absorbed

The dining room is suffocatingly elegant. The politician, a loud, portly man named Alderman DuPris, sits between the two of you, completely oblivious to the freezing tension in the room. He laughs boisterously, downing Alastor’s expensive bourbon and running his mouth about city corruption, treating the evening like a casual high-society social call.

"I tell you, Hartfelt," DuPris booms, waving a heavy hand in the air. "The radio is a fine tool, but you’ve got to give the people what they want. Grit! Blood! They don't want these poetic fables you spin every night."

Alastor sits at the head of the table, his white shirt sleeves rolled up with his usual precision. He smiles his perfect, public crescent smile, but his eyes keep flicking toward you. He is watching how you carry yourself. He is tense.

You sit opposite him, looking stunning in a dark velvet gown. You gracefully ladle the rich, dark soup into DuPris's bowl, the very soup you helped prepare in the kitchen the night before.

"I think Alastor’s listeners appreciate a bit of refinement, Alderman," you say smoothly, your voice carrying that exact, slow cadence you stole from him. You offer DuPris a dazzling, adoring smile, then slide your gaze across the table to lock onto Alastor. "Don't you agree, darling? Some stories require a very... meticulous hand to finish properly."

He handles his wine glass, but his fingers grip the crystal just a fraction too tightly. A subtle, cold sweat lines his jaw. He hears the double meaning in your voice. He knows you aren't just playing the girlfriend for the politician anymore, you are mocking him to his face, using his own rules of politeness to trap him.

"Indeed, ma belle," Alastor murmurs, his rich baritone sounding unusually strained behind his spectacles. He takes a slow sip of his wine, his unblinking eyes fixed on yours with a mix of intense skepticism and deep, defensive calculation. "Though one must be careful not to let the meticulousness turn into... overindulgence."

"Oh, there's no such thing as too much care," you whisper back, your smile sharp and entirely mocking as DuPris takes a massive, appreciative spoonful of the soup.

You pick up your own glass, tilting it toward Alastor in a silent, terrifying toast. You have completely dismantled his dominance. He wanted a pretty little secret to lock in a cage, but instead, he is sitting at his own dinner table, forced to smile and play nice with a monster he accidentally created.

Alderman DuPris takes another heavy gulp of his bourbon, his face flushed red under the chandelier light. He looks at you, his eyes traveling down the length of your dark velvet gown with a casual, bloated arrogance that immediately makes the air in the room freeze.

"You know, Hartfelt," DuPris says, his voice thick and slurred as he leans heavily onto the mahogany table, "you’re a lucky man. A girl like this... quiet, pretty, knows how to serve a proper meal. In my line of work, women usually have far too much to say for themselves. It’s refreshing to see one who knows her place is to look beautiful and keep her mouth shut."

He lets out a loud, mocking laugh, reaching over to patronizingly pat your hand where it rests on the table.

Alastor’s fork hovers an inch above his plate. He stops chewing. His entire body goes dead still, his glasses catching the candlelight as he instantly looks from the politician over to you. For a split second, Alastor isn't thinking about his code or his routine, he is watching to see how the new, terrifying version of you handles an insult.

You don't pull your hand away. Your fingers don't tremble.. instead, that sudden, intoxicating rush of pure adrenaline floods your veins, sharper and clearer than it has ever been. The utter disgust you feel for DuPris doesn't give you the ick anymore. It gives you a target.

You slowly tilt your head, looking DuPris dead in the eye, and let out a soft, melodic chuckle that sounds exactly like a blade sliding out of a velvet sheath.

"You are entirely right, Alderman," you whisper, your voice dripping with a smooth, hypnotic warmth that makes the portly man smile, completely oblivious to his danger. You gently slide your hand out from under his, your fingers casually brushing the edge of the heavy, silver steak knife sitting beside your plate. "A woman should always know her place. Just as a gentleman should always know when his presence has become... entirely unrefined."

You glance across the mahogany table at Alastor.

He is staring at you, his chest rising and falling in short, shallow breaths. The skepticism in his eyes has completely turned into a cold, defensive panic. He recognizes that look. It’s the exact same look he gives his victim before he lures them into the dark. He wanted to use you as a cover-up, but now he realizes he has brought a wolf into his parlor, and he has absolutely no idea how to stop you from taking a bite.

The air in the parlor turns completely to ice as the grandfather clock in the hall ticks down the final minutes of the meal. Alderman DuPris stands up, his bloated face flushed with Alastor’s expensive bourbon, entirely oblivious to the fact that he has just signed his own death warrant.

"A magnificent evening, Hartfelt," DuPris booms, grabbing his hat from the side table. "And a lovely companion you have here. Keep her sweet, my boy. A woman who knows when to hold her tongue is a rare treasure."

You stand beside Alastor at the front door, the emerald silk of your dress catching the dim light of the foyer. You tilt your head, giving the politician a final, dazzling smile that looks more like a row of bared teeth.

"Drive safely, Alderman," you whisper, your voice dropping into that smooth, hypnotic cadence. "New Orleans roads can be remarkably treacherous... especially when one travels entirely alone."

The heavy oak door clicks shut, locking out the humid night. The silence that follows is suffocating.

You turn slowly to face Alastor. You don't ask for his permission. You don't wait for his instruction. Instead, your hand casually drifts down to the pocket of your gown, your fingers lightly tapping against the heavy silver steak knife you slipped from the table while DuPris was boasting. You lock your gaze onto Alastor, your eyes cool, unblinking, and entirely mocking.

His breath catches. For the first time since you woke up in this house, the elegant radio host loses his composure entirely. A cold sweat breaks out along his jawline, his fingers tightening against his waistcoat as a wave of defensive panic washes over his face. He looks at you, then at the locked door, realizing with absolute certainty that you are going to follow that man into the dark.

"No," Alastor whispers, his rich radio voice cracking into a desperate, hurried hiss. He steps directly into your path, trying to use his height to block the door, his hands raised in a rare, unrefined gesture of de-escalation. "Mon ange, control yourself. The police are already circling this house. Detective Miller is waiting for a single misstep. If you take a man like DuPris..a city alderman.. the state authorities will tear this entire parish apart looking for him."

He leans in closer, his spectacles reflecting the pale foyer light, his eyes wide with a frantic, terrified calculation.

"You said you wanted to survive," he pleads, his smooth baritone reduced to a panicked breath. "This isn't survival. This is recklessness. You are breaking the melody."

You step right into his space, completely unfazed by his proximity. You look up at the master of the house, your sharp smile widening into a terrifying crescent that completely mimics his own dark energy.

"Everything has changed, Alastor," you whisper back, your voice a freezing, confident purr as you gently brush past his shoulder, your fingers tracing the iron lines of the front door latch. "You taught me that those who lack manners do not deserve the breath in their lungs. Don't forget that."

The humid, oppressive rain poured down in heavy sheets, blurring the halos of the streetlamps into hazy yellow smudges. Alderman DuPris staggered down the slick cobblestone sidewalk, his umbrella tilted precariously, his boots splashing carelessly through the dark puddles. The alcohol had left his mind sluggish, his breathing loud and labored against the backdrop of the rumbling storm.

Suddenly, a shadow stepped out from the narrow alleyway directly into his path.

DuPris stopped short, blinking through the downpour. The streetlamp caught the deep emerald hue of a wet silk gown. It was you. You stood completely unprotected from the storm, the rain plastering your hair to your face, water droplets running down the sharp, cold lines of your jaw like ice.

"Well, well," DuPris chuckled, his voice thick and arrogant as he took a step forward, completely misreading the situation. "Lost your way, little lady? Did Hartfelt kick you out, or did you just miss my company that quickly?"

You didn't answer him. You simply stepped into the golden puddle of light beneath the lamp, letting him see your face. Your eyes were wide, completely unblinking, and locked onto his with a chilling, dead intensity. You slowly reached into the pocket of your wet gown and pulled out the heavy silver steak knife, letting the polished blade catch the streetlamp’s glare.

DuPris’s drunken smile froze. The smug arrogance drained from his bloated face, replaced by a sudden, primal spike of adrenaline. He took a clumsy step backward, his umbrella wobbling as his eyes darted from the knife up to your expressionless mask.

"What... what is this?" he stammered, his voice losing all of its boisterous political power. "You’ve lost your mind! Put that down!!"

You didn't lunge. You didn't raise the blade to strike. Instead, you slowly brought the knife up to your own face, tilting it so the flat of the cold steel rested gently against your bottom lip, a silent, mocking gesture for him to hold his tongue.

You let the silence stretch between you, the heavy thrumming of the rain the only sound on the empty street. You watched him shake, savoring the intoxicating, absolute power of his fear. The thrill of having this loud, powerful man entirely at your mercy, completely paralyzed by a girl he had dismissed an hour ago, washed over you like a drug. You had proven your point. You had mastered the hunt without ever needing to spill a single drop of blood.

Slowly, you lowered the knife, sliding it back into the folds of your dress. You offered him a sharp, beautiful crescent of a smile, the exact smile of a predator that has decided its prey isn't worth the mess.

"Goodnight, Alderman," you whispered, your smooth, hypnotic cadence cutting effortlessly through the sound of the storm.

Without waiting for a response, you turned on your heel and walked back into the darkness toward Alastor’s house, leaving DuPris standing on the sidewalk, trembling and gasping for air in the pouring rain.

When you pushed the heavy oak front door open and stepped into the quiet foyer, Alastor was exactly where you left him. He stood paralyzed in the hallway, his knuckles white as he gripped his waistcoat and hair. He looked at your wet gown, his eyes tracking down to your empty, steady hands.

"You... you didn't do it," Alastor breathed, a massive wave of relief crashing over his face, though his spectacles still shook slightly as he looked at you.

"Of course I didn't," you whispered back, a slow, dark chuckle vibrating in your throat as you walked right past him, the wet silk of your dress trailing across the pristine hardwood. You stopped at the base of the stairs, looking back at him with absolute, chilling control. "A true conductor doesn't rush the melody, Alastor. And tomorrow night... we can decide together whose story we tell next."

The smoky air of the Absinthe House club on Bourbon Street is thick with the wail of a live saxophone and the heavy scent of illegal rye whiskey.

Alastor sits at a corner booth, looking every bit the affluent public celebrity. Across the crowded room, you lean against the mahogany bar in a shimmering silver dress, nursing a glass of champagne. Your eyes scan the room, completely calm. The disgust of this world has no power over you anymore. You are a part of the rhythm now.

At the center table, a loud, wealthy textile merchant is making a scene. He just knocked a tray out of a young waiter's hand, laughing boisterously as the glasses shattered, refusing to apologize. He is loud. He is arrogant. He is entirely unrefined.

Alastor catches your eye from across the room. He doesn't nod. He doesn't gesture. With slow, agonizing precision, he reaches into his waistcoat, pulls out his gold pocket watch, clicks the face open, and snaps it shut with a definitive, metallic clink.

The target has been selected!

You set your champagne glass down, a slow, predatory smile touching your lips. You glide through the crowd, stepping right into the merchant's path.

"My goodness," you say, your voice dropping into that smooth, cadence you perfected in the parlor. You look down at the mess on the floor, then up into his eyes, a mocking glint in your gaze. "A big man like you, throwing tantrums in a place like this? I thought the gentlemen of this city had a bit more steel in their spine."

The merchant's laughter cuts off. His ego, instantly bruised by a beautiful woman, flares up. He steps right into your space, puffing out his chest. "Listen here, sweetheart, I can handle anything in this city. You think I'm intimidated by a little spilled glass?"

You instantly shift the trap. Your sharp gaze softens into a wide, vulnerable look of sudden distress. You look toward the club doors, your shoulders dropping as you play the fragile damsel.

"Oh... I'm sorry," you whisper, leaning close enough for him to catch the scent of your expensive perfume. "I shouldn't have spoken like that. I'm just... I'm entirely alone tonight, and the streets out there are so dark and frightening in the rain. I just wanted someone strong enough to walk me to my carriage."

The mix of the bruised ego and the sudden vulnerability is a drug he cannot resist. The merchant’s arrogance swells tenfold. He grins, grabbing his heavy wool coat. "Well, why didn't you just say so? Come on.. Let me show you how a real man takes care of a girl like you."

You let him take your arm, leaning into his side with a flawless look of adoring gratitude. As you guide him out the back exit of the club and into the pouring rain, you don't look back. You know Alastor has already slipped out the front door.

You lead the merchant into the mouth of a narrow, pitch-black alleyway between two brick buildings. The rain drums heavily against the iron fire escapes above.

"Hey, where's this carriage of yours?" the merchant asks, his voice suddenly faltering as the darkness of the alley swallows the sound of the jazz music from the club.

You stop walking. You slowly untangle your arm from his, stepping back into the shadow. Your adoring smile instantly vanishes, leaving your face completely cold, blank, and dead.

"There is no carriage," you whisper, your voice a freezing, confident purr.

Before the man can even process your words, a tall, immaculate shadow steps out from the darkness behind him. A heavy linen cloth, soaked in the sweet, sharp scent of chloroform, clamps violently over the merchant's mouth and nose. The man thrashes frantically, but the grip is ironclad.

Alastor holds the struggling man with clinical, unyielding strength, his spectacles catching the dim glare of the distant streetlamp. He looks over the merchant’s collapsing shoulder directly at you. The skepticism that used to haunt him is completely gone, replaced by a deep, intoxicating look of absolute respect.

Within seconds, the merchant goes limp, slumping uselessly into the dark mud.

Alastor smoothly lets the body drop, adjusting his cuffs with perfect grace. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a clean handkerchief, and offers it to you so you can wipe the rain from your face.

"A masterclass in phrasing, mon amour," he murmurs, his rich radio baritone vibrating effortlessly through the dark alleyway. He offers you a small, mockingly polite smile. "Shall we take our guest home and prepare the parlor?"

You take the handkerchief, looking down at the victim at your feet, then up into his eyes. You feel the adrenaline buzzing under your skin, a beautiful, addictive warmth.

"Let's," you whisper back, your sharp crescent smile matching his perfectly. "We mustn't keep the listeners waiting."

The years in New Orleans have a way of melting together under the thick, humid heat of the bayou, and over time, the performance became your absolute reality.

By the late 1920s, the entire city completely believes the beautiful lie. To the high society of the French Quarter, Alastor Hartfelt and his elegant, devoted wife are the golden couple of Louisiana radio.

No one questions why a gentleman of his standing stays tucked away in that grand house, because they always see you on his arm at the opera, at the charity galas, and dining at the finest restaurants. You are his perfect shield, and he is your perfect sanctuary.

But inside the locked doors of that house, something much deeper has evolved. The cold, skeptical distance between captor and prisoner was buried years ago. You have become genuinely fond of one another, bound by a twisted, profound intimacy that no other human soul could ever understand. You share a secret dialect, a matching rhythm, and a dark affection that has turned your beautiful cage into a true home.

The grandfather clock in the parlor chimed a quiet midnight, the deep brass tones vibrating through the warm, cedar-scented room. Outside, a gentle summer rain pattered against the heavy lace curtains, but inside, the atmosphere was thick with a comfortable, domestic peace.

Alastor sat at his grand mahogany desk, the amber glow of the lamp catching the gray streaks that had neatly touched his dark hair over the years. His spectacles rested on the bridge of his nose as he reviewed his final script for the week.

You walked into the room silently, wearing a flowing silk dressing gown. You weren't carrying a heavy silver tray out of fear anymore. You carried a single crystal glass of aged bourbon, setting it down gently near his right hand.

Instead of stepping away, you leaned against the edge of the desk, your hand resting casually on his shoulder. Your fingers lightly traced the pressed wool of his waistcoat, a gesture born from a genuine, deeply rooted fondness.

Alastor paused his fountain pen. He didn't tense. Instead, he leaned back into your touch, his hand rising to cover yours, his cool fingers squeezing yours with an unyielding, affectionate warmth.

"The final segment for tomorrow's broadcast is missing a bit of its usual poetry," he murmured, his rich radio baritone dropping into that private, velvet cadence meant only for you.

He tilted his head up, looking into your eyes with an unblinking devotion that had grown over years of shared secrets. "I find myself lacking your particular flair for the dramatic tonight, my dear."

You offered him a slow, soft crescent of a smile, a smile that no longer hid any disgust, but rather a shared, quiet amusement.

"Let me see," you whispered, leaning down closer so the scent of your lavender perfume mingled with his expensive tobacco. You picked up the silver pen from his hand, our fingers brushing intimately. "Perhaps the antagonist shouldn't meet his end in the swamp this time. Perhaps he should vanish right from his own parlor... leaving nothing behind but an empty glass and a polite apology."

He let out a low, deeply satisfied chuckle that vibrated against your hand. He looked at you with a profound, terrifying respect, the look of a man who knew he had successfully found the only creature in the world who could truly share his shadow.

"Immaculate as always," he whispered, lifting your hand to his lips to gently kiss the thin, silver scar on your left wrist, the mark that had brought you to him so many years ago. "What a dreadfully lonely man I would be without my conductor."

You smiled, leaning your head against his shoulder as he returned to his writing. The city outside was sleeping, completely blind to the monsters in their midst, and you had never felt more safe, more alive, or more deeply loved.

The heavy cedar door of the house clicks shut, instantly locking out the humid New Orleans night and the distant, fading echo of jazz music from the French Quarter. The charity gala is over. The public performance is done.

But as you step into the dim, amber glow of the foyer, neither of you moves to break the pose.

Alastor stands directly behind you, his tall frame a steady, protective shadow in the candlelight. His hands rest firmly against the sides of your waist. For years, this exact touch was nothing more than a calculated prop, a rehearsed gesture to show Detective Miller and the rest of high society that you belonged to him.

Slowly, Alastor leans down, his breath warm against the sensitive skin of your neck.

"You were breathtaking tonight, my dear," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, private register that sends a sudden, sharp thrill straight down your spine. "The way you looked at the Mayor... the absolute certainty in your smile. They are completely blind to us."

You don't pull away. You don't freeze. The old wave of disgust, the suffocating feeling you used to fight so hard to swallow, is completely gone, replaced by a deep, aching warmth that frightens you far more than his knives ever did. You tilt your head back against his chest, your eyes closing as his gloved fingers tighten against your hips, pulling you flush against him.

"I learned from the best, Alastor," you whisper, your voice a soft, breathless purr that mirrors his own slow cadence.

He pauses. Through the reflection of the grand foyer mirror, you watch him slowly remove his wire-rimmed glasses, setting them on the marble console table. Without the glass lenses hiding his face, his dark eyes are completely bare, and for the first time in years, they are entirely devoid of calculation. There is no skepticism. There is no clinical observation. There is only a raw, heavy, and deeply possessive hunger.

He turns you around in his arms with a agonizingly slow, deliberate grace.

When his mouth meets yours, it isn't the polite, gentlemanly peck he gives you in front of everyone else. It is deep, fierce, and entirely unrefined. His hands slide up your back, his fingers tangling into your styled hair, pulling you into a kiss that burns through the lingering pretense of the last few years.

You grip the lapels of his waistcoat, pulling him closer, your heart hammering a frantic, desperate rhythm against his chest. In the quiet, suffocating isolation of the house, the terrifying truth finally clicks into place. You aren't acting anymore. You aren't lying to protect your skin, and he isn't playing a part to keep his secrets. The fake romance, the rehearsed touches, and the beautiful lies have twisted themselves so deeply into your souls that they have become your absolute, undeniable reality.

He pulls back just an inch, his chest heaving as he rests his forehead against yours, his lips brushing yours as he speaks.

"I used to think you were a beautiful complication," he whispers, his hands trembling slightly as they frame your face, his fingers gently tracing the thin, silver scar on your left wrist. "An inconvenient little secret I had to keep under lock and key. But now... I cannot imagine a world where you aren't leading the melody."

You offer him a slow, dark, and genuinely adoring smile, the velvet trap of the house closing around you both in a perfect, unbreakable embrace.

"Then don't stop playing, darling," you whisper back, leaning up to press your lips to his once more. "The city is listening."

The candle on the mahogany vanity table flickers, casting long, dancing shadows across the heavy velvet drapes of Alastor’s master bedroom. The door to the hallway is closed, locking out the rest of the grand, silent house.

He steps up behind you as you sit in front of the vanity mirror. He moves with that slow, deliberate grace that used to terrify you, but tonight, your heart races for an entirely different reason.

Through the glass, your eyes meet his. He has already discarded his tuxedo jacket and his necktie, leaving the top buttons of his white linen shirt undone. Without his wire-rimmed glasses, his dark eyes are entirely bare, heavy with a quiet, unyielding intensity that makes the air in the room feel thick and heavy.

"Allow me, my dear," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, raspy whisper that vibrates straight against your skin.

He reaches out, his long, cool fingers gently brushing against the back of your neck. A sudden, sharp shiver ripples down your spine at the touch. With agonizing slowness, his hands find the delicate silver clasp of the heavy emerald necklace you wore to the gala. His knuckles graze your bare shoulder, his touch lingering, tracing the curve of your collarbone as the metal slides away and lands with a soft clink on the marble table.

You tilt your head back, your eyes closing as his hands slide up to your hair. One by one, he removes the silver pins holding your hair in place, letting the dark curls fall loose around your shoulders. He handles you with the same meticulous, flawless care he uses for everything in his life, but his fingers are trembling just a fraction, a rare, beautiful crack in his perfect gentleman’s mask.

