© 2026 Vampires Love Garlic by Ashley Chapman. All Rights Reserved.

34

Home Is You

Heather

McKenzie’s been gone for a week.

He’s spent the whole time visiting elite vampire families on the East Coast. He’s called me every night, filling me in on the details of how he’s spent every meal in a different city with a different family. He told me it’s the vampire edition of a presidential campaign, as he’s had never-ending offers from household leaders who want to fund this “blasted bash.”

He put Narcissa in charge of announcing the gathering, and I can tell from McKenzie’s voice that he’s overwhelmed. I’m grateful he has Marquis for a friend. He has everyone lined up to repair the house and grounds, and all he’s been waiting on is my goats.

He can roll his eyes all he wants, but the little animals have done exactly what I needed them to do. Underbrush, gone. Overgrowth, gone. I made Marquis’s life more challenging by adopting some cats from the shelter. Mice, gone. Rats, almost gone. I’ve brought a zoo to what McKenzie considers a three-ring circus.

The mansion is really coming together. I guess that’s what happens when you have money. There’s more incentive for businesses to work quickly and do the best they can. Most people in Savannah know who McKenzie Bristol is, and he’s had countless advertisements slipped into his mail box offering lawn care, security systems, eaves cleaning, cement pouring, and just about anything I can think of that involves lawns and houses.

I’ve taken all the mail and organized it in my office.

McKenzie wasn’t kidding when he said he’d give me my own space to work. My room is adjacent to his office, smaller, but with a gorgeous view of Forsyth. I have more sunlight than I could ask for. My desk is made of white oak, and he ordered a plush, comfortable seat for it. I have a file cabinet and organization supplies galore. I also have a miniature refrigerator that he stocked with chocolate milk. His own personal touch.

It’s perfect, but it’s missing him.

He told me he’s coming home tonight.

I might be a nervous wreck.

Oma, bless her heart, tried to get me into a dress from three years ago, before I started working at the café. It fit like it had been painted on, and my sweet devil of a grandmother said it was perfect. I chose another sweater dress, brown and green horizontal stripes that lace up at the top. Oma demanded I unlace it. I said no. And, of course, leggings and boots. They make me feel pretty but not over-the-top.

My hair’s down, my glasses are switched out for contacts, and I might be wearing some makeup.

Just a little.

I don’t know why I’m nervous.

I talk with him every night.

So I go where I always go when I’m nervous.

The kitchen.

I can’t believe it’s been weeks since I stood in here helping him organize mayhem.

I pull out ingredients and start making some alfredo sauce. I think he has shrimp in the freezer… Yes. Shrimp Alfredo. And that needs some sort of blood wine, since I bet he’s exhausted and needs something to drink.

I open his small alcohol cabinet and pull out a bottle of 1941 white-blood wine from a fridge. I can’t help but giggle at that. I have no idea how the wine is white.

Plates, a loaf of bread sliced and garlic-basted, champagne glasses even though I don’t have champagne, silverware, pasta boiling, sauce bubbling. Okay. Now if I could only relax a little. There’s no need to be anxious. McKenzie’s never given me any reason to be uncomfortable.

The front door opens and closes.

Oh, sweet Jesus.

I don’t have a mirror. I can’t see how I look. I revert to one of my nervous habits (smoothing down my eyebrows), wash my hands once, dry them, check on the pasta, wonder for one second if maybe I shouldn’t be here so he can have some quiet when he gets home. Maybe I shouldn’t have come at all. I mean, he may be overstimulated from having to socialize so much, and here I am pretending I own his kitchen…

Arms wrap around my waist. Hands rest on my stomach. And I am pulled back against a solid, masculine chest.

“Hello,” his voice rumbles against my ear.

I open my mouth, close it, open it again. Why can’t I talk?

“Hi,” I say in a rather rushed voice.

“You smell good.”

Not the Alfredo. Not the garlic bread. Me.

I open my mouth again, but he speaks before I can.

“Oh my gosh.”

I gasp, turn in his arms and put a hand to my chest.

“That’s my line!” I exclaim.

Can this man get any sexier?

His eyes are tired, but they still burn into me like I’m something worth staring at. His hair is ruffled, probably from trying to get comfortable on the plane, and his stubble is a bit longer than usual, outlining that amazing jaw in a way that’s just devastating.

“I made dinner,” I say, picking up a plate and holding it between us like a barrier.

I’m suddenly too hot. So very hot.

