Stake & Shake – Chapter 2
Elias
Coffee steam curled into the crisp mountain air as Elias twisted his wrist, driving the ashwood stake into the practice dummy’s heart with surgical precision. Perfect form. He withdrew the weapon in one fluid motion, the leather of his training harness creaking as he stepped back to assess his work.
Five dummies, five kills. Not a single wasted movement.
He rolled his shoulders and took a measured sip from the matte black thermos. The coffee was single-origin Ethiopian, its bright citrus notes and chocolate undertones wasted on this predawn training ritual, but Elias appreciated quality even when no one else would notice. Dawn training had always been non-negotiable in the Ashcroft family, regardless of location or circumstance. Especially when on assignment.
His Bureau-issued tablet pinged with another update about last night’s “incident” at the Crimson Rose Castle B&B. Elias frowned, scanning the notification. An unauthorized feeding during the soft opening, a PR nightmare for the establishment and a headache for the Bureau. The victim was some social media personality with millions of followers. Perfect.
He’d agreed to inspect the premises as a professional courtesy to Count Vlad, whom he respected despite their fundamental differences. The Count had adapted remarkably well to modern times, unlike many of the old ones who refused to acknowledge that the world had changed. Running a B&B was an unexpectedly pragmatic venture for a former warlord.
The tablet buzzed again, this time with a garnet-level urgency code, Bureau shorthand for direct communication from leadership, not to be ignored or delayed.
He slid the twin stakes into their leather case, one traditional ashwood for standard hunting, one silver-tipped for more volatile specimens, secured the training area, and strode toward the castle’s east wing, where he’d been provided a study for Bureau communications. His boots crunched on the gravel path as he moved with purpose across the courtyard, nodding curtly to the groundskeeper who was trimming the blood-red roses that gave the castle its name.
The ancient oak door to the study swung open silently, recently oiled, he noted, revealing a room that smelled of parchment, leather-bound books, and the faint mustiness that no amount of modernization could fully eliminate from a five-hundred-year-old castle. A massive hearth dominated one wall, cold now in the summer months. The contrast between the medieval architecture and the holographic communication suite installed on the antique desk was jarring but increasingly common in Bureau field stations.
Elias placed his tablet on the desk and accepted the incoming call. The Bureau’s sigil, a stake crossed with a quill, materialized in the air, rotating slowly before dissolving into the stern face of Chief Warrick.
“Ashcroft,” the Chief’s voice filled the room, “we have a situation.”
“Sir.” Elias stood at attention, despite the fact that only his upper body would be visible in the holographic feed. Old habits. “I’ve reviewed the preliminary reports on last night’s incident.”
“Then you know we’re looking at a complete disaster.” Warrick’s jowls tightened. “The victim is already monetizing his trauma on three different platforms. The hashtag is trending. And the B&B’s insurance carrier is threatening to pull coverage entirely.”
Elias nodded. Standard procedure for supernatural liability cases. “I assume we’re implementing containment protocols? Memory modification for the witnesses, settlement for the influencer?”
“Beyond that.” Warrick leaned forward, his image distorting slightly. “The insurance carrier has issued an ultimatum: either the newborn completes an in-house rehabilitation program, or they blacklist Count Vlad and his establishment permanently.”
Elias’s brow furrowed. “In-house rehabilitation requires a certified Bureau officer to—“ He stopped as realization dawned. “Sir, with respect, I’m here on an inspection assignment, not as a rehabilitation officer.”
“You’re the only Bureau-certified hunter within a hundred miles with the appropriate clearance level.” Warrick’s tone left no room for negotiation. “Thirty days of supervised rehabilitation, Ashcroft. Standard protocol for first-time offenders. The newborn completes the program, the B&B keeps its insurance, and the Bureau avoids an international incident.”
Elias’s jaw tightened. “Sir, I’m scheduled to return to headquarters on Monday for the quarterly review. My family’s standing in the Bureau requires my presence.”
“Your family’s standing in the Bureau requires results, Ashcroft.” Warrick’s voice hardened. “The hunter’s code is clear: containing supernatural incidents takes priority over administrative duties. Your father would be the first to remind you of that.”
Elias’s jaw tightened at the mention of his father. The Ashcroft legacy weighed on his shoulders like the antique stake collection displayed prominently in the family estate’s entry hall, gleaming, immaculate, and impossible to ignore.