"You've completely ruined my composure," he whispers against your ear, his mouth brushing the sensitive skin of your jawline. He pulls you up from the chair, turning you around to face him in the dim, golden candlelight. "For years, I believed I was the one pulling the strings in this house. But tonight... I am entirely at your mercy."

You reach up, your steady fingers sliding into his dark hair, pulling him down toward you. The sheer, suffocating proximity of him, the familiar scent of his lavender cologne and the dark, possessive warmth of his embrace, floods your senses.

You breathe against his lips once more, throwing his own words back at him with a sharp, adoring smile

Alastor lets out a low, ragged breath, all of his clinical control evaporating into the shadows of the room. He wraps his arms tightly around your waist, lifting you slightly as his mouth crashes down onto yours in a deep, fierce, and entirely unrefined kiss. It is a collision of years of hidden hunger, dangerous games, and a twisted affection that has completely consumed you both.

He carries you backward through the dim light, away from the vanity mirror and the candle, toward the deep shadows of the room where the line between the monster and the muse finally disappears entirely into the dark.

The thick, humid air of the bedroom breaks completely as you pull him down into the shadows. The lingering pretense of the last few years dissolves entirely, replaced by a sudden, violent rushing of the current.

It begins like a summer squall over the New Orleans bayou, slow, heavy, and charged with an intense, suffocating heat that makes every breath feel electric. When Alastor’s mouth meets yours, the polite gentlemanly restraint he prides himself on snaps like a dry branch in the wind. There is nothing clinical left in his touch. His hands find the zipper of your emerald gown, the sharp slide of metal giving way as the silk pool at your feet, leaving nothing between his skin and yours but the damp, rising warmth of the room.

He lifts you easily, the sheets of the grand mahogany bed swallowing you both as the dark canopy overhead locks out the rest of the world.

The metaphor of the hunt flips completely on its head. You aren't the victim freezing in the brush anymore, and he isn't the detached butcher weighing the cattle. You meet each other in the dark like two rivers crashing together at the mouth of the delta, a feverish, desperate tangle of limbs and breath that demands absolute surrender from both sides. Alastor pins your wrists above your head, his fingers wrapping around the thin silver scars of your past, but his grip isn't a cage. It is an anchor.

Every touch carries the heavy, rhythmic thrumming of a downpour against the windowpane, a relentless, driving force that pushes the tension in your veins to the absolute breaking point.

You arch into him, your fingers digging into the smooth muscles of his bare back, pulling him deeper into the storm. The suffocating disgust of his dark world has completely transformed into a consuming, addictive fire. You swallow his ragged gasps, matching his desperate, heavy tempo beat for beat, forcing the man who commands the entire city to completely lose his footing in the dark. You are drowning in the current of him, and he is entirely swept away by yours, the boundaries between your bodies blurring so completely that you are no longer sure whose heart is hammering against whose ribs.

When the tempest finally spends itself, the room plunges back into a heavy, breathless stillness. The frantic, pounding rhythm slows into a quiet, synchronized rise and fall of your chests in the dark.

He doesn't pull away, he stays tangled with you in the tangled linen sheets, his head resting in the crook of your neck, his lips pressing a slow, deeply affectionate kiss against your damp skin. The storm has completely washed away the lies, the acts, and the walls of the golden cage. As his long fingers gently trace the curve of your hip in the quiet shadows, you know the truth. You had walked into the woods looking for an ending, but in the heart of his darkness, you had finally found the only place you truly belonged.

The woods were just as thick and weird-looking as they had been months ago, but the air tonight didn't feel sharp or hostile. The damp New Orleans midnight heat hung low over the brush, thick with the heavy scent of the swamp, blooming jasmine, and wet mud.

Leaves crunched softly beneath two pairs of feet moving in perfect, synchronized rhythm through the darkness.

You walked with your arm looped securely through Alastor’s. You didn't need a flashlight, and you didn't need a map. The faint, dancing moonlight filtering through the cypress canopy was more than enough to guide you along the path.

The moment you heard the river..harsh, loud, and roaring against the muddy banks...you both stopped. It was the exact spot where you had once dropped to your knees, trembling and bleeding, praying for the complete darkness to take you away from the prying eyes of the world.

He turned to you in the shadows, removing his wire-rimmed spectacles to let you see his bare, dark brown eyes. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a clean silk handkerchief, and gently wiped a stray drop of river mist from your cheek. His touch was slow, deliberate, and layered with that profound, terrifying fondness that had become your entire universe.

"The water is running remarkably high tonight, ma belle," Alastor murmured, his rich radio baritone vibrating softly against the sound of the roaring river. "A perfect night to let an unrefined memory wash away completely."

You offered him a slow, sharp crescent of a smile, a low chuckle vibrating in your throat. You reached up, your fingers cool and absolutely steady as you gently traced the line of his jaw before sliding your hand down to lock your fingers with his.

As you did, your thumb casually brushed against the thin, pale silver lines slicing across your left wrist.

You looked down at the healed scars, then out at the black, rushing water. A deep, intoxicating rush of adrenaline flooded your veins, accompanied by a profound, chilling sense of peace. You had finally gotten exactly what you wanted. You had escaped the world. You had vanished entirely from their sight, leaving the prying eyes behind forever.

You hadn't found your salvation in the grave. You had found it right here, in the clever hands of a monster who knew exactly how to make you feel alive.

"Let's go home, love," you whispered, your smooth, hypnotic cadence perfectly matching his tempo as you turned your back on the river.

He squeezed your hand, his unblinking eyes filled with absolute, adoring devotion as he guided you back into the shadows. The cage was locked, the melody was perfect, and you were finally safe in the dark.

Three months had passed, and you had become an expert at looking at everything without actually seeing it. You knew how to navigate Alastor’s beautiful, silent house by stepping around the shadows. You helped him with his radio scripts, you sorted his jazz records, and you kept his coffee cup full. You did it all to stay on his good side, to keep the gentlemanly mask firmly on his face.

But a house shared with a predator can never stay completely clean. Every now and then, the horrors bled through the floorboards, and your only job was to make sure you didn’t react.

The parlor was peaceful, filled with the lazy, golden light of a New Orleans afternoon. A slow jazz record spun quietly on the phonograph in the corner. He was sitting in his favorite high-backed wicker armchair, a crystal glass of dark bourbon in one hand and a fountain pen in the other, casually editing a radio script on his lap. He looked like the picture of affluent, high-society relaxation.

You walked into the room carrying a silver tray with a fresh pot of chicory coffee, your heels clicking softly against the polished hardwood. Your goal was simple: pour his coffee, hand him his notes, and keep the illusion of safety alive.

As you stepped up to the small mahogany table beside his chair to set the tray down, your foot brushed against something hidden in the shadow of his seat.

You looked down.

Tucked neatly beside his chair was a heavy, white porcelain basin. It was filled with pink, clouded water. Floating right in the center of it was a fine, bone-handled straight razor, its sharp edge stained with a thick, dark crimson crust that hadn't been fully rinsed away. On the floorboards next to it lay a pair of his immaculate wool trousers, the cuffs completely caked in thick, dark Mississippi river mud.

Your stomach did a violent, sickening flip. The ick, that primal, suffocating wave of pure revulsion, hit you like a physical blow. The sudden, vivid image of Alastor using that exact razor on a human throat flashed in your mind, making the back of your throat taste bitter and dry. Your fingers instantly went cold, trembling against the edge of the silver tray.

Don't look. Don't react. Do not get the ick, your brain screamed in pure survival mode. If you show disgust, you break his rules.

You forced your eyes away from the pink water. You took a slow, silent breath, forcing the muscles in your face to flatten into a perfect, pleasant mask of total indifference. You smoothly poured the dark coffee into his porcelain cup, your hands steadying through sheer terror.

Alastor hadn't missed a thing. From behind the thin frames of his glasses, his dark eyes had tracked the exact path of your gaze. He leaned back in his chair, swirling his bourbon, a slow, deeply amused smile spreading across his handsome face. He was testing you, watching to see if his private horrors would make you crack.

"A gentleman's grooming can be a remarkably untidy affair, ma chérie," he murmured, his rich radio baritone dripping with a smooth, mocking warmth. He took a sip of his coffee, never breaking eye contact. "The humidity in this city makes everything rust so quickly if it isn't soaked immediately. I trust the mess doesn't offend your sensibilities?"

You picked up the silver tray, holding it against your chest like a shield. You looked him dead in the eye, your expression completely blank, ignoring the sickening metallic scent rising from the floorboards.

"Not at all, Alastor," you said, your voice entirely flat, calm, and polite. "The coffee is fresh. Do you want me to organize the jazz records for tonight's broadcast now?"

The amusement in his eyes turned into absolute satisfaction. He chuckled softly, completely thrilled by how perfectly you had learned to swallow your disgust just to stay in his good graces.

"Please do, darling," he whispered. "I do love a guest who appreciates an undisturbed melody."

The quiet illusion of the house shattered on a rainy Thursday evening. He came home later than usual from the radio station, his immaculate wool coat damp from the New Orleans mist. He didn't look angry, but the smooth, relaxed air he usually carried was gone, replaced by a cold, razor-sharp focus.

He didn't head to his armchair. Instead, he walked straight to the parlor table where you were organizing his script pages, setting his leather briefcase down with a heavy thud.

"We have a slight change in our arrangement, my dear," Alastor said, his rich voice dropping into a low, quiet register that made the hairs on your arms stand up. He removed his glasses, wiping them with a silk cloth. "It seems a few boorish individuals at the broadcast network..and a rather persistent detective from the local precinct, have developed an unhealthy curiosity regarding my private life. They find it... unusual that a man of my standing spends his evenings entirely alone."

You froze, a script page hovering in your hand. "What does that have to do with me?"

"Everything," he murmured, putting his glasses back on. The lenses caught the amber lamplight, completely hiding his eyes. "To the world outside these doors, you are no longer a guest recovering from a tragic accident. As of tonight, you are my companion. My fiancé, if anyone asks for specifics."

A sudden wave of pure revulsion hit your stomach. The disgust was so strong it made your throat go dry. His girlfriend? The mere thought of having to stand beside him, to let this monster touch your hand in public, to pretend to love a man who kept a basin of blood by his chair, made you want to vomit.

"No," you whispered, stepping back from the table. "Alastor, please. I can't do that. I've done everything you asked. I've stayed quiet. I've ignored... everything. But I won't pretend to be yours."

His smile didn't return. He stepped toward you, his movements slow, deliberate, and entirely unyielding. He stopped just inches away, the scent of lavender cologne and damp rain suffocatingly close.

"Do not mistake this for a romantic gesture," he whispered, his voice cutting through the quiet room like a scalpel. "I have no desire for the tedious entanglements of affection, and neither do you. This is a matter of operational security. A charming radio host with a beautiful woman on his arm does not get questioned by the police. He does not get followed into the bayou after midnight."

He reached out, his cool, steady fingers wrapping around your wrist, right over the thin silver scar of your old wound. He didn't squeeze to hurt you, but the grip was absolute.

"If they catch me, they catch you," Alastor murmured, his unblinking eyes boring into yours.

"They will find the trophies in my study. They will find the secrets in the cellar. And they will hang us both from the same gallows, because the police will never believe a girl who lived with a man like me for months was merely an innocent bystander. You are already my accomplice, mon amour. Now, you are going to play the part."

He let go of your wrist, smoothing down his cuffs with perfect, terrifying calm.

"Tomorrow night, we attend a charity gala at the St. Charles Hotel," Alastor said, his smooth, deceptive radio warmth returning to his voice as if the threat had never happened. "Smile beautifully, hold my arm tightly, and make sure the city believes every single word we tell them."

The grand ballroom of the St. Charles Hotel was a dizzying blur of opulence. Crystal chandeliers poured golden light over women in shimmering flapper dresses, jazz music blared from a brass orchestra, and the air was thick with illegal champagne and expensive cigar smoke.

You walked in with your arm looped tightly through Alastor’s. You wore a drop-waist emerald silk gown he had selected, your hair perfectly styled.

Alastor carried himself with his usual aristocratic grace, but you could feel the slight, rigid tension in his arm. He was waiting for you to fail. He was waiting for you to tremble, to look panicked, or to give a suspicious glance to the police officers stationed near the doors.

Instead, the moment a prominent radio executive and his wife stepped into your path, you changed.

"Alastor, darling," you said, your voice dripping with a smooth, effortless charm you didn't even know you possessed. You leaned into his side, tilting your head up to give him a look of pure, adoration. "You didn't tell me your colleagues were this delightful."

He paused for a fraction of a second, his dark eyes widening behind his spectacles in genuine shock before he quickly recovered his smooth radio persona.

"Ah, yes," he murmured, his rich baritone wrapping around the group. "May I introduce my lovely companion? She has been the quiet muse behind radio show these past few months."

"Oh, he exaggerates," you laughed softly, a perfect, melodic sound that completely captivated the executive’s wife. You reached up, your fingers gently smoothing the lapel of Alastor’s tuxedo in a gesture so intimately natural it made your own stomach turn with hidden disgust. "He is the true artist. I merely make sure he remembers to drink his coffee while he writes."

For the next hour, you were a natural. You navigated the crowded ballroom like a politician's wife. You laughed at the right jokes, you held his hand with just the right amount of tenderness, and you painted a picture of a deeply in love, respectable couple. You swallowed the disgust so completely that it vanished beneath a layer of flawless, golden armor.

When you finally moved away from the crowd toward a quieter balcony overlooking the rainy street, Alastor let out a slow, measured breath. He turned to look at you, removing his glasses to wipe away the condensation, his gaze intense and entirely re-evaluating.

"You are a creature of remarkable depth, my dear," Alastor whispered, his real, chilling voice cutting through the distant jazz music. A slow, genuinely fascinated smile spread across his face. "I expected a trembling bird. Instead, you've completely charmed the room. You play the part of a loving woman almost better than I play the part of a civilized man."

You stepped out of his reach, your perfect smile vanishing instantly, leaving your face cold, blank, and dead.

"I told you, Alastor," you whispered back, staring out at the rain. "I want to survive. And if I have to lie to the entire city of New Orleans to keep myself out of the gallows, I will do it perfectly."

Before he could answer, the heavy velvet curtains of the balcony rustled. A man in a sharp grey coat and a tilted fedora stepped into the dim light, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips. His eyes were sharp, scanning the two of you with intense, professional curiosity.

"Mr. Hartfelt," the man said, his voice a low, gravelly New Orleans drawl. "Detective Miller, NOLA homicide. Sorry to interrupt the romance... but I was hoping we could have a little chat about a couple of missing gentlemen who happened to be big fans of your radio show."

You didn't flinch. You didn't let your hand shake. Instead, you let out a soft, exasperated little sigh, turning toward Detective Miller with a look of perfect, high-society amusement.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Detective," you said, your voice dripping with effortless charm as you stepped forward, smoothly slipping your hand back into the crook of his elbow. "Do you homicide men always ambush couples on balconies with such dreary talk? I assure you, Alastor’s only crime is spending far too much time obsessing over his broadcast scripts when he should be paying attention to me."

Detective Miller took a slow drag from his cigarette, his sharp eyes darting from your hand on Alastor’s arm up to your face. He didn't look completely convinced, but the sheer confidence in your voice made him pause.

"Is that so, ma'am?" Miller grunted, a cloud of gray smoke exhaling from his nose. "It's just funny. Two men.. one a dock worker, the other a local businessman.. both went missing on nights Mr. Hartfelt here was doing his live midnight broadcasts. And both of 'em were last seen running their mouths outside the very jazz clubs your fiancé frequents."

"Alastor is a public figure, Detective," you countered instantly, offering a dazzling, pitying smile that made Miller look clumsy in his trench coat. "Half the boorish men in New Orleans listen to his show. If he had to be held accountable for every loudmouth who vanishes into the bayou after a few too many drinks on Bourbon Street, he’d never have time to host his show."

You leaned your head against Alastor's shoulder, feeling the iron-hard tension in his muscle relax just a fraction as he realized how flawlessly you were handling the threat.

"Besides," you added, your tone dropping into a teasing, intimate whisper that carried perfectly over the distant ballroom music. "On both of those nights, Alastor wasn't wandering the streets. He was right here in the city, rushing home to me. I can give you the exact hours he arrived, if your notes require a lady's bedtime schedule."

Detective Miller stared at you for a long, heavy moment. He flicked his cigarette ash over the balcony railing into the rainy night, clearly frustrated by how neatly your story closed the net. A radio star was hard enough to investigate, a radio star with a beautiful, adoring, high-society alibi was practically untouchable.

"Right," Miller said slowly, tipping his fedora to you with a tight, reluctant nod. "Appreciate the cooperation, lady. Mr. Hartfelt... enjoy your evening."

The detective turned and vanished back through the heavy velvet curtains, his coat disappearing into the crowded ballroom.

The balcony went dead silent. The humid, rainy wind swept over the stone, carrying the scent of damp wool and old iron.

Slowly, you pulled your hand away from his arm, your face instantly freezing back into that cold, blank, expressionless mask. The disgust, the heavy, suffocating disgust of having to touch him and lie for him, settled deep in your gut, but you kept it locked behind your teeth.

Alastor slowly put his glasses back on. He adjusted the frames, his dark eyes boring into you with a look that was no longer just amused, it was deeply, dangerously fascinated.

"You didn't just protect me, ma chérie," he whispered, his rich baritone carrying a chilling new layer of respect. "You utterly destroyed his suspicion. You are a far more magnificent monster than I ever gave you credit for."

"I am not a monster, Alastor," you whispered back, staring out at the dark city streets. "I am just a girl who wanted to vanish. And you made sure I did."

The ride back to the house in the dark sedan is completely silent, the rhythmic swipe of the windshield wipers cutting through the heavy rain. He sits beside you, his profile cast in sharp shadows. For the first time since you woke up in his house, his posture isn't completely relaxed. He is analyzing you. You can feel his brilliant, calculating mind turning over every word you said to Detective Miller, weighing just how dangerous a girl with your natural talents can be to a man who relies entirely on secrecy.

But as the heavy front door clicks shut behind you both, locking the rainy night outside, the tension shifts.

Alastor slowly removes his damp wool coat, hanging it on the brass stand. He looks at you for a long moment, the skepticism clear in his eyes, but it is mixed with a profound, twisted admiration. He doesn't lock you away. In fact, he doesn't even point you toward the stairs.

"You handled the detective with remarkable elegance, darling," Alastor murmurs, his rich radio baritone echoing softly in the quiet hall. He adjusts his glasses, a cold, knowing smile returning to his face. "A performance so flawless it almost makes me wonder what else you are capable of hiding from me. However... a deal is a deal. You have proven your discretion. You are no longer confined to your quarters."

He gestures to the dark hallway, the parlor, the grand staircase. The house is completely open to you.

"Roam as you please," he whispers, turning toward his study. "Just ensure the melody remains undisturbed."

As his study door closes, you stand alone in the center of the dimly lit parlor. You take a slow, deep breath. For months, the air in this house felt heavy and suffocating, but tonight, it feels different. You look down at your bare wrists, then at the elegant emerald gown you are wearing. You aren't locked in the dark anymore. You can walk into the kitchen, pace the parlor, or stare out the windows whenever you want. You feel a strange, sudden lightness in your chest, a feeling of power you haven't felt since before you walked into the woods.

And then, the real horror hits you.

It isn't the pink water in the basin or the secrets in the walls. It is the realization bubbling up from deep inside your own soul. As you think back to the balcony, to the way you looked Detective Miller dead in the eye and spun a web of perfect, devastating lies without a single flicker of fear, you realize something terrifying.

You enjoyed it.

The sheer, heart-pounding adrenaline of the game, the thrill of standing right on the edge of the gallows and pushing a police detective away with nothing but your own charm... it felt intoxicating. For months, you wanted to be a ghost, invisible and dead to the world. But out on that balcony, playing the beautiful, protective partner to a sophisticated monster, you had never felt more alive.

You look across the room at the mahogany phonograph, a slow, dark smile creeping onto your lips. You had swallowed the disgust, you had beaten the ick, and now... you are starting to love the rhythm of the nightmare.

When Alastor steps out of his study an hour later, he expects to find you retreating back to the safety of your bedroom, or perhaps sitting quietly in a corner, trembling from the leftover adrenaline of the gala. He is a man who understands fear perfectly, he knows how to manipulate it, how to savor it, and how to command it.

What he doesn't know how to handle is a mirror.

You are standing by the mahogany phonograph, pouring yourself a glass of his expensive imported bourbon from the crystal decanter. Your movements are slow, graceful, and entirely devoid of the frantic, wounded-deer panic that used to define you. When the heavy floorboards groan beneath his polished shoes, you don't flinch. You don't jump. You simply tilt your head, taking a slow sip of the burning amber liquid, and look him dead in the eye.

He stops in the center of the parlor.

For the first time since you met him, his posture changes. His hands don't smoothly adjust his cuffs, they remain still at his sides. He tilts his head slightly, his dark eyes narrowing behind his thin spectacles as he studies the chillingly calm, matching darkness reflecting right back at him from your face. The fragile, submissive girl who swallowed her disgust to survive is gone. In her place is someone who looks at him not as a monster to fear, but as a partner in a very thrilling game.

"You aren't resting," Alastor murmurs, his rich radio baritone lacking its usual mocking warmth. It is flat, quiet, and loaded with a sudden, tense skepticism.

