what looked like old toothpaste—or something worse. And the tub?
Gods. The tub.
A yellowed ring circled the inside like someone had tried to wash off a murder and gave up halfway through. There were a few questionable hairs clinging to the edges, and one of the faucets dripped in slow, taunting intervals. Even the cockroaches seemed offended by the state of the place—Darian spotted one halfway through crawling up the side of the wall, then stopping, as if reconsidering its life choices.
He groaned, staring at the tub with hollow eyes.
Still, he was sticky. His thighs were uncomfortable. His lower back ached, and he refused to sleep another hour like this.
He gave the faucet a rough twist. A stuttering cough came from the pipes, followed by water that ran brown for three solid seconds before clearing up into something that looked vaguely usable.
Darian exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Future Alpha," he muttered. "And I'm about to bathe in a murder scene."
He stripped, grimacing at the lingering slickness still leaking down his leg. His body hadn't even fully processed what had happened. Not emotionally. Not physically. Just one more scar, one more mess he'd pretend wasn't there later.
He stepped into the tub with a grunt, muttering, "God, if you're listening... this is some cruel shit."
The water ran over his skin, lukewarm and weak, but it was enough. He grabbed the sad excuse for a bar of soap and started scrubbing—hard.
Next door, the banging continued. Louder.
This time, he didn't yell.
He just closed his eyes and leaned against the cold tile, letting the water run down his chest, and thought about absolutely nothing at all.
The water had long turned lukewarm, then cold, but Darian didn't move.
He sat low in the tub, one knee propped up, arms draped over the chipped porcelain sides. The grime didn't matter anymore. Nothing did, not right now—not with the aching pulse between his thighs reminding him he was still alive, even if he hated it.
And gods, he was hard.
It crept up on him—slow, shameful, hungry. He didn't even realize when it started. Just that dull throb low in his gut. A tightness that shouldn't have been there. Not after the night he'd had. Not after everything.
He tilted his head back against the tile, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched so hard it ached.
He wasn't thinking about the pack. Or the motel. Or the damn cockroach crawling along the shower curtain.
No.
He was thinking about the vampire.
The way that cold mouth had pressed against his throat, how those awkward, eager hands had pinned him, how Darian had let him. How his own back had arched, breath caught, lips parted, begging for something he didn't have a name for.
He hated it.
He loved it.
Gods, he fucking loved it.
He bit his lip until he tasted blood.
His cock stood tall beneath the bathwater, leaking faintly, twitching at the memory of sharp teeth grazing his collarbone. The way the vampire had shoved into him like he didn't even know what he was doing—but he owned Darian for those brief, messy seconds.
Darian let out a choked laugh. Then another.
Then it turned into a scream.
"Fuck!"
He slammed his fist against the side of the tub, water sloshing violently around him.
"FUCK!"
His voice cracked. Another scream tore out of him, raw and guttural, and it echoed off the cheap tiles like a wounded animal dying slow.
And just as fast as the fantasy burned, it rotted.
The vampire's face twisted. Turned cruel. Feral.
Blood—Milo's blood—slick on his mouth, dripping from his chin.
Milo gasping, broken, staring at Darian with those soft, stunned eyes.
Dead. Because he let it happen.
Darian dropped his head into his hands, trembling.
He cursed again—low, desperate, again and again like it would undo what he'd done. Like it would shake the images from his head. Like it would bring Milo back.
"Fucking... sick... fuck—"
He felt ruined. Inside and out.
His cock still throbbed beneath the filthy water, and that just made him scream again.
He didn't know what hurt more—the guilt, the craving, or the fact that some dark, twisted part of him still wanted it all over again.
——
Darian dragged himself out of the tub like something half-dead and gutted. The water was gray now—streaked with sweat, grime, and shame.
He scrubbed until his skin was raw. Until red welts ran across his arms and chest. Until his thighs burned where he rubbed too hard trying to erase the evidence of earlier. His knuckles were pink, skin cracked from how viciously he'd attacked himself with the motel's cheap soap.
Still didn't feel clean.
He toweled off in silence, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached, eyes rimmed with broken blood vessels from screaming into the tile. He didn't look at the mirror. Couldn't.
Instead, he threw on his clothes—old gray sweatpants, a black hoodie that still smelled faintly like pine and ash. Home.
He didn't even tie the drawstring. Just let them hang loose on his hips, like his body wasn't his anymore. Every part of him felt scraped thin, nerve endings humming.
Then the banging started again.
Louder this time. More violent.
The thump, thump, thump of someone slamming a bedframe or a headboard or a body against the paper-thin motel walls.
Darian's blood boiled.
He clenched his fists, trying to breathe through it. In. Out. In—
He snapped.
Darian stormed to the wall, raised his fist, and slammed it hard.
A crack echoed through the room.
His hand didn't stop.
Didn't bounce back.
It sank through the drywall like it was wet paper.
For a moment, he blinked at it—fist half-buried in crumbling plaster, shocked silence falling around him.
"Well, shit," he muttered.
He tugged his hand back with a grunt, dust crumbling off his knuckles, already bruising. He flexed his fingers, rolled his neck, and sighed like this was just another stupid mess to clean up. The fatigue was dragging him under again—but the idea of a confrontation almost sounded fun now. Like a pressure valve.
He moved toward the door, bare feet scuffing against the stained motel carpet. His hoodie hung loose on him, hood up, his face half-shadowed. The air smelled like mildew and burnt plastic.
He didn't even knock.
Didn't care if they were mid-thrust or mid-fight.
He raised a hand, ready to pound on their door now and tell them to shut the hell up—but then—
His eyes caught something.
Red.
Not paint.
Not lipstick.
It dripped from the crumbling edge of the hole he'd made in the wall. Fat, wet beads running slow and sticky down the motel wallpaper.
Darian stared.
He stepped back, breath catching.
That wasn't from his knuckles. That wasn't from him.
His stomach twisted.
What the hell was happening in the next room?