During the uncomfortable silence that followed, Elias discreetly moved his mouse to close a browser tab showing the comment section of his latest food review. His anonymous blog, “Stakes & Shakes,” had gained a modest following in the culinary underground. That particular aspect of his life was not something the Bureau, or his family, needed to know about. The Ashcroft name carried expectations that left no room for frivolous pursuits like food appreciation.
“The perpetrator’s file has been transmitted to your tablet,” Warrick continued. “Vivienne Moreau, twenty-one, turned approximately six months ago. No prior incidents on record. The standard rehabilitation contract is attached for both parties to sign.”
Elias skimmed the file appearing on his tablet. The photograph showed a young woman with shocking pink hair, defiant eyes, and a smirk that suggested she found authority amusing rather than intimidating. Exactly the type of newborn that gave the Bureau headaches: no respect for tradition or protocol.
“And if I determine she’s unsuitable for rehabilitation?” Elias asked, knowing the answer but needing to establish the parameters.
“Then she’ll be remanded to the Bureau’s custody for more intensive measures.” Warrick’s euphemism hung in the air. Intensive measures meant isolation facilities, restricted feeding, and mandatory compliance implants—procedures Elias had always accepted as necessary, though they left an increasingly bitter taste in his mouth. “But the Count and his wife seem quite invested in this particular vampire’s success. They’ve specifically requested you for the assignment.”
That was unexpected. Elias glanced toward the corner of the study where Count Vlad and Anabelle sat quietly, their presence so still he hadn’t noticed them when he entered. The Count, impeccable in a burgundy suit despite the early hour, inclined his head slightly. Anabelle offered a tight smile that didn’t reach her worried eyes.
“We wouldn’t ask if there were any other option, Hunter Ashcroft,” the Count said, his accent thicker than usual. “Vivienne is impulsive but not malicious. She requires guidance, not punishment.”
“The rehabilitation program includes a series of structured public interactions,” Anabelle added, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The ruby ring on her finger caught the light, a symbol of their own unlikely union that had caused such controversy in both vampire and hunter circles. “Supervised feeding, controlled social settings, and a thorough understanding of Bureau regulations. All things you excel at.”
“We appreciate your understanding,” Anabelle continued, her expression softening. “Vix has become important to us, despite her challenges.”
The Count nodded. “Sometimes family is who we choose, not who we’re born to.”
Elias felt the weight of their expectations. He also understood the unspoken reality: if the B&B lost its insurance, it would fail before it truly began. Count Vlad had been working for centuries on rehabilitating his own image, transforming from feared warlord to respected businessman. This venture represented his full integration into modern society.
“The contract requires both hunter and subject to complete the entire thirty-day program,” Warrick added. “Including the community integration exercises.”
Elias raised an eyebrow. “The foodie road trip?”
“It’s an essential component of the rehabilitation process,” Warrick confirmed, without a trace of irony. “Demonstrating that vampires can participate in human social rituals without incident.”
The irony wasn’t lost on Elias. His secret passion for culinary exploration would now become an official assignment, with a volatile newborn vampire as his companion. The universe had a twisted sense of humor.
“I’ll need full authority over the subject’s movements and feeding schedule,” Elias said, decision made. “And access to Bureau resources if the situation escalates.”
“Granted.” Warrick nodded. “The contract gives you complete supervisory control for the duration of the program.”
Elias took a breath, weighing duty against inclination. Thirty days babysitting a rebellious newborn with pink hair and impulse control issues. His quarterly review postponed. His carefully structured routine disrupted. But the alternative was allowing a centuries-old vampire and his human wife to lose everything they’d built because of one mistake.
He pressed his thumb to the tablet, authorizing his signature on the contract. “I accept the assignment.”
“Excellent.” Warrick’s image flickered. “Daily reports, Ashcroft. And remember, the Bureau’s reputation is at stake. The rehabilitation must be successful, by whatever means necessary.”
The holographic projection dissolved, leaving Elias alone with the Count and his wife. The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken concerns.
“Thank you,” Anabelle said finally, rising from her chair. “We understand this is an imposition on your schedule.”
“The Bureau doesn’t pay me to have a schedule,” Elias replied, more curtly than he intended. He softened his tone. “But I appreciate your confidence in my abilities.”