"The night is still young, Alastor," you say softly, your voice perfectly mimicking his slow, elegant cadence. You walk toward him, the emerald silk of your gown whispering against the floorboards, stopping just a foot away. The suffocating scent of his lavender cologne and the metallic undertone of the house doesn't give you the ick anymore. It just feels like home. "And after such a... stimulating performance on the balcony, a bedroom feels far too small."

Alastor doesn't smile. He stands perfectly rigid, his analytical mind visibly turning over this terrifying shift in the dynamic. A fearful prey is easy to manage; a prey that starts enjoying the hunt is unpredictable. It is dangerous.

"A dangerous appetite to develop, my dear," he whispers, his eyes locking onto yours with a heavy, unblinking intensity that feels less like a threat and more like a test of dominance. "Those who play with fire in this city usually end up as embers in the swamp."

You offer him a slow, sharp crescent of a smile, mimicking the exact expression he used to break your spirit months ago. You reach out, your fingers cool and steady as you lightly brush a stray speck of dust from his tuxedo lapel, completely unfazed by his proximity.

"Then it's a good thing I have such an immaculate conductor to guide the melody," you whisper back, mocking his favorite radio metaphor. "Don't look so skeptical, Hartfelt. You wanted a companion who understood the value of absolute discretion. You should be thrilled that I'm finally... matching your tempo."

He stares at you for a long, breathless moment. Then, a slow, low chuckle vibrates deep in his chest. A quiet, dangerous sound of pure, fascinated realization. He steps just an inch closer, his shadow completely swallowing yours in the candlelight.

"Magnificent," he murmurs, his tone dripping with a dark, intoxicating respect. "Let us see how well you keep the beat when the stakes get even higher."

Alastor’s low chuckle fades into the quiet room, leaving a charged, competitive silence between you. He steps back, adjusting the frames of his glasses with a snap of clinical precision. The fascinated respect in his eyes sharpens into something much more dangerous: a challenge.

"Since you are so eager to match my tempo," he murmurs, his rich radio baritone dropping into a smooth, quiet purr, "let us see if your stomach can truly handle the arrangement."

He turns on his heel and walks toward the back of the house, leaving the kitchen door swinging open.

You follow him without hesitation, the emerald silk of your gala dress rustling softly against the floorboards. The kitchen is immaculate, illuminated by a single, harsh electric bulb that casts sharp shadows over the walls. It smells intensely of vinegar, pickling salt, and heavy spices, the domestic mask Alastor uses to hide the deeper rot.

Sitting directly in the center of the heavy wooden prep table is a large, linen-wrapped package, seeped through with dark, damp moisture.

He steps behind the table. He reaches into his waistcoat pocket and pulls out a fine, bone-handled paring knife, laying it flat on the wood with a soft clink. He looks up at you through his glasses, his face completely unreadable, testing your limits.

"Our guest for tomorrow evening, the local politician... is a man of remarkably heavy, unrefined tastes," he says casually, his voice smooth and conversational. "He requires a very specific, deeply rich stock for his soup. I usually handle the trimming myself. But a good hostess should know how to properly prepare a kitchen for her guests."

He slides the bone-handled knife across the wooden table, stopping it right at the edge of your hands.

"Unwrap the linen, ma belle," he whispers, leaning forward slightly, his unblinking eyes locking onto yours to watch for the slightest flicker of the ick, the smallest tremor of panic. "And let us see if your fingers are as steady with a blade as they are with a lie."

The heavy, metallic scent hits your nose the moment you step closer. Everything inside you screams that the package on the table belongs to the man from the French Quarter. The old you would have vomited. The old you would have dropped to your knees and begged for mercy.

Instead, you look at the knife, then straight up into his calculating eyes. You feel that sudden, intoxicating rush of adrenaline flood your veins again. You reach out, your fingers cool and absolutely steady, and grip the bone handle of the blade.

You reach out and take the knife. The cold bone handle fits perfectly into your palm. You step up to the heavy wooden table, leaning right into the metallic scent that used to turn your stomach. With slow, deliberate movements, you slice through the damp twine and peel back the layers of heavy white linen.

You don't flinch. You don't blink. You look directly at the contents of the package under the harsh electric light, your face completely smooth and expressionless.

He stands directly across from you, his body perfectly rigid. His dark eyes are glued to your face, tracking the microscopic movement of your muscles, waiting for the sudden gasp, the pale skin, the physical rejection. He expects the ick to finally break through your mask.

Instead, you slide the knife into your right hand, glance up at him through your eyelashes, and tilt your head.

"How finely do you want the trimmings?" you ask softly, your voice completely flat, steady, and chillingly polite. "We wouldn't want the politician's soup to be... unrefined."

Alastor stares at you. For a two full seconds, the smooth, elegant radio host completely loses his words. The sheer shock of your absolute calmness leaves him entirely frozen. He realized on the balcony that you were a good liar, but now, watching you stand over his darkest secret with a steady blade and a cold smile, a sudden flicker of genuine skepticism, and a hint of real fear, crosses his face. He wanted to test you to put you back in your place. Instead, he realizes he has accidentally unlocked a darkness in you that might be even colder than his own.

He slowly clears his throat, adjusting his spectacles with a hand that isn't quite as steady as it was a minute ago.

"A—A.. rough chop will do perfectly, my dear," he murmurs, his rich voice cracking just a fraction before he forces his polite gentlemanly mask back on. He steps back a inches, giving you just a bit more space, his eyes filled with a deep, terrified fascination. "You truly are full of surprises." You look back down at the table and begin to work, the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of the blade against the wood filling the quiet kitchen. You feel the adrenaline buzzing under your skin like a drug. You have completely beaten him at his own game, and as you listen to the nervous silence of the monster standing across from you, you realize you have never felt more powerful.

♡ — previous chapter

What a bitterly cold night it was, what could a forlorn girl like you be doing all alone in the woods after midnight? Now, we wouldn't exactly call it a cold night... more like a brisk one.

The sharp, icy air stung your skin as the leaves crunched beneath your feet; visibility was nearly nonexistent, yet you pressed on through the dense and oddly shaped woods.

You had come here with a singular purpose in mind, eager to complete it swiftly, away from the prying eyes of others. Away from the gazes you despised so intensely.

The moon peeked through the clouds and leaves, illuminating your path as sounds echoed all around you. The air felt sticky against your skin, despite the winter chill.

You hadn’t even thought to bring a coat, believing it would only hinder you in the task you had been planning for so long.

When the sound of the river reached your ears, loud and unforgiving, you halted. You allowed your eyes to adjust to the darkness and the soft moonlight that danced upon the water.

You exhaled deeply, glancing around and realizing that no one would ever find you here; it was clear that this path had not been trodden by anyone else, as evidenced by the feel of the dirt and mud beneath your shoes.

Quickly, you retrieved the small object you cherished, letting it glimmer in the faint moonlight as your heart throbbed painfully in your chest.

You didn’t want to go through with it... of course not! But was there any other option? Absolutely not... even if there were, you doubted you could bear the profound sadness that had taken root in your heart and soul.

You grasped the beautifully adorned dagger tightly, your hand shaking as you slowly brought it to your left wrist, your eyes fixed on it as it caught the light like the water. You pressed it firmly against your delicate skin, closing your eyes before swiftly dragging it across, nearly dropping it in the process as a whimper of pain escaped your lips.

You could feel the warmth of your own crimson blood trickling down your skin, cascading like a waterfall. You couldn’t see it, no, of course not! But the sensation was undeniable.

With your other wrist, you acted swiftly, there was no turning back now. The dagger fell beside your feet, your hands trembling slightly as you began to feel lightheaded, not just from the loss of blood, but from the adrenaline surging through your veins.

Oh god.

Is this how it all ends?

Is this truly the conclusion of your life?

Your stomach twisted as a dull ache emerged in your head, and you quickly collapsed, your hair dipping into the water as you lay on your back, allowing the warm liquid to mingle with the river. Your breathing slowed, the headache growing sharper... and then, everything faded into complete darkness.

Warmth hit you before awareness did. It wasn’t a comforting heat. It was the suffocating, humid warmth of a New Orleans night trapped indoors, thick with the smell of boiled vinegar, sharp lye, and a heavy, metallic iron scent that made the back of your throat itch.

You tried to lift your arms, but a sharp, burning agony flared in your wrists. You looked down through blurry vision. Your arms weren't bandaged with clean medical gauze. They were wrapped tightly in coarse, stained cheesecloth, bound tight with rough hemp butcher's twine that bit into your swollen flesh.

"I wouldn't pull at those," a voice said.

The voice was smooth, carrying the slow, educated drawl of high-society New Orleans, yet it cut through the room like a razor.

He sat in a high-backed wicker chair just beyond the lamplight. His tailored wool trousers were immaculate, his white shirt sleeves rolled up with clinical neatness. Thin, wire-rimmed glasses glinted in the dark, completely hiding his eyes behind two disks of reflected yellow light. On the small side-table next to him sat a heavy silver basin filled with pinkish water, and a pair of long, bone-handled kitchen shears.

"You were inconveniently close to ruining a patch of land I quite fond of," he said softly, leaning forward. The lamplight caught the sharp line of his jaw. "A dead body attracts the state police. The police attract questions. What a dreadful, sloppy shame..."

He tilted his head, studying the crude twine wrapping your wrists.

"So, I corrected the situation," he added, his voice entirely devoid of pity. "You don’t have to thank me. That would imply I did it for your sake. I assure you, I did not. Bleeding into the mud is a terrible waste of a perfectly good pulse."

He reached out, his fingers surprisingly cold as they pressed against the pulse point on your throat, not to soothe you, but measuring the beat with the detached, clinical evaluation of a butcher weighing cattle.

"What I am trying to understand," he whispered, his glasses tilting down so you could finally see his dark, unblinking eyes, "is whether you always trespass on other people's hunting grounds... or if tonight was special?"

His fingers stayed against your throat a beat too long. They were steady and unyielding, pressing just hard enough for you to feel the frantic, terrified thumping of your own pulse against his skin.

You wanted to pull away. Every nerve in your body screamed at you to twist out of his reach, to slide off the bed, to run. But you couldn't. Your limbs felt completely hollow, drained of everything that made them move. You could only lie there, chest heaving in short, shallow gasps, staring up at him with wide, glassy eyes.

You felt exactly like a deer caught in the brush after a bad shot, broken-winged, pinned to the earth, watching the hunter walk up with a lantern. You could only track his movements with your eyes, paralyzed by a deep, instinctual dread that had nothing to do with logic.

"Still quite rapid," he murmured, finally pulling his hand back. He reached for a linen handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his fingers, a casual gesture that felt chillingly deliberate. "But the bleeding has stopped. You are remarkably resilient for someone so determined to break."

The room seemed to shrink around you. The air was heavy, smelling less like a hospital and more like an old smokehouse after a long winter, salt, old wood, and a faint, sweet tang you couldn't identify.

You tried to form a word, but your throat felt like it was coated in sand. A weak, dry click was the only sound that left your lips.

The stranger didn't offer you water. Instead, he stood up, towering over the bed in the dim lamplight. The shadow he cast stretched all the way up the wall and across the ceiling, swallowing the room in darkness. He looked down at you, his face unreadable behind the glare of his glasses, adjusting his cuffs with perfect, terrifying calm.

"Rest," he said, and though the word was quiet, it carried the weight of a command. "You've made a terrible mess of yourself, and I despise an untidy house. We will discuss your future tomorrow, when you are... more presentable."

He turned toward the door, leaving you alone in the dark with the heavy scent of salt, your arms bound tight, and the terrifying certainty that you had escaped death only to walk into something much worse.

The latch of the heavy wooden door clicked shut, and the room plunged into absolute, suffocating darkness.

You lay completely still, staring at the black ceiling, your chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged gasps. Every instinct inside you screamed that you were in profound danger. You felt exactly like a wounded deer pinned in the thicket, broken, bleeding, and entirely at the mercy of the hunter who had just tracked it down.

Deep down, a bitter, agonizing question began to twist in your gut: Was this worth it? You had walked into those woods to escape. You wanted to vanish away from the prying eyes, away from the suffocating judgment of New Orleans society. But you hadn't escaped. You had traded your freedom for this heavy cotton blanket, these tightly bound wrists, and a room that smelled faintly of old salt and copper. You were weaker now than you had ever been, entirely trapped by a total stranger.

Except... he didn't feel like a stranger.

As the silence stretched, his voice continued to echo in the dark corners of your mind. It wasn't his face you recognized, the glare of his glassea had hidden his eyes too well. It was the cadence of his speech. The way his vowels rolled smoothly, punctuated by a terrifying, theatrical precision. You had heard that voice before. Not in passing on the street, and not in the high-society parlors you loathed.

You had heard it coming out of a polished wooden speaker box.

A wave of cold dread washed over you, sharper than the sting in your wrists. It was him. The voice that thousands of people across New Orleans tuned into every single night. The smooth, charismatic radio host who spun jazz records and charmed the city with his sophisticated late-night storytelling. The man the entire city trusted, loved, and welcomed into their homes.

The realization hit you like a physical blow. The elegant public figure on the airwaves was the exact same man who had just looked at your bleeding body with the cold, calculating eyes of a butcher. You hadn't escaped the world at all. You were locked in the dark with one of its monsters.

The moment the morning light began to bleed through the cracks in the heavy wooden shutters, you dragged your heavy, aching body out of the bed. Your head spun violently. Your wrists throbbed beneath the tight cheesecloth bindings, but the sheer terror of who was on the other side of that door kept you moving.

You needed a weapon. Anything.

Your eyes scanned the dim, humid room. There was nothing on the washstand. No loose tools. Desperate, you staggered toward the small side-table where the silver basin of pink water sat from the night before. Next to it lay the long, bone-handled kitchen shears he had left behind.

Your fingers trembled as you scooped them up. They were heavy, cold, and deadly. You hid them beneath the folds of your blanket, retreating back to the edge of the bed, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

The heavy floorboards groaned in the hallway. The brass doorknob turned.

The radio host stepped into the room, carrying a small lacquer tray with a steaming porcelain bowl. He looked immaculate in the morning light, his waistcoat pressed, his dark hair combed back perfectly, his glasses reflecting the pale sun.

"Good morning," he said, his voice carrying that familiar, smooth radio warmth that now made your stomach turn. "I brought you something to restore your vitality. A traditional broth. You lost quite a bit of—"

You didn’t let him finish.

With a ragged scream, you lunged forward, driving the heavy shears straight toward his chest.

He didn't flinch. In one lightning-fast, practiced motion, he stepped to the side, his hand flashing out to catch your bound right wrist. He squeezed down directly on your fresh wound. A blinding fire shot up your arm, and your fingers automatically opened, dropping the shears to the floor with a loud clatter.

You collapsed to your knees, gasping in agony, your forehead resting against his polished leather shoes.

He didn't yell. He didn't even drop the tray. He calmly set the broth down on the side table, took a linen handkerchief from his pocket, and casually wiped a stray drop of water from his cuff.

"A predictable reaction," he murmured, looking down at you with a sigh of mild disappointment. "The frantic thrashing of a creature that doesn't understand it has already been saved."

"I know who you are," you choked out, your voice raw, staring up at him through tears of pain. "You're... you're on the air. Everyone knows your voice. If I don't leave here, people will look for me. They'll find out what you are!"

A slow, chilling smile touched the corners of his lips. He knelt down, getting right to your eye level, the scent of expensive cologne and faint pickling salt washing over you.

"Look for you?" he asked softly, his tone dripping with mock pity. "Oh dear, let us be entirely honest with one another. You walked deep into a forbidden swamp after midnight, took a blade to your own veins, and prayed for the darkness to take you. You wanted to vanish away from everyone, remember?"

He reached out, his cool fingers gently lifting your chin so you had no choice but to look into his unblinking eyes behind his glasses.

"No one is looking for a girl who threw herself away," he whispered, his voice smooth, hypnotic, and utterly devastating. "The world thinks you got exactly what you wanted. You are officially a ghost. And a ghost has nowhere left to go... except right here."

He stood up, looking down at you as you knelt by his feet, trembling from both the physical pain in your wrists and the psychological weight of his words. He adjusted his waistcoat, smoothing down the front with the practiced grace of a performer stepping onto a stage.

"Since you’ve already recognized the melody," he said, his voice dropping into that rich, resonant baritone that echoed through thousands of radio sets across the city every night, "it would be terribly rude of me not to introduce the conductor."

He offered a slight, mockingly polite bow, his glasses catching the dim morning light.

"Alastor Hartfelt," he murmured, his smile sharp and immaculate. "A pleasure to finally meet a listener so... deeply moved by my work."

He stepped over the dropped shears, completely dismissing your attempt to hurt him, and picked up the porcelain bowl of steaming broth.

"Now," Alastor said, his eyes locking onto yours with absolute authority. "Drink."

Alastor knelt beside you on the hardwood floor, the porcelain bowl cradled perfectly in his palm. The steam rising from it carried a dense, intoxicating aroma, rich, deeply savory, and laced with the sweet, sharp scent of star anise, charred onions, and heavy chicory. Your stomach, hollow and entirely empty from the blood loss, gave a sudden, traitorous ache.

"I am a man of refined tastes, my dear," Alastor murmured, his voice as smooth as velvet over the radio. "And I do not tolerate waste. Drink."

You wanted to push the bowl away, but your trembling hands couldn't find the strength. With a terrifying gentleness, he pressed the lip of the fine porcelain against your mouth. The liquid tilted forward.

Instinct took over. You drank.

It was, without question, the most incredible broth you had ever tasted. It was a perfectly clarified French consommé, velvety and deeply complex, coating your dry throat with a rich, buttery warmth that immediately started to clear the fog in your head. For a fraction of a second, the primal panic faded, replaced by the sheer comfort of the heat.

Then, the aftertaste hit.

Beneath the heavy spices and the rich fat, there was an underlying sweetness. A distinct, unfamiliar density that lingered on the back of your tongue, accompanied by a faint, metallic tang that made the hairs on your arms stand up.

Alastor pulled the bowl away, his dark eyes tracking the slow movement of your throat as you swallowed. He took his linen handkerchief and gently, almost lovingly, dabbed a stray drop of the dark liquid from your bottom lip.

"Exquisite, isn't it?" he whispered, his spectacles catching the pale morning light as a small, knowing smile graced his face. "A rude young gentleman from the French Quarter provided the stock. He had a terribly loud mouth, but... a remarkably sweet disposition."

Your breath caught in your throat. The rich warmth in your stomach instantly turned into a sickening, freezing knot of pure ice.

"You see," Alastor added, standing up and looking down at you with cold satisfaction, "I always ensure my guests are properly seasoned. Rest now."

The revelation hit your brain a second before your stomach violently rebelled. That rich, velvety sweetness turned to ash in your mouth. With a ragged, desperate gasp, you scrambled away from Alastor, collapsing on your side as your body convulsed, violently throwing up the dark broth onto the pristine hardwood floor.

You lay there shaking, tears streaming down your face, your throat burning with the taste of bile and heavy spices. You waited for the blow. You waited for him to snap, to drag you by your hair, to punish you for ruining his hard work.

Instead, there was only the quiet, rhythmic click of his tongue.

"Oh, what a dreadfully sensitive stomach... such a shame.." Alastor sighed.

You flinched as his shadow fell over you, but he didn't reach out to hurt you. Instead, he gracefully knelt on a clean patch of floor, completely untroubled by the mess. He pulled a fresh, monogrammed silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and gently wiped your chin, his movements entirely devoid of violence.

"Do not look at me with such wild eyes!" he murmured, his voice softening into that comforting, late-night radio baritone. "I am a gentleman. I do not hunt women, nor do I lay hands on my houseguests. That would be remarkably uncouth."

He looked at the spilled broth on the floor, his brow furrowing with genuine disappointment.

"The young man who provided that stock was a boorish, arrogant thief I caught harassing a jazz singer outside a club on Bourbon Street," Alastor explained casually, as if discussing a bad bottle of wine. "He lacked manners. And those who lack manners do not deserve the breath in their lungs. But you?"

He reached out, his cool fingers gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His touch was light, almost paternal, but it felt like a velvet noose.

"You are a lady in distress. You met with a terrible tragedy in my woods, and I have taken you in. You are entirely safe from my ledger." He stood up, adjusting his cuffs with absolute precision. "But you will learn to appreciate my hospitality. I despise an ungrateful guest."

He looked down at you, his eyes steady behind his thin glasses. The gentle, almost warm smile on his face didn't reach his eyes.

"You see, the dilemma we face is quite simple," he said, folding his soiled handkerchief with precise, neat movements. "You know my name. You know my face. And you have tasted my... private culinary pursuits. If I were to open that front door and let you wander back to the French Quarter, your tongue would eventually betray me. A secret like this is far too heavy for a fragile girl to carry alone..hmm? Don't you think?"

He stepped toward the door, his polished shoes clicking sharply on the wood.

"So, you will stay here, under my care," Alastor continued, turning back to give you a comforting, horrific look. "You will have a comfortable bed. You will have beautiful clothes. I will even ensure you are fed a diet more suited to your delicate palate. But you will never leave this house. You are the prettiest little secret I have ever had to keep."

He opened the door, stepping out into the hallway where the faint, upbeat sound of a jazz record was echoing from somewhere downstairs.

"Rest up," Alastor murmured, his voice dropping into that smooth, famous radio cadence as he began to close the door.

The heavy oak door shut with a solid, echoing thud. A second later, you heard the sharp, unmistakable sound of a heavy brass key turning in the lock from the outside.

You were entirely safe from his knife—but you were buried alive.

