Bash hadn't missed the way she looked at him, like he might just be worse than a human-faced, lion-clawed, snake-tailed monster.

He'd stayed as far away from her as possible in her borrowed accommodations within the impressive and cold Stormhale house on the hill.

The girl was still too weak to be moved.

"I'm sorry," he told her. "I just turned and—"

"I know who you are," she replied, cutting him off. "And I know about new vampires. It's cool. The demon left when you came, so it's doubly cool. Seriously. Chill. And you couldn't help yourself. No harm, no foul. Just…stay away from me, please? For now. While I heal."

Fair.

A knife to the chest, but better than what he deserved.

It might make him sound like an ass, but Bash was glad about the sentinel patrol. He definitely wasn't happy that the girl—Maddy—had been hurt, but having something to do, a purpose he was good at, in order to protect people? Yeah, he'd missed that.

After his nighttime astrology class, he headed to Oldcrest’s southwest border, near the Wolvswoods, his assigned post.

And he stopped dead.

"Catherine."

What was she doing here?

"Sebastian."

It's Bash. That's what he said to everyone else. What he should have said to her. But somehow, this stuck-up girl using his full name felt right.

"You're patrolling with me," he guessed.

"I'm not thrilled about it either. Never was very fond of babysitting."

He shook his head in disbelief. "Your people skills are horrendous. Didn't they teach you how to be nice, along with all the other shit you learned?"

She shrugged unapologetically.

"Oh, I can be nice. Is that what you want? For me to coddle you like everyone else?"

No. Not at all. Quite the opposite.

Bash was uncomfortable around mortals. Better around huntsmen, Jack in particular. Okay with vampires, because he knew that if he went crazy and attacked them, they could defend themselves.

But he only felt one hundred percent relaxed around one person. Her. Catherine Stormhale. The woman who didn't pity him, and who'd already put him on his ass once. Unlike absolutely everyone else, she didn't smell like dinner, not even a little bit.

She smelled like winter. Cold, crisp pine needles, apples and cinnamon. A delicious perfume that didn't make his throat tighten in thirst.

"You know, I think I'd love to see what you look like when you try to coddle," he replied, amused at the very thought.

That might prove entertaining. She didn't have a shred of sweetness to her.

Catherine rolled her eyes and pointed north of the Wolvswoods.

"All right, you just missed Chloe and Mikar; they said they'll cover the northwest, from this point to the lake on the other side of Night Hill. We have southwest, from here to the border, near the rail. Crysalia and Anika have southeast."

"What about northeast?" Bash asked, frowning.

Catherine shrugged. "Most of that is the lake, and Cosnoc. Levi said we don't need to trouble ourselves with it."

Cosnoc. The hill where Eirikr had been locked up these last fifteen hundred years. Vampires were always tight-lipped about the specifics, especially with huntsmen, but Bash understood that the area was warded, even more than the rest of Oldcrest.

"So no one guards it?"

"No, there are always guards around it. It just doesn't have to be us."

He nodded.

"Should we split up?"

Catherine sighed. "I wish. Mikar was clear—we're supposed to work in pairs. They threw a manticore at the borders, so who knows what it'll be next."

As she wasn't hiding her opinion that working with him wasn't her idea of fun, Bash believed he'd be in for a dull six hours.

He was mistaken.

They were walking side by side, heading south, when she stopped, head snapping left.

Bash halted next to her, frowning, as he couldn't hear anything that would have alerted her.

"What is it?"

She blinked, startled. "Sorry, nothing."

"Obviously not nothing."

She pointed in the distance, through the trees.

Bash knew his sight and hearing had improved after he'd become this thing, but he hadn't had much cause to use either yet. Following the direction she indicated, he squinted, eyes piercing through the darkness.

Then he saw it—a small brown and white owl, picking at her feathers. She was adorable, and Bash couldn't stop staring, looking at each individual feather. He realized he'd never exerted his eyes like this. He shouldn't have been able to see quite that far, and in so much detail. But it wasn't unpleasant at all.

"She's fascinating."

"Animals generally are interesting when left undisturbed. We're far enough away to observe them as they go on with their little lives."

"Do you do that often?" he asked.

She resumed her walk, and he followed, reluctantly turning away from the cute night hunter.