“Vivienne is… special,” Count Vlad said, choosing his words carefully. “She reminds me of myself, before Anabelle. Powerful but unwilling to accept limitations.”
“Most newborns, vampires in their first year after turning, struggle with control,” Elias said, reviewing her file more thoroughly. DJ, tech enthusiast, no family listed. “It takes years to master the hunger.”
“It’s not just the hunger with Vix,” Anabelle said, using what was apparently the vampire’s preferred name. “She resists anything that reminds her she’s no longer human. The feeding schedules, the daylight limitations, the Bureau registration requirements. She sees them as chains, not safeguards.”
Elias had encountered this attitude before. Newborns who refused to accept their new reality often became the Bureau’s most problematic cases. “The program will address those misconceptions. Structure and discipline are essential for successful integration.”
The Count and Anabelle exchanged a look that suggested they weren’t entirely convinced by this approach, but they nodded in agreement.
“We’ve asked her to meet us here,” the Count said. “She should arrive momentarily.”
The door swung open with unnecessary force. The room seemed to hold its breath, as if recognizing the arrival of chaos into order.
Vivienne “Vix” Moreau strode into the room with the confidence of someone who owned the space rather than someone facing disciplinary action. Her neon pink hair was partially hidden beneath a black beanie, but strands escaped to frame a face that managed to look both defiant and exhausted. The scent hit him first, a complex mix of synthetic cherry shampoo, the metallic tang of blood, and something uniquely her, like electricity before a storm. She wore a hoodie zipped to her throat, but Elias’s trained eye caught the telltale fleck of dried blood at her collar. Evidence of last night’s transgression.
She stopped several feet away, sizing him up with a gaze that was both dismissive and calculating. Her eyes, a startling shade of green that must have been enhanced by her turning, narrowed slightly.
“So you’re the babysitter?” Her voice had a husky quality, likely from her DJ work. “Didn’t realize the Bureau was sending their poster boy.”
Elias kept his expression neutral despite the unexpected jolt of awareness that shot through him. Unprofessional. Inconvenient. “Hunter Elias Ashcroft. I’ve been assigned as your rehabilitation officer for the next thirty days.”
“Lucky me.” She dropped into the leather chair opposite his desk without waiting for an invitation. “Let’s get this over with. What’s my punishment? Blood rations? Tracking anklet? Dawn-to-dusk house arrest?”
“Rehabilitation isn’t punishment, Miss Moreau. It’s an opportunity to demonstrate that you can control your nature and coexist with humans without incident.” Elias remained standing, maintaining the position of authority. “The program consists of structured feeding schedules, supervised public interactions, and a series of community integration exercises.”
“Community integration exercises?” She raised an eyebrow, skepticism evident in her posture. “Sounds thrilling.”
“It’s a standard component of the rehabilitation protocol.” Elias tapped his tablet, bringing up the schedule. “We’ll be conducting a series of reviews at public establishments to demonstrate your ability to function in normal social settings.”
“Reviews?” Vix leaned forward, curiosity momentarily overriding her defensive posture. “What kind of reviews?”
“Culinary establishments. Restaurants, cafes, food trucks.” Elias kept his tone clinical, despite the flutter of interest he felt at discussing his secret passion. “The Bureau has found that shared dining experiences provide an effective metric for assessing impulse control and social adaptation. We’ll evaluate everything from palate development to table etiquette in environments ranging from casual to fine dining.”
Count Vlad cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should give you two a moment to discuss the details. Anabelle and I have preparations to make for tonight’s damage control reception.”
Elias nodded, grateful for their tact. The initial meeting between hunter and subject was always delicate, establishing boundaries that would define the entire rehabilitation process.
After the Count and his wife departed, Elias turned his full attention to Vix. She sprawled in the chair with deliberate casualness, one leg thrown over the armrest, but he noted the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers tapped a rapid rhythm against her thigh. Nervous energy disguised as nonchalance.
“The terms of your rehabilitation are non-negotiable,” he began, standing behind his desk. “You will adhere to a strict feeding schedule using only synthetic blood or approved donor sources. You will participate in all scheduled activities without complaint. You will not leave the premises without my direct supervision.”
“Wow, you really know how to show a girl a good time.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Anything else, Officer Tight-Ass?”