The heavy silence of the house was broken only by the distant, tinny hum of a radio speaker downstairs. Alastor was gone, likely at the broadcast station charming the city, leaving you entirely alone in your locked room.

Your eyes scanned the walls, desperate for any weakness. The window was locked tight with heavy iron bars, but when you leaned against the massive, dark mahogany wardrobe in the corner, the wood gave a slight, hollow click.

You pushed harder. The back panel of the wardrobe swung inward like a hidden door, revealing a narrow, dust-choked passageway inside the walls.

Heart lodging in your throat, you squeezed through, stepping out into a room that was dead silent. It was Alastor’s private study.

The room was stunningly elegant, smelling of expensive tobacco, leather-bound books, and old paper. Heavy velvet drapes blocked out the New Orleans sun. On his grand oak desk sat a beautiful, state-of-the-art carbon microphone, glinting in the dim light.

But it was the wall behind the desk that made your breath catch.

Instead of books or artwork, Alastor kept rows of neat, glass-fronted display cases. You crept closer, your bare feet making no sound on the heavy Persian rug. Inside the cases were small, velvet-lined compartments. Each one held a single, immaculate item: a silver pocket watch, a monogrammed gold cufflink, a silk handkerchief, a fountain pen.

Next to each item, written in beautiful, flowing cursive script, was a name, a date, and a radio broadcast title.

You read the nearest card:

Thomas Vance. October 14, 1924. Episode: "The Cost of Arrogance."

Your eyes widened as you looked at the next one:

Charles LeRouge. February 3, 1925. Episode: "A Lesson in Modesty."

With a sickening jolt, you realized what you were looking at. Alastor didn't just hunt rude men; he immortalized them. These were the personal effects of the men he had killed and consumed. And the dates matched the nights he hosted his most famous, storytelling radio broadcasts. He was telling the entire city of New Orleans exactly how he caught his prey, turning his gruesome crimes into late-night radio entertainment. They were all listening to his confessions every night, and they were applauding him for it.

Suddenly, from downstairs, the front door heavy latch clicked open.

A smooth, cheerful whistle echoed up the stairwell. Alastor was home early.

The cheerful whistling grew louder, accompanied by the slow, rhythmic thud of Alastor’s polished leather shoes ascending the grand staircase.

Panic exploded in your chest. You spun away from the glass display cases, your heart hammering so violently it masked the sound of your own frantic breathing. You dove toward the hidden panel behind the mahogany wardrobe, squeezing your body back through the narrow, dusty gap just as the brass handle of the study door began to turn.

You pulled the panel shut with a agonizingly soft click.

Through the tiny keyhole of the wardrobe door, you watched through the shadows as he stepped into his study. He looked effortlessly handsome, carrying a fresh leather briefcase, his dark hair perfectly in place. He paused, casting a slow, sweeping glance around the immaculate room. His eyes lingered on the display cases for a fraction of a second, but he didn't seem to notice anything amiss. With a quiet sigh, he turned and walked back out, locking the study door behind him.

You collapsed against the floorboards of your bedroom, gasping for air, trembling from head to toe. You had made it. He didn't know.

Then, you looked down at your hands.

Your breath caught in your dry throat. Your left wrist, the one bound in Alastor's tight cheesecloth and hemp butcher's twine, was fraying. In your desperate rush to squeeze back through the wooden gap of the wardrobe, a loose strand of the rough twine had caught on a splinter.

You frantically looked through the keyhole again.

There, snagged on the sharp edge of the hidden panel inside his study, was a single, long piece of yellowed butcher's twine. It hung loosely in the dim light, swaying gently, an undeniable beacon screaming that someone had broken into his private sanctuary.

Before you could even think about how to retrieve it, the key turned in your bedroom door.

Alastor stood in the frame, holding a beautiful, flowing dark silk dress over his arm. His expression was warm, elegant, and entirely unreadable behind the steady glare of his spectacles.

"Ah, you are awake and looking much more rested, ma chérie," he said, his smooth radio voice filling the room like a velvet trap. He laid the dress neatly on the edge of your bed. "The sun has set, and the parlor is ready. Put this on. We mustn't keep dinner waiting."

He smiled, a sharp, perfect crescent of white teeth.

"And do hurry," he added softly, his eyes dropping briefly to your fraying, loose wrist bindings before rising back to your face. "I am terribly eager to hear all about how you spent your afternoon."

A crystal chandelier cast a warm, golden glow over a long mahogany dining table, reflecting off polished silverware and fine porcelain. Soft jazz music drifted from a beautiful mahogany phonograph in the corner.

You sat stiffly in the dark silk dress he had provided. Your heart battered against your ribs as he stepped into the room, carrying the dinner plates himself with the smooth efficiency of a practiced host. He wore no jacket now, just his immaculate white shirt with the sleeves rolled precisely twice, his glasses catching the candlelight.

He placed the dishes down with a gentle, rhythmic click.

For you, a stunning plate of traditional crawfish étouffée, fragrant with butter, garlic, and fresh herbs.

For Alastor, a beautifully seared, thick cut of dark meat, drizzled with a rich red-wine reduction.

"Bon appétit, my dear," he murmured, taking his seat at the head of the table. He lifted his wine glass to toast you, his dark eyes steady behind his spectacles. "I took liberties with your menu. I assure you, your dish is entirely... conventional. A gentleman does not impose his personal eccentricities on a lady!"

You stared at your plate, your hands trembling so hard the silverware clinked against the porcelain. You knew about the twine upstairs. You knew he likely knew. But you couldn't confront him. Instead, you swallowed the lump in your throat and forced yourself to look up, trying to keep your voice steady.

"Your radio show," you started softly, your voice sounding small in the grand room. "The stories you tell on the air... do you get the inspiration for them?"

Alastor paused, his fork hovering for a fraction of a second. A slow, deeply amused smile spread across his face. He cut a small, neat piece of his meat.

"Ah, a fan of the narrative!" He said, his rich baritone rolling through the room just like it did over the airwaves. "Inspiration is everywhere in a city like this, mon amour. New Orleans is full of loud, arrogant men who think they own the cobblestones. Men who treat the vulnerable with disrespect. I merely... listen to their stories. And then, I give those stories a much more cohesive, elegant ending."

He placed the meat in his mouth, chewing slowly, his dark eyes locked onto your face.

"They become a part of the city's history," Alastor whispered, dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin. "And in a way, they stay with me forever. Tell me, do you have a favorite episode?"

The air in the room felt suffocatingly thick. You knew exactly what he was eating. You knew exactly what those glass cases upstairs represented.

"I... I liked the one from last October," you lied, your voice shaking as you tried to play along. "The one about... arrogance..?"

His smile widened, sharp and brilliant. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table.

"A marvelous choice," he murmured, his tone dropping into a chillingly intimate register. "That was a particularly challenging piece to construct. The subject was quite stubborn. He kept trying to... squeeze into spaces where he didn't belong. He left quite a mess behind."

He tilted his head, his eyes boring straight into yours.

"But then, we always find a way to tidy up after our guests, don't we?"

You forced your fingers to loosen their white-knuckled grip on your fork. Your stomach was doing flips, but you knew that if you showed his threat had broken you, the game would be over. You swallowed hard, looked away from his plate, and tried to find another topic, anything that felt safe and public.

"Your listeners," you said, your voice a bit stronger this time, though it still lacked its usual color. "You have so many of them across Louisiana. Do you... do you ever interact with them? Or do you prefer to keep yourself isolated here, away from the crowds?"

Alastor took a slow, deliberate sip of his dark red wine. The candlelight caught the crimson liquid, casting a sharp, blood-colored glare across his immaculate white cuffs.

"An excellent question, ma chérie," he murmured, his rich baritone wrapping around the room like velvet. "The relationship between a broadcaster and his audience is a delicate thing. They think they know me because I speak into their living rooms every night. They think we are friends. But crowds are loud, unruly, and remarkably unrefined. I prefer intimacy.."

He set his wine glass down with perfect, silent precision.

"I prefer to select my companions very carefully," he continued, his eyes locking onto yours with an unblinking, heavy intensity. "A chosen few. People who appreciate the quieter things in life. People who understand the value of absolute discretion."

You felt a chill run down your spine. You tried to shift the focus again, nodding toward the beautiful mahogany phonograph playing soft jazz in the corner.

"And the music on your show?" you asked quickly, trying to steer the conversation toward something harmless. "The jazz records you play. Do you pick those out yourself as well?"

Alastor’s smile softened into something that almost looked genuinely warm, though the cold calculations behind his spectacles never wavered.

"Every single one," he said softly. "Music, much like a proper dinner, requires the perfect tempo. If you rush it, you ruin the rhythm. If you slow it down too much, the tension dies. I find that New Orleans jazz has a particular... heartbeat. A frantic, desperate energy that matches the streets beautifully."

He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his waistcoat.

"It is all about control, you see," he whispered, his voice dropping into that chilling, late-night radio cadence. "Creating the perfect environment. Knowing exactly when to play the next note... and knowing exactly when a guest is trying to break the melody."

He reached into his vest pocket, his fingers emerging with a small, folded piece of cloth.

Alastor's fingers moved with agonizing slowness. He unfolded the small square of silk cloth right there on the pristine white tablecloth, just inches from your plate of crawfish étouffée.

Inside lay the single, frayed strand of yellow hemp butcher's twine.

"I found this snagged on a rather delicate wooden panel in my study this afternoon," he murmured, his voice dropping all of its radio warmth, leaving only a flat, freezing chill. "It is a fascinating thing about twine, my dear. It only frays when it is forced through a space too small for it. When someone is in a tremendous, panicked hurry."

He didn't yell. He didn't slam his hand on the table. He simply picked up his butter knife, using the blunt edge to slide the yellow thread a fraction of an inch closer to your hand.

"You have such a lovely, inquisitive mind," he whispered, his unblinking eyes locking onto yours behind his spectacles. "But curiosity in a houseguest can be a remarkably dangerous trait. Especially when that guest forgets that I hear every single creak this old house makes."

Your breath hitched, the ambient jazz music from the phonograph suddenly sounding incredibly loud and mocking in the suffocating silence.

"Now," he said, his sharp smile returning as he picked his wine glass back up. "Let us try this melody one more time. Did you enjoy what you saw in my study... or shall we discuss the consequences of breaking my rules?"

Your throat felt incredibly tight, the sight of that frayed yellow thread on the pristine white tablecloth making your heart gallop in your chest. You knew you couldn't lie your way out of this. You couldn't run. The only option left was to lean into the vulnerability he expected from you.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice trembling as you looked down at your hands, genuinely terrified. "I... I shouldn't have gone in there. I was panicked, and I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry, Mr. Hartfelt."

The room went dead silent for a long, agonizing moment, save for the soft scratch of the jazz record spinning on the phonograph. You didn't dare look up to see his expression.

Then, you heard the soft clink of his wine glass meeting the wood.

"Mr. Hartfelt," Alastor repeated slowly, testing the formality of the name on his tongue. A soft, satisfied chuckle left his lips. "Well. A sincere apology goes a very long way in this house, my dear. It shows me that despite your... chaotic tendencies, you still possess a baseline of good breeding."

He reached out, his cool fingers sliding over the tablecloth to pick up the frayed twine, folding it back into his pocket with meticulous care.

"I accept your apology," he murmured, his smooth radio voice returning, thick with that deceptive, warm baritone. "But an apology without a change in behavior is merely noise. And oh.. do I despise noise."

He leaned back, adjusting his glasses.

"Because you were honest with me, I will not re-evaluate your safety in this house. However, rules must have weight. Since you used your afternoon to wander into spaces you do not belong, you will spend your evenings under a tighter lock! Tomorrow, you will not leave your room at all.. you will use that time to reflect on what it means to be a truly grateful guest."

He gestured to your untouched plate.

"Now, finish your dinner. It would be a terrible shame to let such a fine dish go to waste."

You picked up your fork, your fingers still trembling so violently that the silver rattled against the edge of the fine porcelain. Alastor watched you with an unblinking, predatory focus, his hands folded neatly over his waistcoat as he waited for your next move.

You scooped up a small bit of the crawfish étouffée. The aroma of rich butter, garlic, and heavy spices hit your nose. It smelled completely normal, delicious, even.. but your throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper.

You put the fork in your mouth and swallowed.

Your stomach instantly tightened, threatening to rebel just like it had with the broth, but you forced it down. You kept your eyes lowered, staring at the mahogany table, methodically taking another bite, and then another. You chewed and swallowed with mechanical, numb obedience, proving to him that his lesson had been learned.

A soft, deeply satisfied hum vibrated in Alastor's chest.

"Magnificent," he murmured, the velvet warmth fully returning to his smooth radio voice. "I knew a lady of your caliber would eventually appreciate a properly curated meal. You see? Coexistence is remarkably simple when everyone plays their proper part."

He stood up, smoothly clearing his own plate with the effortless grace of a perfect host. He didn't rush you. He waited until you had finished enough to satisfy him, then picked up your plate as well.

"You have done very well tonight, my dear," he said, offering a small, gentlemanly nod. "Now, let us return you to your quarters. You have a long, quiet day of reflection ahead of you tomorrow."

He escorted you back up the grand staircase, his cool hand resting lightly against the small of your back, not with violence, but with the firm, unyielding pressure of a guard guiding a prisoner. He unlocked your bedroom door, stepped aside to let you enter the dark room, and gave you one last, chillingly polite smile.

"Bonne nuit," he whispered in his signature, late-night baritone. "Sleep well."

The heavy oak door shut, and the sharp, definitive click of the brass key echoed through the wood, locking you back into the dark cage.

The 24-hour lockdown felt like a century. By the time Alastor finally turned the heavy brass key in the lock the following evening, the isolation had eroded whatever fight you had left inside you.

He stepped into the room holding a fresh linen towel and a small basin of clean, warm water to dress your wrists. He looked immaculate, as always, his thin glasses reflecting the soft glow of the hallway light.

"Good evening, my dear," he murmured, his smooth voice filling the quiet room. "I trust your day of reflection was... enlightening?"

You didn't move from the edge of the bed. You looked up at him, your eyes hollow, your spirit entirely crushed by the suffocating walls. The panic had turned into a cold, hard desperation.

"Let me go," you choked out, your voice cracking. "Let me leave this house, Alastor. If you don't... I swear to God, I'll finish what I started in the woods. I'll find a way. I'll tear these bindings off. I'll bleed out right here on your floor, and the police will come looking!"

He paused. He set the basin down on the washstand with perfect, slow deliberation. He didn't look angry. He didn't look threatened. Instead, a look of profound, clinical disappointment washed over his handsome face.

"A threat of self-destruction.." he said softly, walking over to the bed. He reached into his waistcoat pocket. "How remarkably unrefined. You think you are holding a knife to my throat, but you are only holding it to your own."

He reached out and took your trembling hand.

With a terrifyingly gentle touch, he unrolled your fingers and placed a heavy, cold object directly into your palm.

It was the bone-handled kitchen shears. The blades were sharp, glinting wickedly in the dim light.

"I am a gentleman," Alastor whispered, his face inches from yours, his dark eyes unblinking behind his glasses. "If your soul is truly so corrupted by sadness that you wish to cease existing, I will not stand in your way. Go ahead. Open the wounds. I will even leave the room so you may have your privacy."

You froze, staring down at the heavy steel resting in your hand. Your heart hammered against your ribs.

"But let us be entirely honest with one another," Alastor continued, his voice dropping into that hypnotic, late-night radio cadence that could soothe a panicked city. "You didn't go into those woods because you wanted to die. You went into those woods because you wanted the world to stop looking at you. You wanted someone to finally take the burden of living out of your hands."

He gently pressed his thumb against the pulse point on your throat, measuring the frantic, terrified rhythm of your heart.

"You want to live," he whispered, a cruel, knowing smile touching his lips. "You want to breathe. You just want to do it where nobody can hurt you anymore. And I have given you exactly that. A beautiful, safe, quiet cage where the world can never touch you again."

He stood up, stepping back toward the door, leaving the shears resting in your lap.

"The choice is entirely yours," Alastor said, offering a small, mockingly polite bow. "You may use the shears and end your story tonight. Or, you may realize that your life belongs right here, as my guest. I shall return in ten minutes to see what you have decided."

He walked out, leaving the door completely wide open.

You stared at the open doorway. The hallway was empty. The front door downstairs was just a flight of stairs away. The weapon was in your lap. You could cut your wrists, or you could try to run.

But as you looked at the sharp steel, a horrific, sickening realization washed over you. He was right. You didn't want to die. You were terrified of the dark woods, terrified of the river, and terrified of the world outside. The fight left your body entirely. Your fingers uncurled, letting the heavy shears slide off your lap and clatter uselessly onto the floorboards.

You sank back into the mattress, pulling the heavy cotton blanket up to your chin, weeping silently in the dark.

You had given up. You had given in.

The balcony offered a stunning view of nearly the entire marina. Yachts floated on the dark water below like pieces of exquisite jewelry, their lights casting a golden glow across the surface with every ripple of the waves. Somewhere in the streets below, soft music wafted through the warm Monte-Carlo night, accompanied by distant laughter, the sounds of upscale restaurants still bustling well past midnight. The air was infused with the scent of sea salt, cigarettes, perfume, and the heat of summer trapped between the buildings.

You were curled up in one of the cushioned chairs, a cocktail resting loosely in your hand, condensation trickling down the glass as you gazed at the city glowing beneath you. Behind you, his voice blended seamlessly into the night.

"No, move the meeting to Thursday," Vincent spoke calmly into the phone. "I’m not flying back early because someone didn’t read a contract correctly." He paused, then sighed. "I don’t care whose fault it was. Just fix it."

A faint smile crept onto your lips as you sipped your drink, some things truly never changed. When the call finally ended, a moment of silence enveloped the balcony before you heard the familiar sound of the sliding door opening behind you.

"You’re still working?" you asked without turning around.

"I’m done now."

"You said that an hour ago."

"I mean it this time." His voice was closer than you expected, and you turned slightly in your chair, only to freeze in place.

"…What is all that?" Several shopping bags dangled from his hands, their glossy logos glimmering under the balcony lights, Louis Vuitton, Hermès, Saint Laurent, Cartier. Another bag rested against his wrist, partially hidden from your view.

He looked unfairly attractive standing there, glasses slightly lowered on the bridge of his nose after hours of screen time, sleeves rolled casually to his elbows, dark hair streaked with silver under the warm light spilling from the suite behind him. The city glowed gold against the sharpness of his features, softening him just enough to make you catch your breath.

You found yourself staring at the bags once more. "Are you serious?"

"I was gone longer than I meant to be."

"You disappeared for three hours."

"I know." He moved across the balcony slowly, placing the bags down next to your chair, the expensive rings catching the light for a moment as he relaxed his grip.

"You didn’t need to buy me half of Monaco to say sorry."

A small smile tugged at the edge of his lips.

"Only half?"

"You’re crazy."

"You like me like this." Unfortunately, he was right again. You watched as he loosened the watch on his wrist before settling down next to you, his arm wrapping around your waist as it always did. The warmth seeped through the thin fabric of your clothes almost immediately, the city below continued to glow endlessly beneath the balcony while luxury cars glided through the narrow streets, and music floated softly from somewhere near the harbor, his thumb absentmindedly brushing against your side.

"I’m sorry," he finally said, his voice softer this time. "I know this vacation hasn’t really felt like a vacation."

You turned to him, slightly taken aback, not by the apology itself, he did apologize sometimes, in his own peculiar way, but by the sincerity behind it. "You’re busy," you murmured.

"That’s not an excuse."

"No," you conceded quietly, "but it’s true, and I’m not upset about it."

He leaned back in the chair beside you, his gaze drifting out toward the sea for a moment. You could see the exhaustion lurking beneath his composed facade now that the calls had ceased, the constant tension in his shoulders, the weight he carried as if it had become a part of him years ago... then he turned to look at you again.

"I do love you, you know."

The words flowed so easily it almost stung, and you smiled faintly into your drink. "You bought me Cartier after ignoring me for three hours. I figured that was your way of showing affection."

A soft laugh escaped him, low and weary. "Cruel."

"You deserve it."

"Ugh, absolutely."

The gentle breeze swirled around the balcony once more, bringing the scent of the ocean through his hair as he leaned in, placing a soft kiss on your temple before resting his forehead against yours for a moment.

“I’ll make it up to you tomorrow,” he whispered.

“You said that yesterday.”

“And I meant it then too.”

“You’re impossible.”

His lips grazed the edge of your jaw, lingering just a heartbeat longer than necessary.

Morning crept in slowly through the curtains.

Soft sunlight poured into the hotel suite in golden streaks, warming the marble floors and the tangled sheets you had half buried yourself in during the night. Outside, the city was already alive, distant traffic humming below, faint voices near the harbor, and the occasional crash of waves against the docks.

You barely wanted to open your eyes, the room still held the scent of Vincent's cologne and coffee. Your head turned slightly toward the source, and there he was, standing by the counter across the suite, glasses perched on his nose, one hand cradling an espresso cup while the other lazily scrolled through something on his phone. Even in casual attire, he somehow managed to look effortlessly put together, dark trousers hanging low on his hips, a white button up only half tucked in, fully unbuttoned so you could take in the sight of his waist and body. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms in a careless manner.

You hated how attractive he appeared in the morning light, which is why there were countless mornings you’d plead with him to do something about the ache between your thighs that he caused. Without looking up from his screen, he said,

“You’re awake... finally, thought I might’ve lost you.”