He chuckles, takes the plate, and guides me to the barstools set against the kitchen island.

“I hope you made food for yourself,” he says, making sure I sit before he does.

“I did. I pulled out one of your white wines. I think that goes well with Alfredo?”

He smiles and takes a bite of food. He closes his eyes and hums contentedly, for my benefit, I’m sure.

“So good,” he manages, taking another bite before he takes a sip of wine. “I would have turned down everything for this.”

“Don’t you like visiting other vampires?”

“Not particularly. Everyone’s about power and showing off. Vampires aren’t exactly known for their humility and warmth.”

“Marquis seems to enjoy being a vampire.”

“Marquis does. He doesn’t see the snobby side as much as I do.”

“Oh. He, um, he keeps looking at my neck.”

His eyebrows rise, and he glances over my face.

“Does he?”

“I know you said a neck bite is something sexual. I suppose it could be, but does it always have to be? I feel like I’m missing something. Marquis keeps dropping hints about how I need to stay away from Harold. He hasn’t outright said it, but he makes comments about how I might want a turtleneck of some sort for the gathering and how Harold has a thing for brunettes. My neck… Is there something wrong about it?”

McKenzie finishes his food in silence, and I’m concerned I may have offended him. I know he doesn’t like Harold, though I’m not entirely sure why. I know he keeps his fangs clear of my skin all the time, not just my neck, but something’s missing. Marquis has definitely been staring at my throat with something heavy on his mind.

He takes a sip of his wine, puts his glass down, then reaches out and grabs the bottom of my bar stool. He tugs it towards him, bringing me between his knees. He lowers his face, bringing his eyes level with mine.

“A neck bite is considered a claim,” he says carefully. “It isn’t like taking blood from your wrist or your arm. It is an offering, a surrendering of hearts and souls, not just blood.” He runs his fingertips down my cheek, lets them trip over my jaw, and graces them down my neck, sending a shiver through me. “It would require you to surrender fully to me, to make yourself vulnerable, to yield control over whatever comes next. You would be helpless, unable to stop me from piercing your skin.”

“That sounds intimate,” I whisper.

“It is.” He studies the pulse in my throat, tracing one fingertip down it. “Vampires can bite a human’s neck by force, but as a general rule, we are supposed to ask for it or have it offered to us. The surrender works both ways. Were I to bite you, you would be completely helpless to me, and I would open myself to you. In that bite, you would be gifted my protection, an invisible claim that would keep all other vampires at bay. It would be my giving myself to you just as surely as you give yourself to me.”

“Do all vampires look at the bite as a claim?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Vampires like my father bite whomever they please. They’re too far above humans to care if it hurts them or violates their consent. But I care about you, and I would never take that bite by force. My fangs secrete venom when I’m aroused or hungry. If I bit you in the neck, my venom would flow through you, permanently leaving a taste and scent to your blood that wards off other vampires.”

“Do you think Marquis wants to bite me?” I whisper.

“Marquis wants you safe. Harold will find you beautiful, just as we all do. He’ll realize quickly that you mean more to me than the average human does. He’ll see your talents and loveliness at the gathering and will consider it a personal challenge to bite you since I haven’t.”

“You bit into my wrist before.” I hold my hand up, offering my wrist. “Can your venom protect me with a wrist bite?”

“No.” He takes my hand and glides his thumb softly over my upturned wrist. “It has to be your neck. I don’t want to get too clinical here.” He frowns for a minute, thinking, then nods. “A little while ago, when we fooled around in my bedroom. You felt a great sense of overwhelming pleasure, and then you broke. Your body literally released hormones and found ecstasy. You remember?”

Do I remember?

Is there a night I’ve fallen asleep without remembering that amazing sensation?

“Yes,” I squeak.

“That’s what it feels like for a vampire when his fangs find a neck and his venom flows.”

“Oh. Ohhh,” I say, my body feeling like it’s going to burst into flames. “So if you were to bite me, if you were to release venom, it would feel like… it would be like…”

“Release is the key word there, Heath.”

He winks and sits back.

“But… but it would protect me, right? And then you wouldn’t have to worry about Harold?”

“Heather.” He rubs the back of his neck, and I feel a sudden rush of anxiety. He only rubs the back of his neck when he’s about to divulge something obvious or frustrating. He looks at me, then the counter, then back to me. The exhaustion chases away from his eyes, and he shakes his head. “Fuck it.”