Elias refused to rise to the bait. “Rule number one: no unsupervised feeding. Under any circumstances. The incident with Mr. Jenson cannot be repeated.”
Something flickered across her face—regret, perhaps, or embarrassment—before her defiant mask slipped back into place. She leaned forward, deliberately inhaling.
“Relax,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I prefer influencer blood. Has a certain… sparkle to it. You smell too disciplined for my taste.”
The comment was designed to provoke, to throw him off balance. What Elias hadn’t expected was his body’s reaction to her proximity. A pulse of heat that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the predatory grace with which she moved, the challenge in her eyes, the faint copper scent that still clung to her despite her obvious attempts to clean up.
He took a measured step back, disguising the movement as reaching for his tablet. “The road trip portion of your rehabilitation begins Monday at 0600. We’ll be conducting a curated tasting tour through three culinary regions, with scheduled stops at establishments ranging from Michelin-starred restaurants to local diners.” The words tasted dangerous in his mouth, like revealing too much of himself. “I suggest you use the intervening time to reflect on the seriousness of your situation.”
“Yes, sir.” She gave him a mock salute, rising from the chair with fluid grace. “Looking forward to our culinary adventures. Maybe you’ll even crack a smile if the food’s good enough.”
“This isn’t a vacation, Miss Moreau. It’s your one chance to avoid more severe consequences.” Elias met her gaze directly. “I recommend you take it seriously.”
Vix stretched, the movement deliberately feline, testing boundaries. “Oh, I always take pleasure seriously, Hunter Ashcroft.” She moved toward the door, then paused, glancing back over her shoulder. “Just one question: do you actually eat food, or are you powered by pure righteous indignation?”
The question hit closer to home than she could know. “My dietary preferences aren’t relevant to your rehabilitation, Miss Moreau.”
“Everything’s relevant when you’re stuck with someone for a month,” she countered, her smile knowing, as if she’d already identified the cracks in his careful facade.
Before he could respond, she slipped out, whistling what he recognized as the bassline from last night’s set. The sound echoed down the corridor, fading gradually into silence.
Elias exhaled slowly, realizing he’d been holding his breath. Thirty days of this. Thirty days of her provocations, her disregard for protocol, her refusal to acknowledge the gravity of her situation.
Thirty days in close proximity to a newborn vampire who looked at him like he was simultaneously the most boring and most amusing thing she’d ever encountered.
He straightened his already immaculate desk, a habit when his thoughts needed ordering. The rehabilitation would be challenging but manageable. He’d handled more difficult cases. The fact that she was attractive—in a chaotic, disruptive way that went against everything he valued—was irrelevant. Professional distance would be maintained.
Vix’s scent lingered in the study, something uniquely her, like electricity before a storm. Elias opened a window, telling himself it was to clear the air, not because the scent was doing strange things to his usually ordered thoughts.
She leaned against the wall outside, just visible through the partially open door. Her beanie was off, pink hair fully visible, a splash of neon against the castle’s ancient stone. She caught his eye and smiled, a deliberate flash of fang still faintly stained with Rhett’s blood.
“You sure you’re ready to babysit the monster, Boy Scout?” she called softly, knowing his enhanced hearing would pick it up.
Elias’s pulse jumped traitorously. In that moment, he couldn’t decide if he wanted to stake her or taste the copper still staining her lower lip.
Both impulses were equally disturbing.
You have been reading Stake & Shake...
One viral video destroyed Vix Moreau’s life. Seventeen million views of a vampire DJ losing control and biting a famous influencer at the supernatural world’s most exclusive event.
Her punishment? Thirty days with the Bureau’s most uptight hunter. Elias Ashcroft was all pressed uniforms and rigid protocols, devastatingly handsome in a way that made her fangs ache.
He was also her anonymous food blogger crush.
The man whose reviews had been her escape was now professionally obligated to keep his distance. Every shared meal became a test she couldn’t afford to fail.
When blood wine smugglers hijacked his blog for illegal drops, professional distance became impossible. His missing sister’s life hung in the balance, and Vix’s hacking skills might be their only advantage.
She’d already lost everything once.
Was she brave enough to risk her heart for the hunter who’d become her whole world, knowing that saving him might destroy any chance they had together?†
†This story was produced using author‑directed AI tools.