“What the fuck... have you been waiting?” you mumbled groggily.

“Obviously.”

“You’re creepy.”

A faint smile tugged at the rim of his cup.

“You drool in your sleep.” Your eyes narrowed immediately. “I do not.

"You do."

"You’re just trying to annoy me with that lie."

"I would never." You locked eyes with him for a moment, then grabbed a pillow from beside you and tossed it half-heartedly in his direction. He caught it effortlessly, not even glancing up. Ugh, so infuriating.

"You’ve been working already, haven’t you?" you grumbled.

"Just emails."

"It’s eight in the morning."

"And?"

"And normal people take a break on vacation."

"You’ve mentioned that before."

"Yes, because you refuse to hear me out."

This time, he finally glanced up from his phone, placing it on the counter before sauntering over to the bed, espresso no longer in hand.

"You know," he said in a calm tone, "most people would be thankful to wake up in a place like this."

"Most people aren’t dating a weirdo who can’t relax to save their life."

"That sounds a bit overdramatic."

"It’s the truth."

He settled down near your legs, one hand absentmindedly smoothing the sheets over you as he took another sip of coffee. Up close, you noticed the faint shadows under his eyes that hadn’t completely vanished overnight.

"You only slept four hours," you pointed out softly.

"I slept."

"That wasn’t my point."

"Fuck.. just, stop.. okay?"

You sighed, leaning your head back against the pillows, watching the sunlight dance on the silver strands of his hair. Even in his exhaustion, he looked unfairly elegant, with that sharp nose and tired eyes hidden behind thin-framed glasses, an expensive watch perfectly resting on his wrist as if he couldn’t exist without it.

"You know what your problem is?" you asked.

"Oh, I’m sure you’re about to tell me."

"You honestly believe the world can’t function without your control." He pondered that for a moment, then shrugged lightly.

"Well, historically speaking, I haven’t been proven wrong."

You let out a laugh before you could stop yourself. "You and that massive ego."

"It’s been earned."

"See? Horrible."

The warmth of his hand glided against your ankle slowly beneath the sheets before he drew you a bit closer to him, his expression now softer than it had been all morning.

You gazed up at him cautiously. "Do you ever stop with the flirting?"

"Hah! Take a wild guess, darling."

"At least you’re being honest."

"I’m more honest with you than with anyone else."

Something about the way he said it made the room feel quieter for a moment, his gaze drifting briefly over your face before he spoke again, his voice lower this time.

"C'mon, get dressed." You blinked. "Why?"

"I’m taking you somewhere."

"That sounds a bit suspicious."

"It’s just breakfast..."

"You’re wealthy enough for that statement to sound dangerous."

A soft laugh escaped him again, quieter now.

"Trust me."

You narrowed your eyes slightly. "Last time you said that, we ended up on a yacht with three politicians and a guy who owned a diamond company."

"And you had fun!"

"Oh no... I hated every second."

"You looked stunning while hating it."

"You are truly impossible to argue with," you muttered, finally pulling yourself out of the sheets.

"I'm aware, sweetheart." His confidence should have been less appealing by now, at this point, it was practically a medical condition. You slipped into the bathroom long enough to wake yourself up properly while he remained somewhere in the suite behind you, likely answering another email despite claiming he was "done working." By the time you stepped back out, dressed and still adjusting an earring, he had already swapped the coffee for another phone call near the windows.

Of course he had.

"Yes, I saw the figures," he said calmly, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the glass overlooking the harbor. "Then send them to Zurich instead." You leaned against the doorway quietly, observing him for a moment. There was something captivating about the way he navigated conversations like this, controlled and precise. Like he always knew...

Even now, standing barefoot in a hotel suite at nine in the morning with slightly tousled hair and rolled up sleeves, he appeared more composed than most people ever managed to be. Then he caught you watching, and his expression changed almost instantly, it was so natural that you wondered if he even noticed it happening.

“I’ll call you back later, just don’t fuck it up like you did last time while I was away, okay?....alright...bye.” He said into the phone before hanging up without another word, raising an eyebrow, you remarked, “That seemed important.”

Vincent completely ignored that, crossing the room toward you instead, adjusting the necklace that sat crooked against your collarbone with careful fingers. “There,” he murmured, the gesture so gentle it almost didn’t seem like him.

“Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, dove.” For a moment, he simply gazed at you, making your stomach flutter every single time. “Oh my god, stop staring,” you pointed out quietly.

“You’re beautiful.”

“Oh, shut up.” You laughed softly as he pulled you closer by the waist, his expensive rings cool against your skin while his thumb brushed slowly along your side. “What’s the plan for this mysterious breakfast?” you asked.

“Ohhh.. you’ll see.” he chuckled.

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It’s not supposed to be!”

The drive through the city felt almost surreal in the morning light, luxury cars gliding through narrow streets lined with designer shops while sunlight flooded the coastline so brightly it almost hurt to look at. Beside you, he drove with one hand resting casually on the wheel, sunglasses shielding his eyes now as soft jazz played through the car speakers. You glanced at him briefly.

“Kinda curious, but how much does this car even cost?”

“Uhmmm.. I.. don’t actually remember.”

“That is the most villainous rich person answer you could’ve given me. You are unbearable.”

“You asked.”

“You scare me sometimes.

"Fuck off! You adore me!" Unfortunately, that response came way too fast, and he noticed it too. The corner of his mouth twitched up slightly as he shot a glance your way for just a moment before turning his attention back to the road... such a cocky jerk.

A few minutes later, the car finally slowed down in front of a serene restaurant perched above the water, "hidden" enough from the city to feel exclusive. You barely had time to unbuckle before he was already stepping out and making his way around to your side to open the door for you. You eyed him with suspicion.

"You know you don’t have to do that every single time."

"I know."

"Then why do you?" His hand rested momentarily against your lower back as he led you toward the entrance. "Because I enjoy taking care of you." The straightforwardness of his answer caught you off guard more than anything extravagant ever could.

Inside, the restaurant offered a full view of the sea, sunlight shimmering across the water just beneath the terrace while soft music floated through the air quietly enough not to disrupt conversation. The staff greeted him immediately as he stepped inside.

Of course they did.

You leaned in closer as you trailed behind him toward the terrace table already set for the two of you. "Do you secretly own this place too?"

"...No."

"You hesitated."

"Alright... alright, I'm friends with the owner."

"That’s somehow worse."

A low chuckle escaped him as he pulled your chair out for you, the sea stretching endlessly below the terrace, warm wind tousling his silver streaked hair, and for once, his phone remained silent beside him on the table.

By the time breakfast wrapped up, the sun had risen high enough to turn the entire sea a blinding gold, you had long since swiped bites from his plate despite having ordered your own meal, and he had grumbled about it exactly three times while still nudging the dish closer to you anyway. His sunglasses lay forgotten beside his espresso now, sleeves still neatly rolled to his forearms as the warm sea breeze drifted through.

For once, he actually seemed at ease.. or at least pretty close to it. "You know," you said lazily, swirling the melting ice in your drink, "this is the longest you’ve gone without checking your phone."

"Well.. uhh I checked it twice."

"See? Addiction."

"It’s called responsibility."

"Whatever floats your boat.."

That got a quiet laugh from him, just under his breath. "You’re quite judgmental for someone who’s currently spending my money."

"I spend it beautifully!"

"Ehh.. you definitely try."

You narrowed your eyes at him as he reached for the check before you could even pretend to glance at it.. not that you would have paid anyway.

The city buzzed softly beneath the afternoon heat, designer storefronts gleamed in the sunlight, polished windows showcasing clothes and jewelry that cost horrifying amounts of money while luxury cars cruised through narrow streets as if they belonged there naturally.

Next to you, he adjusted his sunglasses back into place before casually slipping his hand around yours, and you shot him a suspicious glance almost immediately.

"Oh my god not again.."

"What?"

"You have that look on your face.. y'know.. the one you get before making financially irresponsible decisions."

"I’m always financially irresponsible."

"That is not reassuring." His thumb brushed lazily over your knuckles as he kept walking. "I’ve hardly spent any time with you this trip," he said simply. "Let me spoil you properly."

"You already bought me Cartier last night."

"And...?"

"And I’m starting to think you’re trying to buy my affection."

"You already adore me. I’m just maintaining the standard, babe!"

You physically couldn’t argue with someone this shameless, and a few minutes later, you realized with growing horror that he was steering you straight toward the designer district.

"Oh no."

"Oh yes."

"No, absolutely not."

"You haven’t even seen anything yet! You can't talk!"

"I know enough already..!"

His hand rested against your lower back as he smoothly guided you across the street, completely unfazed by your complaints, just the sight of the first boutique made your stomach churn.

Soft lighting danced off glass displays filled with watches and jewelry, while the faint scent of high end perfume wafted through the air. The staff greeted him immediately, not just with politeness, but with a sense of familiarity.

Of course they recognized him.

A woman near the entrance beamed the moment she saw him. "Monsieur, welcome back."

Back.

That single word irked you, and you turned to him slowly. "How often do you come here?"

"Occasionally."

The employee looked like she was holding back laughter. Within twenty minutes, everything had spiraled completely out of your control.

A Saint Laurent jacket draped over one arm, two Prada boxes sitting nearby, and something from Dior that you hadn’t even agreed to try on yet somehow was already bought.

Meanwhile, he lounged comfortably on one of the velvet chairs near the fitting area, one ankle crossed over the other, scrolling through emails on his phone as if casually spending outrageous amounts of money was the most normal thing in the world.

"You are insane," you told him as you stepped out of the fitting room, his eyes immediately lifting and locking onto you, the phone slowly lowering from his hand.

For a moment, he was silent, his gaze roaming over you with an intensity that made your entire body feel warm beneath the luxurious fabric.

Then finally:

"Fuck.. turn around for me." You stared at him, shocked. "Excuse me?"

"I want to see the back," he mumbled, biting his lower lip as he watched you.

"Pervert," you whispered, still wary, but you turned slightly anyway. The moment you faced him again, you instantly regretted it because now he looked far too pleased with himself.

"That one," he said with a calm demeanor.

"No..."

"Yes."

"It’s not needed, no... no."

"You checked yourself out in the mirror twice."

"That means nothing!!"

"Oh come on... it shows you like it." You crossed your arms right away. "You’re manipulative."

"And you’re breathtaking, we all have our flaws!"

Sometimes you despised him, by the time you two decided to leave, several bags dangled from his arm while countless staff members carried the rest toward the car outside. You stared at the growing pile in disbelief.

"There’s really no reason for all this."

He barely glanced at the bags.

"I wanted to."

"That’s not a reason... Vincent." The warmth of the afternoon enveloped you both again as soon as you stepped back onto the street. Nearby, music floated softly from a café while people strolled lazily through the sunlit city. He halted abruptly.

You blinked. "What now?" Without an immediate response, he reached up and adjusted your sunglasses slightly where they had slipped down your nose, leaning down just enough for his voice to remain between the two of you alone.

"You’ve been smiling all day."

Heat flooded your cheeks almost instantly. "That’s because you’ve spent enough money to destabilize a small country." A low laugh escaped his lips. "Still counts."

As evening descended over the city once more, the marina had completely transformed. The water mirrored hundreds of golden lights from docked yachts and waterfront restaurants, waves gently rolling beneath the darkening sky while music echoed faintly across the harbor. Everything sparkled at night here, the city, the sea, the people.

The moment the car approached the docks, you recognized it waiting there, of course you did. You had spent enough time on that yacht to know its shape immediately, the soft lights along the exterior, the polished deck, the subtle gold detailing he insisted wasn’t "too much"...

A soft chuckle escaped him as he exited the car, adjusting his sleeve cuff before making his way to your side. The warm marina air enveloped both of you instantly, carrying the scent of sea salt and high end perfume through the night.

His hand found its place on your waist effortlessly as he led you onto the yacht, which somehow appeared softer tonight, less daunting. Warm lights illuminated the deck while the gentle sound of waves lapped beneath the vessel, the city twinkling endlessly in the distance. Somewhere inside, low jazz played softly, blending seamlessly with the ocean's rhythm... then the aroma of food hit you.

You halted immediately.

“...Vincent Whittman.” He looked down at you, amusement already dancing in his eyes.

“What?”

“You hired a private chef again.”

“Well... you liked him last time.”

“That’s not the issue!”

“You said the restaurant yesterday was too packed.”

“I didn’t expect your solution to be Michelin-star dining on your yacht.”

“You deserve more than crowded eateries, doll.” The words flowed so easily that your mind almost refused to accept them, you regarded him with suspicion.

His thumb grazed your waist as you both strolled further onto the deck, and honestly, the setup was almost infuriatingly beautiful. Candles flickered gently in the warm night air, the table already set near the yacht's edge, overlooking the water while the city skyline glimmered gold around you both. Everything appeared elegant without effort, which somehow felt even more luxurious.

“You’re staring again,” he whispered.

“At the view... obviously.”

“Uh huh... liar.” You deliberately ignored him as he pulled your chair out for you anyway. Ugh, he was so annoyingly romantic when he wanted to be. Dinner passed slower than usual, but it was incredibly enjoyable and serene.

The yacht was enveloped by the slow, dark waves of the sea, while soft jazz floated through the deck speakers, the candlelight glinting off the sharp angles of his face with every movement. After a few glasses of wine, his glasses had slipped down his nose, and the silver strands in his hair shimmered warmly under the overhead lights.

You found yourself gazing at him more than once.

Unfortunately, Vincent caught you each time.

"Hm?" he finally asked, placing his wine glass down.

"You clean up nicely." A subtle smirk formed on his lips almost immediately.

"Nicely...?"

"Don’t get cocky."

"Tooooo late."

You rolled your eyes as he leaned back in his chair, his gaze still locked on you with that same unreadable softness that only appeared when no one else was around.

It was peculiar at times.

The ruthless man that everyone feared didn’t vanish completely around you, he lingered just beneath the surface, but moments like this made Vincent feel more tangible, less like an untouchable figure.

The chef made a brief appearance to replace part of the table before quietly slipping away, leaving the two of you alone with the endless sea and the city lights glowing around the yacht, a warm breeze wafting across the deck.

When you both returned to the suite, it was quiet.

Not silent, as the city never truly slept, but quieter than the marina below, where distant music and muffled laughter still floated softly through the slightly open balcony doors, inviting the night air in.

Warm light spilled gently across the room, and you kicked off your heels near the entrance with a sigh of relief, while he loosened his shirt collar by the windows, pushing his glasses up into his hair for the first time that evening, before deciding to throw them somewhere on the counter.

"You’re getting old," you remarked casually.

He turned to you slowly. "Excuse me?"

"You looked sooo offended getting up from that dinner chair."

"I did not."

"You made a noise."

"I- uh.. that was the chair.."

"Mhm."

A soft scoff escaped him as he poured another drink from the bottle resting on the counter. You observed him for a moment while stepping further into the suite.

There was something unfair about him at night.

Perhaps it was the weariness that softened him a bit after long days, or the way the warm lights of Monte-Carlo illuminated his sharp features through the windows, highlighting the silver strands in his hair. Or maybe it was simply that he appeared most genuine like this, with his loosened tie discarded somewhere, sleeves rolled unevenly, and expensive rings glinting softly as he raised the glass to his lips.

Your chest tightened slightly before you averted your gaze first, heading toward the balcony instead, hoping he wouldn’t notice how easily those words still affected you after all this time.

The night air enveloped you instantly.

Below, the city shimmered endlessly beneath the dark sky, headlights meandering slowly through narrow streets while yachts swayed gently against the water in the harbor.

A moment later, you felt him step beside you, his arm sliding around your waist effortlessly, pulling you back against his chest as he rested his chin briefly near your shoulder.

You watched the reflections dance across the water below while his hand moved lazily against your waist beneath the thin fabric of your clothes, both absentminded and affectionate all at once.

"Thank you for being patient with me this trip."

You turned your head slightly. "That sounds suspiciously sincere."

"It very much is sincere."

You studied him for a moment, tired eyes, hair falling messily after the long evening, his expression softer than the world would likely ever believe possible from a man like him.

"You really feel bad about the work thing, huh?"

"I brought you to Monaco and still spent half the vacation taking calls."

"You also spoiled me so much today that I’m pretty sure I can legally sue you."

His eyes wandered back to the city below, but his grip on you tightened just a bit more.

“You deserve my focus more than they ever could.”

There was something in the way he spoke that made your stomach flutter softly.

You leaned back against him, finding a more comfortable position, resting your head gently on his shoulder as the warm breeze tousled both of your hair.

His heartbeat was steady against your back, and his fingers absentmindedly traced slow patterns on your waist, as if he needed the reassurance that you were still there.

"Let me show you just how much I truly adore you." Before you could even voice a protest, he scooped you up, carrying you inside while shutting the balcony door behind him, drawing the curtains closed as well. He set you down on the bed, and before you could utter a word, he silenced you with a fierce kiss.

He crawled onto the bed, hovering over you as his tongue sought entrance into your mouth. You could tell he had been waiting for this all day, the way his hands roamed your body revealed just how desperate and pent up he was.

He was the first to break the kiss, pulling back just enough to attack your neck, urging you to arch into him.

"S-shit!" You cursed under your breath, feeling him suckle at your sensitive skin only fueled your desire for him.

He mumbled something against your skin before he began to strip you of your clothes, one by one. You let him, too lost in the waves of pleasure, but then panic set in. You tried to push him away as he continued to suck and lap at your neck, now occasionally grazing your collarbone.

You recalled what the hotel staff had warned you about... "Wait... Vincent! The staff... they said we s-shouldn't—"

He pulled away from your neck, his eyes locking onto yours with intensity, drool glistening on his chin and face as his brows knitted together.

"What shouldn’t we do? We shouldn’t have sex here? Well, no... I can do whatever the fuck I want. If I wanted to, I could buy this entire place and make it mine." Before you could even respond, he unclasped your bra, tossing it aside onto the bed, allowing your breasts to spill free as he swiftly removed his shirt, diving into your chest, leaving bites and hickeys scattered across your skin while his other hand began its descent.

"Open them up for me," he murmured against your skin, watching as you gracefully spread your legs, allowing his hand to cup your clothed sex. He ran a finger over the fabric of your already drenched pussy, moaning at the sensation... but of course, it was never enough.

Vincent pushed your panties to the side, his finger gliding from your entrance to your clit, spreading your slick as he rubbed his already hard cock against your leg, whimpering at the sudden contact.

Vincent pulled back from your chest with a soft pop, hovering over you as he took in the expression on your face when his finger finally sank into your wet cunt. You moaned loudly, and he smiled to himself, knowing deep down that no one would dare tell him to stop or kick him out.

Almost everyone knew who he was anyway.

"Such a good girl... you’re so hot, god, I want you so badly it’s insane. You’re driving me crazy." He pressed a kiss to your forehead as another finger slipped inside, curling just right as he relentlessly teased that one spot that made you want to cum right away.

"Vin... fuck... I’m gonna cum," you whined beneath him, your hair a mess on the sheets, eyebrows knitted together, hands gripping the sheets near your head as your hips began to move to their own rhythm.

Until, suddenly... he pulled his fingers out of you, sucking them clean as he shook his head. With one hand, he slid your panties off, the fingers that had just been in his mouth quickly thrusting into your mouth.

"Only on my cock, sweetheart, you’ll only cum on my cock." He wasted no time unbuckling his belt with one hand. You attempted to sit up to assist him, but he swiftly seized you by the throat, pinning you down on the bed with a force that made you feel a flicker of panic, yet you instinctively clenched around nothing.

He definitely noticed that, which prompted him to give you a light slap on the face, just a teasing gesture that made you giggle softly to yourself.

"Filthy girl... that’s why I’m obsessed with you." His hands returned to his belt, finally managing to undo it. He unzipped his pants and unbuttoned them, tossing them carelessly onto the floor. In a swift motion, he took your hand, placed his over it, and guided it directly over his hard, clothed cock, grinding against your palm just enough to elicit a gasp from you and a whine from him.

"Look what you’re doing to me, this is all because of you. I can’t wait to feel you inside... god, I’m going to cum just thinking about it." Vincent quickly pulled your hand away from his cock as he discarded his boxers, letting his cock slap heavily against his stomach, the tip already red and sticky from the hours of teasing.

How could you have not realized it sooner? Had he been hard the entire time he was with you? You snapped back to reality the moment you felt his head catch between your folds, allowing him to coat himself with your juices.

You could only moan at the sensation and the thought of him completely ruining you in this hotel room, it nearly made you drool.

Before you could even tell him to slip inside, he was already doing it, and oh, the moan that escaped him was loud. He threw his head back, relishing the feeling of your cunt clenching around him, trying to adjust to his size. Wetness gushed out of you immediately, and he noticed how your cunt became so slick, letting it drip down to your ass as he bit his lip at the sight.

"You're really spoiling me, doll.. so beautiful just for me.." His hips began to move right away, keeping your legs spread wide as he relentlessly slammed his pelvis against yours.

You were lost in the moment, mumbling incoherently as you tried to regain your focus, your hands exploring his abs before you attempted to clumsily rub your own clit. Naturally, he was quicker, swiftly smacking your hand away and replacing it with his own, rubbing rough circles against it while spreading your wetness across your lower abdomen.