His hands find my waist, and I suddenly find myself sitting on the kitchen island, his body between my legs.

“When you’re ready, if you’re ever ready,” he murmurs against my ear, “I’ll join my body to yours just as I join my soul. And I’m not referring to my fangs, love.”

I blush and put a hand over his heart. It’s steady and soothing against my fingertips, but the expression on his face, the darkness in his eyes, sets my own heartbeat running. I can smell his cologne, and there’s something so wonderful about just being able to touch him after a week. His hands find my thighs, stroking gently through the leggings, and I know the heat I’m feeling isn’t just from him touching me. It’s everything about him.

I love him.

“You…” I start and then pause.

“Yes?”

His head is cocked to the side, studying every flicker in my eyes, every twitch of my lips.

“You can… bite me… if you want.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

“Hmm.” He moves one of his hands to my mouth and traces my bottom lip with his fingertips. “If I want.”

I nod, suddenly incapable of speech again.

I know what I just offered. I understand exactly what he said. He doesn’t intend to bite into my throat unless we… Oh good gosh. Why is this so hard to even vocalize in my mind? Unless we have sex.

“Not just sex.” His voice has dropped to that low purr. “Not with you, Heath. Never just sex.” He leans forward and nuzzles his nose against the underside of my ear. His breath is warm against my skin, and I cling to his shirt, wanting more but not knowing how to ask. “When we come together, if we come together…” He opens his mouth and drags it down my neck. I lean back, my heart threatening to jump out of my chest as, oh goodness, he traces the tip of his tongue against my pulse. “It will be a union of souls, not just bodies.”

“You read my thoughts?” I gasp as he gently nips my collarbone.

“Couldn’t help it, baby.”

I don’t know when my right hand found his hair, but I’m clinging to it with a death grip as he tugs at my sleeves, pulling the fabric of my dress further down, baring my collarbones. Someone is breathing hard, and it takes me a second to realize it’s me. I can’t think as he peppers kisses from one collarbone to the other, his lips building a devastating path across my skin. I catch my breath and hold it as he puts his hands beneath my thighs and pulls, bringing me to the edge of the counter, pressing his hips into mine.

“I missed you, Heather,” he whispers against my skin.

And somehow my other hand found his hair, too.

His mouth is hot, blazing a trail down to the laces of my sweater dress, those dark laces Oma insisted I open. Well, they’re opening now. With his teeth.

Oh. My. Gosh.

I can feel each tug from his fangs, each whisper of his breath, each ghost of his lips as the strings slowly come undone. Cool air rushes across my skin as the dress begins to part, and to my private surprise, I’m not embarrassed. I’m not ashamed as he draws back, looking at the center of my chest, admiring my breasts, just barely covered by the fabric. I can’t think as one of his hands rests against my sternum, his eyes flickering to meet mine.

“If I want,” he repeats, voice thicker.

I nod, breathing returning with a vengeance.

“What about what you want, Heath?” he asks, his hand sliding beneath the fabric.

I can’t describe the sensation of his hand on my breast. He’s not even doing anything. Just resting there. But I swear, lightning came from somewhere and sent a shock wave through my entire system. The gasp that slips past my lips isn’t some innocent little breath of air. And the way my thighs tighten around him isn’t innocent either. I’m melting like butter on a hot June day, sizzling like raindrops on the summer Savannah concrete.

“What do you want?”

His voice infiltrates all this sudden electricity just to send another jolt down my spine. Somewhere along the way my eyes closed, and when he moves his hand, caressing, gentle, a startled sound I’ve never heard before slips past my lips.

“You,” I choke out. “I want you.”

Terribly. Badly. Insanely. I don’t want you just between my legs. I want you inside me. I want that union of souls, that burn that comes just when you touch me. I want the vampire, the man, the billionaire, the real estate mogul… McKenzie. Control, kindness, humor all rolled into one.

“I love you,” I whisper, opening my eyes to look into his.

He moves his hips with mine once, twice, three times, and then softly kisses my throat.

“Then we wait. We wait until fear isn’t a factor, until new sensations have become comfortable, until the feel of my body against yours is home.”

He takes his hand from my breast, wraps his arms around me, and buries his face in my hair.

“I missed you,” he repeats, his hands tracing patterns on my back.

I close my eyes and bury my face in his chest, breathing him in, letting the protection and warmth that is him wrap around me, hugging the desire and bringing me back to the peace that is him.

My McKenzie.