Peter Hale lives in an urban apartment forty minutes from Devenford in a town called Beacon Hills. He's a handsome man considering his age and he wears a tight v-neck that clings to his broad shoulders.

"What do you want?" he asks as he stares me and Brett down.

"We're here for Peter Hale," Brett says.

Peter sighs. "It really is tough being a famous werewolf in Beacon Hills," he says. "What do you want? Autographs? Pictures?"

I realise that he's teasing us, a grin stretching the length of his face. "Okay, cut the jokes," I say. "I need help."

Peter huffs a loud breath that whistles through his front teeth. "God, teenagers are no fun these days, are they?"

He pulls open the door and gestures for us to go in. "Come in," he says. The apartment is a mix of industrial minimalism and modern accents. I'm surprised at how stylish it is, like it should be in one of those interior design magazines. That isn't what stuns me the most, though. It's the fact at how impractical the whole place is. It doesn't show much evidence of being lived in and there's little to no storage anywhere. There is a flight of stairs that doesn't seem to go anywhere in the corner of the room and one wall is splayed with windows looking out onto Beacon Hills.

Peter sits behind a big, grand desk made of dark mahogany and leans over onto the table. "What do you want?" he asks, propping his chin up on his hands.

Brett clears his throat to speak. It's strange - Brett seems a lot more nervous than I am. Then a thought passes over me. What if he knows something he isn't telling me?

"My alpha gave me your address," he says. "Satomi her name is. I gather that you know her?"

He nods. "Ah, yes, Satomi. I wouldn't call us friends. Allies, more like it." Peter smiles cunningly. "To what do I owe your acquaintance?"

A muscle feathers in Brett's jaw. He opens his mouth to speak but I conjure enough courage to speak up for myself. "I was involved in a car crash about a month ago," I begin. "Something happened on that night and here I am. I was turned into a vampire and now, because I've completed the transition by feeding on someone, I can do things that I didn't know possible. But that's not what I came here for. I came so that I could walk in daylight without feeling like I've been set on fire."

Peter raises his eyebrows. "You made a bad choice coming here, vampire," he says.

I barely have time to furrow my eyebrows when Peter's hand wraps around a pencil on the table and draws his arm back, the pencil set on finding its home in my chest. I shut my eyes, ready for the sharpened tip of the pencil to dive into my flesh, but it never happens.

I reopen my eyes and look down at his fist still clutching the pencil. Brett's hand is clamped down on top of his. Brett's eyes are golden and fangs jut out over his lip. "Put it down," he hisses through clenched teeth.

Peter purses his lips. "You keep your vampire in line and she doesn't get hurt. If she even so much as shows her fangs, she's dead. You hear me?"

Brett lets Peter's hand go and the older man calmly sets the weapon down. He holds up his palms in a gesture of peace. I bite my lip, thinking.

"She doesn't have control over her changing yet," Brett says. "Leave her alone."

"Calm down, lover boy," Peter says with a chuckle.

"Why the pencil?" I finally interject.

"What?" Peter asks, a crease appearing between his brows. "I didn't have a weapon."

"I mean, why would you use a pencil in particular? That paper weight over there could've smashed my skull open really good," I point out.

Then, to my surprise, Peter starts laughing boisterously. "You're in for a rude shock, sweetheart. Do you even know how vampires die?" I purse my lips and shake my head. He presses on. "Wood. Fire. Decapitation. Werewolf bite. Starvation. Vervain."

"Vervain?"

He grins and nods. "A herb that's fatal to vampires," he says. "And, just for your information, I have a store enough to kill a hundred vampires. So don't step out of line."

"Why do you hate me so much?" I ask.

Peter grins. "I guess it's just one of those things. I can kill vampires so they resent me. If you ask me, I've always hated them, regardless of their track record. The things are creepy. I mean, dead people trapped in a young, beautiful body? That's not normal."

"She's not a thing," Brett says. I feel my lips curving into a smile.

Peter lets out a chuckle. "Just wait until she starts compelling you."

I furrow my eyebrows. "What's compelling?"

"Mind control," Peter says. "You'll learn to keep vervain on you all the freaking time once that happens."

Brett sighs. "Anyway, enough of your rants. We came for the thing which makes her immune to the sun."

"Ah," Peter remarks. "The ring."

"What ring?" I ask.

"To walk in sunlight," Peter starts, "vampires need to wear a special ring." He pulls out a drawer from behind the desk and produces a ring pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

"Can we have it?" Brett asks.