"You should see yourself right now.. oh god.." You shut your eyes, moaning his name as he grunted, feeling your pussy clench around him, threatening to milk him dry. That’s when inspiration hit him. He snatched his phone from the bed, turning on the camera to record you in your blissed out state, zooming in on your face. You opened your eyes and felt a wave of embarrassment wash over you, but you couldn’t deny the thrill of it, you clenched tightly around his cock, nearly making him drop his phone as he quickly shifted the focus to your pussy, taking him so well as his pace intensified.

"Such a beautiful pussy.. fuck..! Just look at it.. good girl.. such.. a good girl," he moaned, biting his lip as he finally stopped the recording. You felt a twinge of relief that he did, yet the desire to be recorded and teased lingered.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed, causing both of you to halt immediately. He scoffed, choosing not to answer it as he resumed his sloppy thrusts, your moans picking up again until the ringing began to irritate him. The buzzing was driving him insane, he pressed your legs against your chest, leaning in closer as he hit all your sweet spots in a mating press, his eye twitching at the sound of his phone, thrusting harder as the bed creaked beneath you.

"Vin.. Vinny, slow down! Sh-shit!" You shouted, but he was too lost in his own world, chasing that elusive high while trying to drown out the incessant buzzing in his head.

He was at his breaking point.

In a fit of frustration, he grabbed his phone and hurled it to the ground with a force that shattered it into pieces. You gasped at the sight, but honestly, you were too far gone to care.

"Can't have a moment..— of..! Peace!"

With that, he spilled inside you, triggering your own climax as you squirmed to escape his hold, feeling him fill you up to the brim, certain you’d be leaking for days.

He huffed, panting heavily as he finally released your legs, his softness retreating inside you while your walls continued to clench around him.

"Fucking hell," Vincent gasped, straightening up, eyes closed, brows furrowed in disbelief at what had just transpired.

"Vincent..?" You asked softly, and he snapped his gaze to you. "Are you okay?"

"I’m fine, I just... god, I shouldn’t have done that..." he admitted, still trying to catch his breath as he slowly pulled out of you. You whined at the sudden emptiness but didn’t dare move, not wanting to mess up the sheets any further.

He stood and headed to the bathroom for a towel, returning to clean you up, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

"I’m sorry you had to see me lose my temper... but I just couldn’t hold it in anymore," he said, brushing your hair back as he settled on the edge of the bed.

"Oh come on, I thought it was kind of hot."

He paused, looking at you with a smile, rolling his eyes playfully. "Was it?"

"Mhm, loved every second of it... hey, what about the video?" He sighed, realizing he wouldn’t be able to view it for a long time unless he asked someone to recover all his lost photos and videos soon.

"Shit... well... it’ll take a while to see it clearly.." he smiled, finally getting up and heading back to the bathroom.

"We can always make more, can't we?" he playfully suggested, allowing your imagination to run wild as he slipped back into the bathroom, tossing aside the towel before approaching the bed again, lifting you effortlessly and carrying you to the bathroom for a nice warm shower together.

"We still have your phone.." he winked at you.

♡ I have a feeling that if modern day Vincent existed, he’d be like one of those ridiculously wealthy European men (coming from a European myself).. that somehow always look untouchably polished. Vincent would be the kind of man that screams old money even if he technically.. isn’t.

♡ France/Italy type rich, tailored clothes, luxury watches, expensive cars he replaces almost yearly, yacht parties, tennis on weekends, vacations in Monaco or somewhere equally absurdly expensive.

♡ He’d probably listen to house music, jazz, lounge music during late, night drives by the coast, and he’d always smell insanely expensive, literally like a designer fragrance people permanently associate with him whenever they catch a similar scent somewhere else. I don’t think he’d be flashy in a tacky way though, everything about him would still look refined and classy.

♡ The type of man who pretends he doesn’t care about appearances while spending an embarrassing amount of time choosing which watch fits his outfit best.

♡ I also feel like he’d thrive off connections and status. Parties on his yacht at least twice a year, expensive dinners with people he secretly dislikes just because they’re useful to know, constantly exchanging numbers with CEOs, politicians, investors, or whoever benefits him most.

♡ His house would probably be terrifyingly neat too, decorated with awards, achievements, rare collections, books he’s never actually read, all displayed in ways that silently beg people to ask about them so he can feed his ego a little more.

♡ He’d absolutely be the type to casually spend insane amounts of money like it’s nothing while acting confused when others are shocked by it. And despite looking calm all the time, I feel like he’d secretly be obsessed with reputation and being admired (obviously, it's Vincent Whittman). The kind of person who genuinely thinks money and fame can solve almost every problem..

♡ If he had a partner, though, I think he’d become weirdly attached in his own possessive way. He’d buy you whatever your heart desires without hesitation, expensive gifts, designer clothes, jewelry, surprise vacations, reservations at restaurants people wait months to get into. Partly because he genuinely adores you, but also because he likes showing you off.

♡ At parties he’d always keep a hand on your waist or pull you closer just to silently remind everyone that you’re his. He’d probably book private sections everywhere because he “doesn’t like crowds,” and after long swims at some private beach resort, he’d drag you to insanely expensive restaurants and tell you to order whatever you want without even glancing at the prices.

♡ honestly feel like he’d be more openly bisexual in a modern setting too, not necessarily because he’s emotionally open, but because in his world it simply wouldn’t matter much anymore. As long as the person beside him is beautiful, loyal, and makes him feel wanted, that’s enough for him.

♡ At the same time, he’d still be exhausting to deal with sometimes. Constant work calls, constantly busy, even leaving in the middle of sex because one of his employees messed something up again. He’d probably smoke a lot too, though obviously nothing cheap, same with alcohol.. everything rare, refined, ridiculously.... hard to obtain.

♡ He’d act like he has complete control over his life while secretly being unable to relax for even a second. And honestly, I feel like under all the money and ego, there’d still be this deeply insecure part of him that’s terrified someone richer, prettier, smarter, or simply better will eventually take his place.

What a dirty man Vincent was.

A brazen man who always flashed a proud grin in front of cameras, lucky for him, everyone adored him, and those who didn’t... well, he’d just complain about it to you.

He was lounging in the armchair in your room, clutching a glass of whiskey while his eyes devoured your figure, hungrily drinking in your form as he sat comfortably with his legs spread wide.

He took a sip from his drink, keeping his eyes locked on you as he did.

Dressed in a deep blue suit, paired with a lovely tie you had gifted him for Christmas last year, his hair was messily styled, gelled to look intentionally disheveled yet clean, boldly showcasing his white strands.

His glasses perched low on his nose, sliding off occasionally as he pushed them back up against his beloved hooked nose.

You, on the other hand, were trying on a few dresses, slipping them on and off while wandering around the room almost undressed, preparing for the night ahead.

Tonight, he promised to take you out for dinner at the fanciest restaurant he could find... just to see you smile.

Your bare feet touched the floor as you moved about, occasionally groaning, utterly clueless about what to wear or how to style your hair... oh, and the jewelry? What kind would suit you? What heels would look good with this dress... no, wait, how about with this one?

You held both dresses and flopped onto the bed, clad only in a bra and panties, throwing your head back in frustration.

"What’s wrong, love?" he asked with feigned curiosity, as if he didn’t already know the answer. You shot him a stern look, sitting up and walking over to him, holding a dress in each hand as you stood before him.

"Stop staring and help me decide, the red one... or the blue one?" He chuckled at your response, taking another sip and setting the glass down on the table beside the armchair, then placing both arms behind his head in a teasing manner.

"It's your call, babe, go for the blue one... but..." he trailed off, biting his lower lip as his hands began to wander towards your bare skin. "I'd really prefer if you wore nothing at all and let me take you right here and right no—"

"Absolutely not, you fucking pervert." You chuckled, turning away, completely dismissing his suggestion as you carefully started to put on the blue dress. He sighed and rolled his eyes, instantly getting up to help you with the zipper while you pulled your hair to the front. He leaned down slightly, letting his breath brush against the back of your neck, the scent of alcohol mingling with his cologne, a fragrance he knew drove you wild.

But still... nothing really happened, you just ignored his well-known tactics as you continued to prepare yourself.

With the final touches complete, both of you slipped into your shoes, he wore a sleek, polished pair while you donned heels that perfectly complemented your dress.

"After you, my lady.." he said, opening the door to your house, allowing you to step out first. You did, but didn’t wait for him, instead, you smiled to yourself and started walking towards the car. He panicked, rushing after you and shutting the door behind him, quickly opening the car door for you before he, himself, sliding in right after you.

"Did you forget something?" You asked, glancing at him in the passenger seat as a slight blush crept onto his face. Instantly, his thoughts turned to a kiss, you were clearly asking him to kiss you... right? As he leaned in quickly, you pulled back, pointing at your house.

"The door, Vincent. Go lock the door." You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose as he immediately jumped up. "Right..! Of course..! Hah... I was just about to do that..." He dashed back to the house, locking the door before returning to the car and finally buckling his seatbelt.

The journey was dull, you spent most of it gazing out the window while he rambled on about his day and work. Every now and then, you'd clear your throat, hoping he'd take the hint and switch to a more entertaining topic.

And his version of fun was far from exciting.

"God, you look absolutely gorgeous tonight, did you know that?" He remarked, his eyes focused on the road as the lights glimmered and danced off his glasses. Occasionally, he'd steal a glance at you, showering you with compliments that made you smile and giggle.

"I’m well aware, thank you," you replied softly, adjusting your hair out of habit.

"That’s my girl, you should recognize your value... just like I taught you," he grinned, his hand sliding over your thigh for a quick squeeze, resting there.

But every time he did this, it was clear he wanted more... and most of the time, you let him have more. One hand on the steering wheel, the other creeping under your dress, pushing it up over your knees. The moment you noticed his eyebrows knitting together while he kept his gaze on the road, biting his lower lip, you slapped his hand away, making him whine as he withdrew it.

"You horny freak, get a grip," you gasped, quickly adjusting your dress and crossing your legs, now completely ignoring him.

"Oh come on... can’t I just please my girl? Just a little touch... please?"

"Absolutely not, now keep driving before I change my mind and make you pull over so I can walk home," you shot back.

"You wouldn’t do that, babe, we both know it." he countered.

"Don’t underestimate me.." you muttered firmly under your breath as he sighed, clearly conceding. And even if you insisted on getting out of the car, he wouldn’t let you... or if he did, he’d just follow you slowly with the windows down, his head poking out, trying to coax you back inside.

You both arrived at the restaurant, now seated at opposite ends of the table.

He ordered his usual heavy liquor, while you opted for their finest red wine.

As minutes ticked by, you could already feel the alcohol working its magic, wine always gets you in the mood, which was precisely why you chose it tonight, to get your revenge and make him pay for his earlier misbehavior.

"How's your drink, love?" you asked sweetly, taking a sip of your wine as he shot you a smirk, adjusting his glasses, his eyes shimmering under the warm, romantic glow of the lights.

"Eh.. it's fine, I asked for ice but I guess they forgot it." he replied.

"Mhmmm.." you hummed, peering at him through your lashes as your foot began to slide toward his, nudging his shoe with yours before carefully lifting it, letting the front get caught in his trouser leg as you started to lift it higher, making him freeze and almost shudder at your touch..

"Lord.. not here," he murmured.

"What do you mean?" you teased, watching the waiter approach as you swiftly pressed your heeled foot against his crotch the moment the waiter reached your table.

"Ahhh, I’d like to order the beef bourguignon.. and you, my love?" you asked, tilting your head to the side as you pressed down hard over his now almost fully erect cock, swiping it from side to side, forcing him to grip the table tightly as he struggled to maintain his composure.

"Ghh.. I— uhhh.. the same will.. will do, yes!" he finished with a grunt, masking it with a cough as he shifted in his seat, seeking more friction while the waiter gave him a puzzled look.

"Ah, are you alright, dear? Oh my.. your fever might be flaring up.. I told you we shouldn’t have come here. Now now, after you eat, you’ll feel better in no time I'm sure." you brushed it off, the waiter already retreating while Vincent quietly whimpered under his breath, half his face covered by his hand, positioned right under his nose as he glanced around, his eyes nearly rolling back as you continued to step on him.

"You're so.. pathetic," you whispered, leaning in a little closer with a playful smile, ensuring no one would catch on to what was happening.

"So pathetic that just a touch gets you this hard.. you're enjoying this, aren't you?" you teased, starting to move your foot again as he tried to act casual, sipping his drink and nearly choking when you hit the right spot, huffing softly and unraveling before you.

"I need you.. so bad.. god, I'm going to cum," he breathed out, pausing just enough between his words as he leaned back in his chair, attempting to appear unfazed while you pulled him closer to the edge of ecstasy.

He quickly leaned forward again, almost as if he was about to share a secret, but the dazed expression on his face told a different story.. mouth slightly agape, eyes locked onto yours, his face radiating relaxation and bliss.

With one last rub of your heel, he lost control, making a mess in his dark dress pants, his ass barely clinging to the chair as he ground against your heel like a needy pup, soft whispers and pleas escaping his beautiful lips.

Fortunately, no one seemed to notice, the music was loud, and so were the people chattering, the food arrived just in time, while he was still trying to regain his composure. You pulled your heel away, already diving into your meal as you thanked the waiter with a smile.

"C'mon, eat up," you encouraged, taking a bite of your food while his trembling hands attempted to mimic your actions, trying to appear more "normal" despite the sweat glistening on his forehead.

"What are you even doing to me.." he questioned, the warmth on his pants quickly turning cold and uncomfortable as he took a bite from his own plate, giving you a sweet smirk.

"You should've figured it out by now," you replied, a bit of sauce dripping onto your finger, which you quickly licked off while gazing at him, making his cock twitch in his pants once more.

Thank goodness his pants were dark enough to hide any evidence.. another round wouldn’t hurt though..right?

Dinner had wrapped up, and you found yourselves back in the car, his dried cum leaving an odd stain on his pants that you'd have to deal with in the morning.. gross, you thought to yourself.

He gripped the steering wheel tightly while you touched up your lipstick in the car. Every now and then, you'd tease him, and he'd respond with a scrunched up face, a mix of embarrassment and irritation.

"I never realized you could pull off something like that in public.. and I had no idea you enjoyed it so much," you laughed, capping your lipstick and glancing out the window with a sly grin.

Vincent, however, was not amused, in fact, he wanted you more than ever. He was so close to pulling over just to take you in the backseat, his cock throbbed at the thought.

"Looks like I need to silence that filthy mouth of yours, don’t you think?" he muttered through clenched teeth, his eyes glued to the road, knuckles turning white from gripping the steering wheel so hard.

"You’ll need to do a lot more than that to scare me off," you huffed. Oh god, he was definitely not pleased, you could see it in the way he clenched his jaw repeatedly, his eyes darting to you, feeling even more embarrassed since you weren’t even looking at him while you said all that.

As soon as you both stepped out of the car and into your home, he crashed his lips against yours, holding you tightly to prevent any escape. His hands trembled slightly as he gripped your arms, deepening the kiss, whimpering into it.

You, on the other hand, with your eyes half-closed, looked away, smiling to yourself as he grew needier and more desperate. It was clear that it didn’t faze you much, and even if it did, you’d just blame it on the alcohol.

Your arms were pinned to your sides, allowing him to indulge as he practically ground against you.. poor Vincent..

You were the first to pull away from the kiss, tugging him by his tie as he gasped, his hands instantly searching for your zipper before you slapped him across the face.

"Behave." You said sharply, and he nodded, his eyes practically begging with desire as you started to lead him by the tie upstairs, making sure he stayed right behind you.

"We need to teach you some manners.. don’t you agree?" You grinned, glancing to the side slightly as he trailed after you like a loyal pup.

"Yes ma'am" he answered, oh god.. he submitted so easily to you.

Late September hangs over the city like something exhausted.

The heat hasn’t fully left yet, but it’s beginning to rot at the edges, turning damp in strange places, lingering too long in concrete and window frames and the seams of old buildings. The skyline beyond the apartment window looks blurred together rather than built, smokestacks and grey towers dissolving into the same dull shape beneath a sky that presses downward instead of stretching open.

Even the air inside feels used, you drift in and out of sleep on the couch without meaning to.

The fabric beneath you has thinned enough in places that you can feel the frame underneath if you shift wrong, rough against your skin in a way you stopped noticing properly months ago.

Above you, the ceiling fan turns with its usual uneven rhythm, slow enough that it almost seems reluctant, as if it keeps moving only because stopping would require more effort.

Light from the window drifts across the apartment in pale strips, washed-out and tired. It settles over the coffee table, over yesterday’s newspaper folded open where Vincent left it, over the mug beside it with cold coffee sitting untouched near the bottom.

Nothing in the room feels urgent, not even the silence, especially not the silence.

It sits heavily against the walls like it’s waiting for something that’s already late, Vincent hasn’t been home in hours, or maybe longer.

You stopped checking the clock sometime after midnight because the numbers never seem to change anything here, time inside the apartment feels swollen, stretched thin around the edges until it stops behaving properly.

The telephone rests against the wall on its small wooden stand, black and solid, too heavy-looking for something meant to carry voices.

Most of the time it simply exists there in silence, which somehow makes it worse.

You drift again, not fully asleep, though far enough that the room softens around the edges.

Then the sound of the line engaging cuts through the apartment, sharp and immediate, violent in the quiet.

You sit up too quickly, your heart stumbles once against your ribs before settling, for a second there’s only static.. then his voice.

“Yeah?”

Warped slightly by wires and distance and movement behind him, tired.. not the kind of tired he admits to.

“You called,” you say.

Paper rustles faintly on the other end. Voices overlap somewhere behind him, indistinct and rushed.

“I didn’t think you’d still be awake.”

“I wasn’t.”

Your voice comes out rough with sleep, “I keep falling asleep anyway." Something soft leaves him then. Not quite a laugh.

“Same here,” he says quietly. “Just not in the same place.”

You settle back into the couch, the receiver warm against your ear, the conversation hangs there between you both, oddly weightless.

“You’re still at the station?”

“Yeah.” another rustle. “Everything’s going wrong tonight. Cameras missing cues... someone lost half the live scripts.. people are panicking over nothing.”

You hum softly, you don’t fully follow the details anymore, but you know the shape of them.

Schedules.. deadlines.. bright studio lights. People running in carefully organized circles pretending the chaos means something.

“Sounds important.”

“It is,” he answers automatically.. then quieter:

“I think.”

That catches.. the hesitation, headlights slide across the curtains before disappearing again, the apartment dims back into itself.

“I’ll be home by two,” he says after a moment, habitual, like he’s repeating something neither of you expects to become true, you close your eyes briefly.

“You won’t.” what an ugly silence...

“Probably not.”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the receiver, “I’m fine with that,” you say, the lie leaves too smoothly, he notices, you can tell he notices.

But he lets it pass. “I know.”

Something shifts in the background on his end. Someone calls his name, Vincent exhales slowly.

“Just don’t wait up too long.”

That almost makes you smile, because both of you already know you will, the line crackles softly.

“I’ll come home when I can,” he says.. a pause, then he whispers: “I love you.” almost like a routine..like something repeated enough times to become structural.

“Okay,” you answer, another silence settles, then the line clicks softly as he hangs up, you don’t move the receiver away from your ear immediately, you sit there listening to the faint remnants of the station beyond the dead line, the muffled machinery of a world that keeps taking pieces of him in increments too small to notice all at once.

The evening deepens without asking permission, inside, the ceiling fan keeps turning, slow and unconcerned, eventually you drift again. The city, the apartment, the sound of his voice. Everything blurs together into something almost soft enough to mistake for rest.

By afternoon the next day, the light has changed without improving, it spreads through the apartment thinly now, diluted and pale, making everything look older than it did earlier, dust drifts visibly through the sunbeams whenever it catches the angle correctly, suspended in the air like it’s forgotten where it was supposed to settle.

You’re still on the couch, at some point your body stopped treating it like temporary furniture, it has become a place you return to automatically.

The ceiling fan continues its slow rotation overhead, steady.. the fly near the window is still there.. or another one is. It taps softly against the glass in uneven intervals, you watch it longer than necessary.

There’s something strangely familiar in the persistence of it, when you finally shift your arm away from your eyes, your gaze lands on the telephone again.. still silent.

You look at it the way people look at clocks they already know the time on...out of habit.

Work explains everything, the station, the schedules, the endless emergencies that somehow never become important enough to remember later.

Vincent belongs there too easily, that’s part of the problem, you can picture him under studio lights more clearly now than you can picture him asleep beside you, he moves through that world cleanly, competently, like exhaustion simply slides off him while he’s there.

You’ve started noticing the difference more often, the thought settles unpleasantly in your chest.

Who are you with right now?

Not because he isn’t here.. but even his absence changes the shape of the apartment.

The silence organizes itself differently around it, you lean your head back again, the couch creaks faintly beneath your weight.

The afternoon continues lowering itself toward evening, nothing about the day feels completed, it just keeps going because there’s nothing stopping it.

When Vincent finally comes home, it’s later than he said, not unusual, the apartment door opens slowly, you hear it before you see him, the scrape of the lock, the uneven pause afterward.. then footsteps.

He enters with his coat half-falling from one shoulder, tie loosened unevenly beneath the collar of his shirt, for a moment he just stands there near the doorway like he hasn’t fully arrived yet. “You’re awake,” he says quietly, it sounds more relieved than surprised.

“You’re late." A tired smile touches his mouth briefly.

“Yeah.”

He drops his keys onto the table, the sound cuts sharply through the apartment, you watch him shrug the rest of his coat off, his movements are slower tonight.. almost delayed, like his body is waiting for instructions slightly after the moment they’re needed.