"Not as often as I'd like. There are things to do, lessons, assignments. But I have more time here. I got to you fast last night because I was in the woods when I smelled the blood."

"Watching owls?"

She shook her head. "Drawing ravens. Close enough."

"She draws, too!" He laughed.

"Terribly. I took it up a few days ago; give me a century or two, and perhaps my skills might extend past stick figures."

"Ah! And you didn't see fit to mention that when the others asked what you didn't excel at."

"They were having too much fun guessing to let me say my piece."

Then they fell quiet, as they had a job to do, but after their little chat, the silence was comfortable. They walked down to the southern borders before heading back to the woods. The owl was gone from her tree, no doubt to hunt for dinner.

"Look here," Catherine whispered, eyes on the ground.

He followed her gaze to find a red fox huddled around three little cubs.

The owl had been interesting. The foxes, though…

Bash looked away.

He used to like foxes. Now, they smelled like food. Bland food, but food nonetheless.

Catherine watched him with a frown.

"I'm fine. I'm in control."

She snorted. "Yeah, right. Not even close."

He couldn't protest. It wasn't the foxes, really. But their scent reminded him that he was thirsty. And now he imagined the smell of blood from yesterday. Tons of human blood flowing, seasoning the air. He could almost taste it, making him feel sick. And ravenous. And disgusting.

"You know you're making things worse, right?"

"Look, not all of us are century-old undead, born with a silver spoonful of blood between the fangs."

He'd meant to hurt her, but Catherine didn't so much as flinch.

"I'm a year old, dickhead.”

Now he was genuinely surprised. With all her accomplishments, he’d assumed she was as ancient as any of them.

A fucking year old. She was a fledgling, barely more experienced than him.

Sure, unlike him, she’d been prepared from an early age for the change, but Bash wasn’t just a regular who was ignorant of the process or what it meant. He’d studied vampires his whole life too.

That shut him up. And made him feel worse.

“And I was never anywhere near as unstable as you. You know why?" Catherine pushed.

"Because you're a Stormhale princess," he snapped.

"Because," she echoed, "I never avoided humans. I never stayed away, and sniffed the air all the while drinking blood made to imitate theirs, as if to make the temptation even more impossible to resist. You're not letting yourself get used to anything. You're stuck in the first stage, the feral thirst that's meant to last hours, not months."

Bash turned to face her, fists tightening. If she weren’t a woman, he would have snapped.

As if the fact that Miss Perfect was a new vampire didn't sting enough, now she was telling him he sucked at this because he wanted to? He'd never asked for this. If it had been up to him, he would have asked for a quick, clean beheading. But he couldn't. Because of his siblings, Jack, the rest of the huntsmen, he had to fight through this. Linger in this world for their sake. Her indifference, her contempt? He didn't mind. But she didn't get to lecture him.

"I think I hate you," he told her, taking one step closer to her. "I've never hated anyone in my entire life. But you? You have everything. Beauty, wealth, friendship. And look at what you do with it. You delight in making others feel small. Shall I crawl at your feet to please you?"

"You're already crawling. If you wanted to please me," she replied, walking forward, closing the distance between them, "you'd grow a spine and stand up."

Then his mouth was on hers, or hers on his; he had no clue who started this messy, hungry, haunting kiss. She leaped in the air and wrapped her long legs around his torso; Bash grabbed her waist and pulled her against him, desperate to feel more, taste more.

Bash had no idea how, or why, since he'd just professed to hate her, quite sincerely. Perhaps because he hated her so very much, he wanted everything. Needed to touch her, sink inside her, make her scream his name.

But right then, she pushed against his chest, unhooked her legs, and jumped back to the ground.

"What the hell?"

He didn't know whether to be confused about the interruption or the fact that they'd been making out in the first place.

"That won't happen again," she said, a clear warning in her voice.

They conducted the rest of the patrol in silence. Bash was confused, annoyed at himself, and pissed at her. Mostly pissed at her.

At six in the morning, they headed to the dorms. She stopped on the second floor and he climbed to his room on the third.

Only when he woke up around midday did he realize three things.

He'd slept. He was in his own room. And he hadn't drunk a drop of blood for twelve hours.