When he takes his leave, he kisses my hand again. But this time, for whatever reason, his lips don’t feel half as warm as last night.
Instead, they feel cold as ice.
I’m woken up by my curtains being wrenched open.
“Rise and shine, sweetheart!” Petra’s nightmarish voice screeches. Am I still dreaming? Somebody tell me I’m still dreaming.
Normally, I don’t do slaughter before 9:00 A.M. I might make an exception today.
Sighing, I try to pinch myself awake and fail miserably. “You have five seconds to tell me what the everlasting f**k you’re doing in my apartment.”
Apparently, my bride only needs three. “We need to talk about Vlad.”
I groan. The last thing I want to do is talk about a wrinkly old man who spits when he talks. Especially when I was just in the middle of dreaming up a cer