“You look awful,” you say, he laughs softly. “You always say that.”

“Because you always do.”...that gets another smile out of him, smaller this time, but it fades quickly, he presses a hand briefly against his eyes under his glasses, letting them slip up and uncomfortably rest against his sweaty forehead, you notice it immediately, the slight tremor in his fingers.

“Oh love.. are you alright?”

“Just tired.”

You stand and move toward the kitchen before he can say anything else. “I reheated dinner.”

Vincent exhales quietly behind you.

“Thanks.” you prepare the plate carefully, the bottle tucked behind the spices barely makes a sound when you pick it up, just a soft click, you hesitate, only for a second, then add a little more than usual, the liquid disappears easily...colorless and harmless-looking, you stir the sauce once.

By the time you bring the plate back, Vincent is sitting at the edge of the couch with his head tilted back against it, eyes closed.

“Mhhhm..” you hum softly, his eyes open immediately, like some part of him was waiting, you hand him the plate.

“Eat before you pass out.”

“Bossy.”

But he takes it.. he always takes it, you sit beside him while he eats, the apartment stays quiet except for the occasional scrape of silverware against ceramic, halfway through, Vincent stops.. you feel it before he speaks.

“This tastes different.” your pulse stutters once, but your expression doesn’t move. “How?”

He frowns faintly “I don’t know.” he lookes down at his plate. “Saltier maybe.”

You lean back casually. “You said the same thing last week.”

“Did I?”

“Yes.” The answer comes easily... a little too easily, Vincent studies the plate another second, then shakes his head once. “Maybe my tastebuds are dying.”

You smile softly. “Probably.. lay off those drugs, they might be the problem.” you chuckle at your own joke, watching him smile slightly as he rolled his eyes at you.. the moment passes, but something cold remains afterward like awareness, because for half a second, he noticed something.

The changes arrive gradually enough that neither of you names them, that’s what makes them dangerous, Vincent starts sleeping through alarms, then through entire afternoons.

He forgets where he leaves things, his keys, his cigarettes, conversations, sometimes he stops mid-sentence because he can’t remember where it was going.

At first he laughs about it, then he stops laughing, one evening he stands in the hallway staring at the apartment door after coming home, not opening it.. looking at it, you watch him from the couch. “Vincent?" He blinks hard, then finally turns the handle, for a moment his expression looks unsettled.

“I forgot which apartment was ours.”

The words leave him carefully.. embarrassed, you stand immediately, cross the room, touch his arm. “You’re exhausted.” He lets out a strained breath.

“Yeah.” But he doesn’t sound convinced, that night he clings to you in his sleep hard enough to bruise, his body burns with feverish heat beneath the blankets, you hold him anyway, carefully and tenderly, his breathing catches suddenly against your shoulder.

“I keep losing track of time,” he whispers, you smooth your hand through his hair. “That’s what stress does.”

“I was in the editing room earlier and suddenly everyone was gone.” his fingers tighten weakly around your sleeve. “I thought maybe I fell asleep standing up.”

“You’ve barely been resting.”

“You think that’s all this is?” the question lands harder than it should, for a moment you almost answer honestly, instead you press your lips briefly against his forehead.

“Yes.” he goes quiet.. “Okay.” the trust in that word settles somewhere deep inside you.. oh so warm and terrible...

A week later, Vincent improves.. not fully.. but enough to frighten you, he wakes early, shaves, gets dressed properly, even laughs at something on the TV while making coffee.

The apartment feels different immediately, sharper and more awake, you watch him from the kitchen doorway while he adjusts his cuffs, for the first time in weeks, he looks like himself, or at least close enough to it.

“I think I needed actual sleep,” he says, there’s color in his face again, focus in his eyes.. your stomach tightens.. you already know what that means.

“That’s good.”

He nods distractedly while searching for his wallet.. then.. “Did we talk the other night?”

You keep your expression neutral. “Which night?”

“The one where I came home late.” his brow furrows slightly. “I remember calling you from the station but after that everything’s blurry.”

Your fingers curl subtly against your palm.. “You were half-asleep.”

“Maybe.” but he still looks uncertain, then he glances up at you, for one brief second, something clears behind his eyes, a sharpness.

“You’ve been acting strange lately too.” The room goes very still.

“What does that mean?”

Vincent hesitates. “I don’t know.” A faint chuckle leaves him... uneasy. “Forget it.” But he keeps looking at you another second too long.

Then he grabs his coat and leaves, the apartment feels unbearably empty after the door shuts, you stand motionless in the kitchen, your pulse refuses to settle.. he doesn’t know.. right..?

For the first time, he almost touched the shape of something real.. and worse than that,

for the first time in weeks, part of you didn’t want him to.

That evening he comes home shaking, violently, the apartment door barely closes before he stumbles against it.. you’re beside him immediately.

“Vincent?”

His face is pale beneath the warm hallway light, sweat dampens the collar of his shirt.

“I don’t feel right.” the words come slurred together, panic flashes through you so suddenly it feels physical.

Too much.. you gave him too much, his knees nearly buckle, you catch him before he hits the floor. “Hey...! Hey, look at me.”

His eyes struggle to focus. “I was at work and then suddenly…” His breathing sharpens. “I couldn’t remember where I was.”

You guide him carefully toward the couch, the ceiling fan turns overhead slowly. “I thought I was going to pass out.”

“You’re okay.” Your voice stays calm and practiced, inside, something ugly twists hard in your chest.. fear. Because you almost broke him.. how selfish of you to almost kill your boy just for the sake of him not leaving you?

Vincent grips your wrist suddenly and hard, his unfocused gaze under his glasses fixes onto yours. “You’d tell me if something was wrong with me, right?”

The question splits straight through you, for one terrible second you can’t breathe, then instinct arrives, you kneel in front of him and up his face carefully.

“There’s nothing wrong with you.”

A lie.. a filthy.. smooth lie.

His expression crumples slightly with relief, and you realize then, with sudden horrifying clarity, how completely he believes you, you’re not convincing.. no.. he needs you to be right, he leans forward abruptly, forehead against your shoulder.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he whispers, your arms wrap around him automatically, the fan keeps turning, the city keeps moving outside the pipes click softly somewhere in the walls, and slowly, carefully, you hold him together while realizing you’re the one pulling him apart.

After that, the balance between you shifts permanently, Vincent begins looking at you before making decisions, small things first, whether he already took medicine, whether he told someone at work he’d come in tomorrow, whether he ate, whether he slept.

Then larger things.

Whether he should leave the apartment at all.

“You think I’m okay to go in, love?” he asks one morning, you look up from your coffee, he’s standing near the doorway already dressed for work, but uncertain somehow.. waiting.

The realization settles slowly through you, he’s asking for permission, you should hate that, but, instead something inside you softens around it.

“You should rest today,” you say, Vincent exhales quietly, almost relieved. “Okay..”

The apartment grows smaller after that emotionally, it becomes the center of his world because everything outside it exhausts him too quickly now, some nights he wakes disoriented and reaches for you before he fully opens his eyes.

Other nights he sits at the edge of the bed staring at his hands like they belong to someone else. “I can’t tell what’s real lately,” he says once, you sit beside him carefully.

“What feels unreal?”

He laughs weakly. “All of it......"

“....but you don’t.” The words settle heavily between you, you don’t answer immediately, you know exactly why, eventually you touch his shoulder lightly.

“You’re overwhelmed.” Vincent leans toward you before you even finish speaking, like some part of him has already decided you are the safest thing left in the room.

Outside... the city continues existing without either of you, traffic lights changing, trains moving, studio cameras rolling, people laughing somewhere far above the streets.

Inside Vincent rests his head against you with the exhausted trust of someone too tired to survive without an anchor, you hold him carefully like something fragile.. stolen.. like something that might still realize what you’ve done if you loosen your grip even slightly.

What was a girl like you doing all alone in the woods before sunset?

No one could truly explain that, you adored wandering at this hour.

Your skin glimmered in the sunlight that bathed it in gold, your hair shining brightly and fiercely as the sunlight danced on the water.

Your youth was evident, with a soft and flawless face, sharp eyes, and a warm, full smile. You had long since removed your boots, tossing them onto the soil beside the tree that towered over the river, swaying gently as the warm breeze played with its branches.

You lifted your dress slightly, walking close to the water as it caressed your bare feet, compared to the heat, this felt like paradise.

You held onto your white dress, wading further in until the water reached almost to your knees. It wasn’t a deep river, but it was enough to be a nuisance for you and those who had to cross it every annoying morning.

Your voice was soft, sweet, and melodic, humming a tune you had heard only once or twice in your life, your feet gliding over the rocks beneath as you watched frogs leap and bound in front of you, even though the sun made it hard to see.

Then, out of nowhere, a sudden shift in the air caught your attention, and you turned around sharply, squinting as your heartbeat raced, it felt as if someone was watching you..

Clutching your dress tighter, you quickly turned your gaze toward the sound..

Frightened, you began scanning your surroundings until you heard the rustling of leaves..

A deer appeared, its body adorned with leaves and branches, occasionally wagging its tail before it made its way to the river for a drink.

You felt a wave of relief wash over you, sighing as you approached it cautiously, trying not to startle it, eager for a closer look. You could sense it was just as frightened as you, as innocent and naive as you.

When it lifted its head, you flinched, stepping back slightly before losing your balance on a large rock, ultimately falling into the water and sending it scampering away.

"Fuck! Hold on! No..!" You muttered under your breath, as if the deer could hear you..

You were soaked, still perched in the water as your white dress danced with the ripples, your hair slightly damp as well. It clung to your sweaty, wet form as you struggled to rise.

Then.. you heard that familiar rustle of leaves and branches again, but this time, you didn’t bother to look back, assuming it was just that same old deer with those impressive antlers you had spotted moments earlier.

Once you managed to stand, you attempted to wring out the excess water from your dress, squeezing your chest and wrinkling the fabric as water dripped back into the river once again.

That was until something truly caught your attention.

A guy was standing on the opposite side of the lake, his gaze fixed on you as your eyes met, pausing in a mix of curiosity and fear.

The sun was shining, low in the sky, melting into that warm golden hour glow that made everything feel softer, slower, almost dreamlike. It illuminated your skin even more boldly now, accentuating the curves of your body, the droplets on your skin evaporating and being replaced by the humidity.

The dress clung to your stomach and chest, highlighting the prominent hills that rested there.

He stood beneath the light as well, the rays cascading over him gently, settling into the richness of his dark skin and transforming it into something warm and radiant rather than harsh or defined. It was a subtle kind of glow, as if the sun had chosen to linger on him a bit longer than on everything else.

His brown curls fell in soft, loose waves, slightly tousled in the most effortless manner, leaning more heavily to one side of his face.

Every so often, a strand caught the light and turned briefly golden before slipping back into shadow.

He wore glasses that softened his expression even further, the lenses glimmering faintly whenever he moved, as if they were capturing fragments of sunlight.

There was something almost unfair about how effortlessly still he appeared in that moment, as if he didn’t even have to make an effort.

Just being there, under that light, felt sufficient, serene, warm, and magnetic in a way that didn’t demand attention, yet drew it in effortlessly. It was as if the world had dimmed just a bit so he could shine in it like that..

The air didn’t shift immediately, which was the odd part, it remained warm, still thick with the heat of the river and the late sun, as if nothing had disturbed it at all.

Only your heartbeat gave you away, too loud, too abrupt, too conscious of itself in your ears.

You found yourself staring at him longer than intended, standing on the opposite bank as if he had always belonged to the scenery, while you were the one who had intruded upon something ancient and unchanging.

The water between you didn’t feel like water anymore, it seemed broader than it should have been, as if it had expanded just to emphasize the distance.

You attempted to speak, but at first, no words came out, instead, your fingers clenched around the fabric of your dress, wrinkled and heavy with river water, cold against your skin, contrasting with the warmth still lingering on your face.

Eventually, your voice emerged, smaller than you wished. “I didn’t hear you there.”

He didn’t respond right away, his gaze remained fixed on you, steady and unreadable, not indifference but rather an attention that had already made a decision before you even spoke.

Then he shifted slightly, just enough for the sunlight to catch the side of his face again, the gold flattered him, softening him, blurring the edges of whatever burden he carried.

“I know,” he finally replied, his voice drifting lightly across the river as if he wasn’t trying to be heard at all, yet somehow still was.

A pause ensued, you swallowed, glancing down at the water near your knees, watching the current swirl around you as if it were indifferent to what had just transpired.. but when you looked back up, he was still observing you.

Not your face this time, he seemed to notice the finer details instead, the way your dress hugged your curves, how your hair clung just a bit to your shoulder, and the way you stood there barefoot, as if you were meant to exist only in this moment.

"You’re far from the road," he remarked, not really asking. You frowned a little, trying to regain your composure, attempting to make this feel normal in your mind.

A stranger in the woods.

That’s all it should be.

"I like it here," you replied, though your voice came out softer than you meant. It caused a shift in his expression, not quite a smile, but something more nuanced, like recognition or an unspoken agreement he was reluctant to acknowledge.

He glanced past you for a moment, toward the trees on your side of the river. The way his gaze moved made you think he was counting something invisible.

When he spoke again, his voice dropped a notch. "Most people don’t come here alone."

A breeze swept through the trees, slow and purposeful, lifting the damp fabric at your knees. Suddenly, you felt acutely aware of your vulnerability in the simplest way, no boots, no solid ground, no distance from anything.

"C’est dangereux ici."

It wasn’t a warning meant to frighten you away, but rather something he had learned too early in life to dismiss. You tilted your head slightly, trying to read him more deeply instead of just observing.

"Are you saying I shouldn’t be here?" you asked. For the first time, hesitation flickered across his face, as if the answer was too complex to articulate clearly.

His hand lifted slightly, not reaching for you, but gesturing toward the space between you both, then it fell back to his side before it could become anything more.

"I’m telling you," he said slowly, "you don’t see everything that’s here."

The words lingered between you, heavy in a way that felt different from the sun shining behind him, deeper in the trees on his side of the river. A branch shifted without any wind.

Just once... just enough to catch your attention... and for the first time since you had plunged into the water, you found yourself uncertain if what you were witnessing was the start of something new... or the moment just before something had already been decided.

The river flowed steadily between you, slow enough that you could almost convince yourself it wasn’t dividing anything at all, merely existing in its own tranquil rhythm. You were still standing in it when you finally asked him his name, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do, even if a part of you only realized afterward that your curiosity had nothing to do with being polite.

He regarded you for a moment before responding, not hesitating, just in that calm manner of his, as if weighing the significance of his words.

There was a pause, the kind that didn’t require anything to fill it.

"Alastor," he added afterward, as if it was just as important as the first part and didn’t need any emphasis to hold weight.

You whispered it under your breath once, then again a bit clearer, testing it without considering why, and he didn’t interrupt you. Just observed, calm in a way that made it seem like nothing about you was odd enough to comment on.

Then his gaze returned to you.

"And you?"

"[ Reader ]."

You said it effortlessly, though hearing it spoken aloud in this place made it feel slightly different, as if it belonged to the river now just as much as it belonged to you. He repeated it once, not slowly, not thoughtfully, just to ensure he had it right, and then gave a small nod as if that was all it required.

The light had begun to fade as you stood there, the sun sinking behind the trees, softening everything around you. Neither of you moved immediately, as if the conversation hadn’t quite given you direction, and the ensuing silence felt comfortable. It lingered, shared between you, like a moment neither of you was ready to disrupt yet.

The quiet persisted for a while, not empty but settled, as if neither of you felt compelled to chase it away. The river continued to flow past your legs in a steady rhythm, its coldness now noticeable, yet you remained unmoved by the bank.

It was odd how swiftly the thought of leaving had lost its urgency, as if the moment had stretched itself out without asking for permission. He shifted his weight slightly, crouching closer to the water’s edge, one hand resting casually on his knee while he gazed at you. There was nothing harsh in his expression, nothing demanding, just that same unwavering focus that suggested he wasn’t easily sidetracked.

"Do you come here often?" he inquired. It wasn’t intrusive, it felt more like he was placing the question gently between you rather than trying to extract anything from it.

"Sometimes," you replied, your gaze dropping to the water as it flowed past your ankles. "When it’s peaceful like this."

He nodded, as if that made perfect sense without needing further explanation. "It gets quieter as evening approaches," he remarked. You looked up at him then. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

He hesitated before responding, his eyes briefly drifting to the trees behind you, as if he were checking on something unspoken. When he returned his gaze to you, his voice was steady.

"It all depends on what you’re accustomed to hearing."

That made you stop, a sensation you couldn’t quite grasp yet, as if the words had grazed something deep within you. The woods behind you remained just trees, mere shadows and branches fading in the dim light, but for a fleeting moment, you felt more attuned to them than ever before.

You shifted in the water, the dampness of your dress becoming more pronounced as it cooled against your skin. "And what do you usually hear?" you asked, your tone lighter than the weight of the question.

A subtle expression flickered across his face, neither a smile nor anything easily definable.

"Things you tend to overlook after a while," he replied.

His answer didn’t shed much light, but it didn’t seem intended to. The river surged again, a bit louder for a moment as the current swirled around a rock near your knees. You glanced down, then back up, realizing without much thought that the light had shifted while you were distracted. The golden hue was now thinner, stretching and fading into cooler tones at the edges of the trees.

"I should probably head back soon," you mentioned, though you remained still.

He nodded once, as if he had anticipated that response, but he didn’t seem hurried.

"The road’s that way," he said, tilting his head slightly in the direction behind you.

You followed his gaze for a moment before returning your focus to him. He hadn’t moved from his spot, still firmly planted on the opposite bank, as if he belonged there, regardless of whether you chose to stay or go.

The instant you stepped out of the river, the air felt different against your skin, lighter in a way that made you acutely aware of how cold the water had been. You didn’t look back immediately, instead, you bent down, picked up your boots from where you had left them by the tree roots, and held them to your chest for a moment longer than necessary before turning toward the path.

The fabric of your dress hugged your body and then released with every step as you began to walk, gradually picking up speed, the sound of the river fading behind you while the woods enveloped you once more in their embrace.

When you glanced back for just a moment, he was still there on the opposite bank, watching you intently. He said something then, just as you turned away completely, something in French, spoken softly enough that it didn’t carry clearly across the water.

You caught only fragments of it, enough to realize it wasn’t loud, enough to understand it wasn’t meant to pursue you; it lingered behind as you walked, tangled in the trees, the distance, and the sound of your own footsteps crunching over dirt and leaves..

And then it vanished.

A year transformed everything without ever properly announcing its presence, the woods appeared unchanged from afar, but you understood them differently now, the paths, the bends in the light, the way the air shifted before evening settled in. You no longer stumbled here by chance.

You came because he did. The grass around you was tall that afternoon, dry and sun-bleached, swaying gently in slow waves whenever the wind swept through it, rising almost to your shoulders when you sat down, concealing everything except the small circle you and he had created just by being there often enough.

You were still in the same white dress, though it felt different now, softer, less new, familiar in a way that stemmed from repetition rather than memory.

Alastor sat across from you, one knee bent, his forearm resting casually over it, the white shirt he wore catching the light effortlessly, sleeves rolled up as he always did when it was warm, a few buttons undone at the collar.

Over it, he wore a deep red vest that contrasted beautifully against the pale grass and sunlight, not loud, just present in a way that made him seem more anchored to the place than anything around him. For a while, neither of you spoke, sharing a silence that no longer needed to be filled.

Then he let out a slow breath, his gaze drifting off into the distance, not quite focused on you.

“I didn’t spend much time in that house after,” he remarked.

You didn’t interrupt, instead, you shifted a bit in the grass, listening as his fingers absentmindedly traced the dry stalks beside him.

“Mon père…” he began, pausing as if the words still carried a heavy weight. “He believed silence could make things vanish.”

By now, you had picked up enough French that you didn’t need him to translate every thought in your mind.

Some phrases still came to you in their original form, and his voice made them easier to grasp. “He didn’t appreciate it when I stayed quiet,” he added, his tone softer. “Comme si ça le provoquait.”

You turned to look at him, really looking this time.

“And did it?” you asked gently.

He let out a sound that was almost a laugh, but it lacked any real humor.

“Oui.”

The grass swayed around you both, indifferent to the weight of the conversation.

“He used to say I would come to understand him one day,” Alastor continued, his voice now lower, less steady than before. “But he never waited for that.”

Alastor leaned back a bit, gazing up at the sky through the swaying grass.

“He didn’t require reasons,” he said, speaking slowly so his words landed clearly between you. “Just certainty.”

You remained silent for a moment, allowing the words to linger without trying to lighten the mood.

Then, softly, you asked, “Is that why…?” You didn’t need to finish, he understood.

His gaze returned to you, and this time it held something more vulnerable, laid bare for a moment longer than usual. “Yes,” he replied simply.

Then, after a breath:

“He didn’t allow me the choice to become someone else in that house."

The wind swept through the grass once more, taller this time, gliding over both of you in a gentle caress. You could hear the distant hum of insects, the heat of the day still heavy in the earth beneath you. You didn’t reach for him, and he didn’t reach for you.

But the space between you felt different now, no longer distant... like something that had already been understood, even if it took a year to voice it.

The wind brushed through the grass again, this time more slowly, as if it were weary of pushing against anything. He didn’t look at you immediately after he spoke, his gaze lingered somewhere far off, fixed on nothing in particular, as if he were trying to place the memory outside of himself to ease the weight in his chest while discussing it.

