Hot for Slayer

by Ali Hazelwood

but what’s a girl to do when the only constant presence during the last millennium of her life has been a guy who’s contractually mandated to murder her?

“Until the next time, then,” he said with a deep frown. “Right. That might be a while. Sorry!” “As long as you don’t let anyone get to you before I do, Aethelthryth.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll always save myself for you.” And that’s how I got away from Lazlo Enyedi on the night of November 9, 1989.

I’ve caught glimpses of Lazlo a few times since—at a year 2000 celebration in LA, in the early aughts in Southeast Asia, after that Lilith Fair revival in 2010—but never had as close a call as it was in Berlin,

I always managed to slip away before he could get near. Until now.

Today, Lazlo Enyedi saved my life.

I wished for a life that I couldn’t have, which was, apparently, my greatest flaw.

“Hey,” I told him with a small, amused smile. “Couldn’t bear to let someone else butcher me, huh?” “I know what’s mine,” he muttered

Something that jumps from me to him, that flows from him to me. A current, a heat, a moment of confusion and deluge that clogs my senses,

I’ve injured and killed plenty of slayers before him, and they all repulsed me, but Lazlo . . . I have no idea why his specific blood feels so overpoweringly, mouthwateringly delicious,

“It was one-sided,” he tells me after he’s done chewing. “From you.” “What?” “The dislike.” “I assure you, it was not.” “And I assure you, when I look at you, I feel anything but that.”

His chest heaves. “I might not remember my name, or anything about who I am. But I could never be near you and not know exactly what you are to me.”

“I know your smell. I know your skin. Your hair. It’s all familiar. I have it all memorized. And I dream of you—of this. So many dreams, all so different, we must have done it a million times, in a million different ways. Tell me what you’re hiding from me, let’s get this over with, and then let’s do it a million more times.”

“I think you know,” he says. “And if you don’t . . . I’m sure you can figure it out.” I swallow. “How long have you . . . ?” “Awhile.”

he loves her ?

“How long have you lived here?” “Come on. You know how long.” Right.

he moved into the apartment across from hers

“Why?” “Why not?” He shrugs. “I have lots of free time. Very few interests. Just the one, really.” He glances in my direction. He’s talking about you, a redundant, obnoxious voice screams in my head.

Then the scent of his blood hits my nostrils, and all I can do is run to him.

He doesn’t mind that I’m taking. In fact, he’s saying things in Hungarian that mostly boil down to fuck and yes and please. More.

he offers her his blood when she’s hungry🙈