The ballroom pulsed with music and cloying scents of blood-wine and perfume. Immortals dressed sharply head to toe in black with gold jewelry that shimmered underneath the dim lights of the chandeliers above.

There you stood between a group of friends, dressed nicely like everyone else in the room—wine glass in hand. You all laughed, chatted about whatever, everything was just a perfect vibe—just how a party is supposed to be. But the mood seemed to change once a friend called out to a guy with a name you remembered all too well.

You turned your head to see who they were talking to and you see him across the room—that fuckass arrogant curve of his smirk, and those fangs, always just barely visible behind smug lips. He hasn't changed, not one bit. Same reckless eyes. Same fuck you energy.

And as he pushed through, your gazes locked.

Old memories start flooding back—how he led you to your death in that rundown warehouse and just ran away. Now he's standing here, smiling like everything is cool between you. Like nothing happened years ago. And of course, that pissed you off.

You downed your drink because no sane vampire would ever waste a single drop of blood, you threw your glass down the floor, and you just went at him. Fangs flash, claws out—whatever vampires do when they fight. It was bloody, violent, a bit too heated—and everyone just watched.

Finally, before you two actually killed each other, two stronger vampires interfered and pulled you two apart before anything got worse.

"You're fucking dead. I should have killed you myself years ago." Pete growled as he struggled in the immortal's arms holding him back. His chest heaved with each breath, blood rushing out terribly fast from both nostrils of his nose.