Peter smiles, admiring the ring. "Does your alpha know you're messing around with a vampire?" he coos.

"I'm not messing around with her," he growls. "I'm just trying to help her."

"Really?" Peter riles. "I'm sensing some sexual tension."

I wince at his words. "Look, can we just have the ring?" I ask, growing impatient.

He smiles. "I don't know, can you?"

"Oh my fucking god," I mutter. "May I please have the ring?"

He holds out his palm which is encasing the ring. I pluck it out of his hand and slide it onto my middle finger. It's a little bit loose but it doesn't slip off. "Thank you," I say gratefully.

Peter holds out a hand and I shake it. It's all awfully formal for me. Brett seems to have no problem with the seriousness of the affair. He takes my hand, sending a ripple of butterflies through my stomach as he pulls me after him.

Peter holds open the door as Brett leads out of the apartment. I get a bad feeling as I pass through the doorway. Like it was too easy. It shouldn't be that easy to obtain the ring, should it? "Thanks again, Peter," I say. I turn around to give him a grateful smile.

And that's when the wooden stake embeds itself right in between my ribs and shoulder blade.

I let out a terrible sound in between a screech and a groan, my legs collapsing under the weight of my body. The pain is unlike anything I've ever experienced - a lightning bolt of searing pain exploding in my body and filling every crevice of my flesh right down to the marrow of my bones with excruciating pain.

I fall to the ground with a thump and I feel the stake dig deeper into my tissue. I groan. The sound is amplified to a painful amount, thrumming in my ears like a never ending alarm. All other sounds are deadened as if I'm underwater, my senses dimmed so that everything is a jumble of confusion.

I try to grasp the stake and tug it out, but I can't get a grip of it. The wood is too slick with blood. My eyes fill with tears. This is it. This is how I die. Black spots swim in my vision as I look up at Brett's face over mine.

I can feel the life bleeding out of me. Brett keeps saying the same words over and over. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. He looks confused and distressed. His eyes are red and filled with tears. He grits his teeth and wraps his hands around the wooden stick. With a grunt he pulls it out, the sickening gurgle of blood and gore heightened in my ears. The pain penetrates deep inside of my flesh. My whole body feels like it's on fire. A small whimper forces its way through my parched lips.

"Lenore, stay with me," he murmurs. His hand strokes my cheek, his thumb tracing my cheekbone. His face is a silhouette against the harsh rays of the lights overhead.

"I'm okay," I whisper. "I'm okay. It doesn't hurt anymore."

I'm being honest. My body has gone into shut down mode, numbness engulfing me from my head to my toes. I'm dying. I'm actually dying.

I can feel the wetness of thick blood on my shirt. Brett's hand is pressed over my stomach, applying pressure onto the wound. It's not enough. I'm losing blood too quickly. And since technically I'm already dead, I didn't have much at all to begin with.

Brett's eyes flash with an idea. He pushes his shirt sleeve up to his elbow. No, I want to say but I'm too weak. His veins are blueish lines raises from his unblemished skin. He holds his wrist in front of my lips. I can smell the blood running just under the layers of skin. It takes every ounce in me to keep my mouth clamped shut. Brett's fingers are gentle as they pry my lips open. He jams his wrist between my fangs.

The warm blood gushes into my mouth, filling me with a newfound strength. I latch my hands onto his wrist, holding it to my mouth. I can't stop. The blood flows steady and plentiful into my mouth. Brett winces as I continue to drink his blood. I can't get enough of it into my system. Brett's blood is like a drug and in a way I suppose it's fitting since I can't seem to keep myself away from him.

Brett moans, parting his lips to let the low sound through. My eyes are wide open and unblinking as I dig my fangs deeper into his flesh. Brett shuts his eyes and sways a little on the spot.

I have to let go. I need to let go. Brett could die if I don't. I conjure up all the strength inside of me and rip away my teeth. Blood coats my lower face and runs down my chest and neck in rivulets of viscous liquid.

I feel my vampire features sinking back into my human ones and it's as if in that moment everything has been stripped away, leaving me in my most vulnerable form - a teenage girl scared of her own capability.

My eyes go to Brett's bloody wrist. Blood coats his arm up to his elbow and two puncture wounds still leak. He clamps his other hand over the wound, letting out an exasperated sigh.

"You shouldn't have done that," I say, wiping my face with the back of my arm. "I could've killed you."

"You were about to die," he says. A slight smile breaks out onto his face and I furrow my eyebrows at him in confusion. His expression softens. "And you dying would kill me much more than blood loss ever could."