“It wasn’t just the house,” he finally said, his voice lower now, less steady than before, yet still composed. “It was everything within it. The way he spoke to her… the way she stopped responding.”

Alastor shifted slightly, running one hand through the dry grass, letting it slip back through his fingers. “She didn’t leave,” he added softly, almost as if he were stating something that had never quite made sense to him. “Even when she should have.”

You remained still, listening, not interrupting the slow emergence of his words, as if they had been trapped for ages, waiting for the chance to breathe. His jaw tightened a bit before he pressed on. “And I used to think that meant something good about her,” he said, a subtle edge creeping into his voice, not quite anger, but more like unresolved feelings finally finding their expression. “But it didn’t.”

The grass bent around his arm as the wind picked up again. “It just meant she stayed too long.” He swallowed hard, then glanced down at his hand as if it belonged to someone else for a moment.

"And when I finally grasped the truth..." he began, then hesitated. You didn’t urge him on, the silence between you expanded, yet it remained unbroken. When he finally spoke again, his voice was softer.

"I couldn’t remain there after that," he confessed. "Not once I understood what staying truly meant." The way he articulated it lacked any theatrics, refusing to inflate the moment into something grander than it was.

Alastor leaned back a bit, allowing his shoulders to sink into the grass beneath him, his gaze drifting upward once more.

"I didn’t intend for it to happen," he added after a pause, his tone almost ethereal now. "I don’t think people like him ever believe anything will return to them."

He took another pause, then let out a slow breath.

"And when it finally did... he was at a loss for how to handle it." That was all he said for a while, the field remained tranquil except for the whispering wind and the gentle rustle of grass around you both. The sun hadn’t shifted much, yet everything felt a bit denser now, as if the air had absorbed something and was unsure how to let it go.

You finally broke the silence, choosing your words with care. "And your mother?"

His eyes flickered at that, a glimpse into something deeper within. "She stayed," he replied simply at first.

"Until she didn’t." He didn’t elaborate, and somehow, he didn’t need to. The silence that followed wasn’t void, it was rich in a different manner now, as if something had been placed between you that couldn’t be articulated again.

"Until she was gone too."

After a while, he turned his head slightly in your direction, not fully, just enough to acknowledge your presence.

"I didn’t turn into what he expected me to be," he murmured softly. "But I didn’t emerge unscathed either." The wind stirred once more, weaving through the tall grass until it enveloped both of you like a curtain that didn’t quite close, and for a moment, neither of you uttered a word.

The wind eased once more, as if it had chosen to cease its interruptions. The grass surrounding you both swayed and straightened in a gentle rhythm, and for a time, neither of you uttered a word, not because there was a lack of things to say, but because the silence had begun to feel like an integral part of the conversation itself.

He shifted slightly next to you, just enough to alter the space between your shoulders, neither closing it off nor breaking it, but changing it in a way that heightened your awareness of him.

When you glanced at him, he was already looking at you, not with intensity or scrutiny, but with that calm steadiness he possessed when he simply wanted to be present.

“You keep gazing at me as if I’m saying something unspoken,” he remarked after a pause, his voice low and almost contemplative.

“I’m not,” you answered, though uncertainty lingered in your mind about the truth of that statement.

That caused him to exhale softly, a hint of a smile forming but never quite materializing.

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you leaned in just a bit, not in a rush, but enough that the air between you thinned, transforming from mere emptiness into something shared. Your fingers brushed against his again, this time slower and less hesitant, as if you were discovering the contours of him without needing to articulate why… he didn’t stop you.

What lingered with you more than anything was that closeness, where the world around you faded at the edges, it wasn’t like a kiss that arrived out of nowhere. The space between your breaths shifted from feeling like distance to embodying an understanding that was hard to define.

And in that intimacy, something peculiar coursed through you, a sense of him that transcended the present moment, a weight of unspoken words. Paths not taken, a history you couldn’t visualize but could almost feel pressing gently against the moment.

It wasn’t about his words. It wasn’t even in his face, it was in the way he remained motionless when you were close enough to catch every detail, as if he was accustomed to bearing more than what was visible, and didn’t know how to let it go, even here, even now.

You lingered there a moment longer than you intended, close enough that it felt like your breaths were intertwined, close enough that leaving would have meant recognizing something was coming to an end.

When you finally pulled back just a bit, it was enough to see him clearly again, he looked at you the same way he had before, but with a softness now, as if something unspoken had passed between you without needing to be articulated. Neither of you labeled it, but it lingered there nonetheless.

Between you, silent, and undeniable.

The river didn’t feel the same as it did the first time you visited, but not in a way you could easily articulate. It was still just water, still just shore and light and movement, yet now it felt like a place you knew how to return to, like somewhere that had begun to recognize you both instead of merely holding you for the first time.

You were already half in the water, barefoot and carefree about it now, the hem of your dress darkened slightly where it had brushed the surface too many times to remain dry. He was a little further out, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly damp already as if he had been there longer than you, which he probably had.

“You always act like it’s cold every time,” he remarked, glancing back at you.

“It is cold every time,” you shot back immediately. He shook his head slightly, as if that was a lost cause he wasn’t keen on pursuing. “Non, tu refuses juste de t'y faire.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It does, mon amour!” he declared, as if that settled the matter. You stepped in further, then instantly regretted your boldness when the water rose higher, and you reacted too visibly to it.

Alastor observed you for a moment, then shifted just enough to face you more directly.

“Do you see?” he remarked, a subtle smile playing at the edge of his lips. “You're always like this.”

“I’m not like anything!!” you retorted, splashing a bit of water in his direction more out of principle than intent.

This time, he let it hit him without flinching, merely blinking once before regarding you as if you had validated something for him.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “Exactly like that.”

You squinted at him. “You’re unbearable in two languages.”

That made him genuinely laugh this time, a short and easy sound that carried slightly over the water as he stepped closer, allowing the water to swirl around him as he came within your reach. “You enjoy it,” he stated.

“I do not enjoy it.”

“Yes, you do!” he insisted again, quieter now, as if it was less about debating and more about observing. Before you could reply, he flicked a bit of water back at you, not much, just enough to make you flinch and instinctively retaliate without thinking.

It turned into something spontaneous again, just movement and reaction, small splashes breaking the surface between you, laughter punctuating it in quick bursts.

“You initiated it,” you charged.

“I didn’t initiate anything,” he replied calmly, catching your wrist lightly when you got too close, not holding it for long, just enough to steady you when the ground beneath the water shifted.

“You did.”

“That is objectively false.”

“Objectively,” he repeated, amused.

You attempted to pull your hand back but instead slipped slightly, and his grip adjusted immediately, steadying you without making it a big deal, something practical, as if he had anticipated your loss of balance before it even occurred.

“Be careful,” he said, quieter now.

“I am careful,” you replied, though your voice had softened a bit. He released you after a moment, once he was sure you were stable again, but didn’t fully step back, the space between you remained small, the water shifting.

"T'es toujours comme ça," he whispered.

"What does that mean?" you asked, tilting your head slightly.

He looked at you, then down at the water lapping at your feet. "It's like you don’t trust where you’re standing."

You frowned a little. "I do trust it."

Then, as if he were addressing the river more than you, he said, "Not really."

You didn’t respond immediately.

Instead, you studied him for a moment, the way he seemed more at home in the flowing water than on solid ground, as if nothing here astonished him anymore like it used to astonish you.

Then you splashed him lightly again, not as a reprimand this time but as a way to shatter the silence.

He let out a laugh through his nose.

"You’re impossible," you remarked.

"And you’re still in the water," he countered.

"...so are you."

"Yes," he replied simply. "I am." Smiling at you cheekily.

That day, you had spent it at his place, in the cabin hidden deep in the woods that only the two of you knew about.

The darkest secrets were sheltered within those walls.

The ones only you and he were aware of.

The windows were wide open, he was in the kitchen preparing something before he finally washed his hands and made his way to you in the living room. This summer was relentless, you were fanning yourself with your hand while your dress was bunched up over your thighs.

He settled next to you, gazing at you with that same grin he always wore, fangs just barely peeking out from beneath his soft, plush lips that you loved to nip at and draw blood from.

"What?" you asked, turning your head towards him while you angrily fanned yourself. He knew you didn’t mean it that way, he understood that your irritation was solely due to the heat.

"Just admiring.." he chuckled softly to himself, then added, "tu es tellement belle.." His hand reached out to you, gently caressing your cheek as he let himself get lost in your gaze.

You smiled, leaning in towards him before sitting back modestly, adjusting your dress and leaning in for a kiss on the cheek, but before you realized it, his lips found yours instead.

He chuckled into the kiss, deepening it as his hands slid up to cradle your face, ensuring you wouldn’t pull away or anything.. which he knew you wouldn’t.

Your tongue slipped into his mouth, tilting your head to grant him better access, and you couldn’t help but moan softly into the kiss, your hand trailing up his chest and lightly wrapping around his neck to feel the pulse racing beneath his skin.

When you finally broke the kiss, both of you were breathless, desperately trying to regain your breath as saliva dripped down his chin.

You leaned in, licking it up before placing another gentle kiss on his lips.

A finger traced along your thigh, sending shivers down your spine, but panic surged through you as you felt his hands slipping under your dress.

Your fingers wrapped around his slender wrist, halting him.

He looked at you with a pained expression, immediately pulling back and adjusting his hair and clothes slightly.

"I'm sorry.. I shou—"

"Do you really want this?" you asked sharply, wanting to draw the truth from him so he could be honest without fearing you might use him for your own benefit and leave him behind.

"You’ve told me that.. you’re not really into this and I just.. want you to feel free, not pressured into anything like this."

He blinked once, then twice, before cupping your cheek with one hand, brushing your face with his thumb as he peered over his glasses, pushing them up with his other hand.

"I am absolutely sure, mon amour," he reassured you. "Only if you want this too.. of course"

You smiled, gently placing his hand against your cheek with your own, before pressing a kiss onto his soft, warm palm.

"More than anything."

Alastor laid you down on the pristine white sheets of the bed, while the handmade curtain from his beloved mother fluttered in the breeze from the open window, allowing fresh air to flow in as he kissed you passionately and deeply all over your body.

Your dress eventually slipped off, and most of his clothes followed suit, leaving you both clad only in your undergarments.

He gazed at you, the moonlight casting a gentle glow over your figure, making you look like a dream.

And you thought the same of him, his physique was something else entirely.

It made you want to devour him right then and there.

He leaned down, planting soft kisses on the curves of your breasts while maintaining intense eye contact, occasionally glancing at your other breast as he suckled on one.

His hands explored every inch of your body, thighs, waist, chest, arms, and legs.

His hair brushed against the insides of your thighs, locking eyes with your covered mound, which was already glistening, revealing the outline of your sensitive clit and soft folds, clenching around nothingness.

"Before I... do something... I want you to know that I've never... um... done anything like this before," he confessed, looking at you before averting his gaze slightly, a rare sight of him feeling shy.

"Neither have I," you replied. "But... if it feels strange or uncomfortable... I'll let you know, okay?" You smiled warmly at him, and he nodded, already hooking his fingers around the waistband of your undergarments, slipping them off with a soft shlick as he tossed them onto the bed.

It felt eerie to be doing this in such a dimly lit room, adorned with deer antlers on the walls and crooked crosses scattered about.

Yet, you felt an unexpected sense of comfort...

He stared at your cunt, licking his lips in anticipation, before he gently brushed a finger against your slick folds, drawing a whimper from you.

Instantly, he glanced at you, worried he might have caused you pain, but when he noticed your brows furrowing and your lips pressing into a thin line, he understood perfectly what he was doing to you.

He leaned closer, his lips grazing your clit, relishing your warmth and wetness as you squirmed beneath him, silently begging for more.

"More.. please.." you pleaded, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pushed it away from his face, tilting your head to the side.

He complied, enveloping your clit with his lips, suckling on it as lewd sounds escaped your throat and from the man nestled between your thighs.

His tongue danced over you, moving up and down in a rhythm that made you see stars.. your fingers gripped his hair tighter, tugging slightly at his scalp to grind against his face.

Alastor gazed at you with intensity, as if you were his entire world.

Alastor observed every reaction of yours as his unturned nose brushed against your pubic bone ever so gently.

"I'm..." before you could complete your thought, you hit your peak, arching your back as his hands encircled your thighs, drawing you closer to his face, allowing you to ride out your orgasm.

Your hands clutched the sheets, moaning his name repeatedly as he watched you become vulnerable with him.

As you began to pull away from his grasp, overwhelmed, he released you, placing a soft kiss on your thigh before straightening up.

"You did so well for me, ma chérie, good girl.. such a good girl for me.." he murmured gently, smiling in the dim light as he observed you twitch and struggle to form words.

He joined you, shedding the last piece of clothing as you gazed at him in awe.

The way his cock shimmered and twitched under the moonlight made your mouth water.

You were aware of what sex entailed, and so was he, but the intricacies of it were still a mystery to you, while he possessed a wealth of knowledge.

You swayed your hips, unsure of the reason behind it, yet the desire to have something inside you was overwhelming, you craved the sensation of him filling you up.

"You are absolutely stunning.. I feel so fortunate to have you all to myself.

Just me. No one else." He groaned at the last part, leaning forward to press his hard cock against your stomach, using his knee to spread your legs wider, capturing your lips in a kiss, encouraging you to hold onto him as you did.

Suddenly, his tip brushed against your entrance, and a squeak escaped your lips at the sensation.

"Shhhh.. take it slow," he murmured into the kiss, allowing your fingers to dig into his back gently while his hands tangled in your hair, massaging your scalp to help soothe you.

Then, gradually, he began to push inside, letting your body adjust to the stretch as you broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours, both of you panting, fighting the urge to thrust hard into you.

"Shhh.. I’ve got you.. breathe, you’re doing so well for me, ma chérie. Always so.. good for me.. just relax for me.. come on, I know you can do it." He huffed, his hips faltering.

You inhaled deeply, allowing yourself to relax further so he could slide deeper into you, oh god.. he wasn’t even halfway in and you already felt so full.

You winced in pain again, your fingers digging into his back as you squeezed your eyes shut, while his dark gaze bore into you.

"It.. h-hurts.." you whimpered.

"I know, love.. I’m sorry.. I promise it’ll feel better once you relax a bit more for me."

And you did, letting him fully bottom out as you both sat there, still trying to sync your breathing with his to fully calm down.

Your cunt fluttered around him, eliciting a shaky moan from his throat, beads of sweat already forming on the back of his neck.

Your breathing began to slow, and you finally adjusted to the sensations below, boldly rolling your hips against his, eliciting simultaneous moans from both of you.

"Y-you can move..." you granted him permission.

And that was all he needed, he carefully pulled out of you slowly, just halfway, then pushed back in, whining at how your pussy was enveloping him.

He started with a gentle rhythm, allowing you to acclimate to the feeling.

"F-faster..! God.. hggghkk.. so good..!" You pleaded, your legs wrapping around his hips as he began to thrust into you harder and faster, his hips colliding with yours as he held you tightly, suckling on your breasts while you both moaned in bliss.

You bit down hard on his shoulder, making him groan, a droplet of blood landing on your chest, which he quickly licked clean.

Naturally, he had to reciprocate.

He bit into your collarbone fiercely, drawing blood as well, but only he suckled on the wound, his eyes locked onto yours, his hips mercilessly slamming against yours.

"You f-feel so good... so good for me... that's it... hah... let me hear you, scream as loud as you want, n-no one can hear us here... absolutely no one..! Fuck... mon ange... tu es mon ange."

He murmured against your skin, until another orgasm hit you like a freight train, arching your chest toward his face as you clenched around him, your pussy nearly milking him before he pulled out just in time.

Spurts of cum splattered across your stomach as his hips jerked, panting and huffing as he tried to steady his own heartbeat.

God, you looked stunning like this.

Hair tousled, sweaty, and panting just like him, struggling to catch your breath as you trembled from the aftershocks.

Once you both were cleaned up and snuggled in bed, he held you tightly, so close it felt almost surreal. You smiled to yourself as he mumbled something into your hair, inhaling your scent before finally drifting off to sleep.

Such a shame his mother is no longer around.

Vincent always smelled strongly of cigarettes, his skin appeared dull and aged despite being just middle-aged, and dark circles under his eyes marred his pale complexion painfully, with his bushy eyebrows drooping low over his glasses.

He never really took care of himself.

You were always the one assisting him with his morning shave, ironing his clothes while pleading with him to eat something, instead, he let his thoughts consume him daily.

He believed he would never be enough.

His hair was always styled perfectly, gelled thanks to you and neatly combed, showcasing his white strands boldly.

He was an unhappy man, and you were the only one who understood that. On camera, he was a different person than the one at home. There were countless days when he’d stumble in, drunk, grinning from ear to ear, while you had to endure his nonsense and help him to bed.

Vincent was an addict.

And he hated being confronted, so you kept quiet for as long as possible.

Not only was he an alcoholic and a literal chimney, but he was also a massive sex addict.

He had his problems, you were aware of that, and you had your own.

You weren’t any better, you were just as crazy and wild as he was, which made him so devoted to you that he practically worshipped the ground you walked on.

That never stopped you from loving him, nor did it stop him from loving you.

You were his life, he claimed, you were his light... he said...

He’d make love to you so tenderly and gently as he thrust his hips into you, planting soft kisses on your forehead while moving at a slow and affectionate pace.

You never felt used, sex with him never felt like a mere quickie. He’d prepare you so well, shower you with compliments, and worship your body while you rode him as if it were your last day on earth.

However... during sex, it was almost as if he wasn’t fully present, you noticed it too.

He’d gaze right through you as if you were... invisible.

You never liked to think of it that way, he was a good husband, you loved him, and he loved you back.

You always reassured yourself that he was just a busy man, constantly stressed and burdened with worries, so of course he needed some way to unwind.

But that all changed one night when he stumbled in at exactly 4am. You had been awake the entire night, pacing the house, cleaning it twice already, and the food you made had turned cold and unappetizing.

Vincent didn’t even acknowledge you, just trudged upstairs and tossed his clothes in a heap on the floor before collapsing onto the bed.

Naturally, you followed him. You were the dutiful wife, never one to pry or push your husband into revealing something he clearly wanted to keep to himself.

Unless you were prepared for the fallout, which in your case wasn’t too severe, he’d just scold you, while others faced far worse.

You sighed and began to pick up his clothes, but then something caught your attention.

There was red lipstick smeared all over his collar, and your heart plummeted, your hands and feet turning icy as your gaze swept over the pristine white shirt you had gifted him not long ago.

You knew it wasn’t yours.

You hadn’t even held hands in ages, let alone left hickeys on each other’s bodies.

You clutched the shirt tightly, tears brimming in your eyes as you glanced back at him, sprawled on the bed, face down, after a “long day at work.”

The room was filled with his scent, mingled with the stench of that woman he likely slept with.

You couldn’t even bring yourself to be angry at her, she probably had no idea about you, poor girl… poor you.

The air was thick with the smell of alcohol, mixed with the lingering odor of wet cigarettes from the ashtray beside your bed.

A surge of sadness and rage flooded through you.

You felt a mix of disgust and betrayal, how could he do this to you? How many times has he pulled this stunt before? You didn't even want to think about it. A hand flew up to cover your mouth as silent tears streamed down your face, your hands shaking as they clutched the shirt tightly.

God.. her scent.. your stomach twisted, compelling you to sprint to the bathroom as you dropped the shirt, rushing while trying to hold back the bile rising in your throat.

You crumpled in front of the toilet, expelling everything as you silently heaved and gagged, desperate to keep him from waking up and asking questions.

It disturbed you to see him sleeping so soundly after cheating with some woman who barely knew him. Your stomach twisted again, but this time.. nothing came out.. just drool, tears, and snot, smearing your already flushed face as you buried your head in the bowl.

The next day was no different, you helped him prepare for the day. He was sweet and affectionate, and you mirrored his behavior, even though inside, all you wanted was to rip him apart.

You longed to leave him.. but what kind of wife would abandon her husband? No woman should be left homeless, or worse.. single..

How humiliating it felt to be without a husband at your age.

Take it or leave it.

When night fell, he returned home, a cigarette dangling from his fingers as he rushed towards you, not even bothering to take off his shoes. He began showering kisses on your neck, passionately capturing your lips in a kiss that made you feel nauseous all over again.

He murmured how deeply he adored you, how intensely he longed for you, and how regretful he felt for his actions. On his knees before you, he clutched your dress, lifting it gently as tears streamed down his face, desperately trying to convey the depth of his love for you alone. He acknowledged that his actions were wrong, attributing them to the influence of alcohol.

That night, you found yourself gazing right through him, zoning out and disconnecting while he pressed his hips against yours, whispering empty secrets into your ear as you sat there, devoid of the energy to reciprocate. His 'I love you's' felt utterly hollow. You no longer craved his love, you wanted nothing from him at all.

The feelings you once had, had faded, the passion and affection that once bound you were gone. Every glance at his face brought a sense of betrayal. Yet, despite everything, you still found yourself pursuing him, occasionally allowing your true self to emerge, wrapping your legs around his waist, urging him to prove his sincerity, believing that a simple apology could mend everything.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months... That morning, you awoke beside him, drenched in sweat, feeling that familiar wave of nausea, but this time, it wasn’t from disgust.

His bare back faced you, rising and falling with each breath of his slumbering form, and you felt a twinge of jealousy at his peacefulness.

The nausea intensified, prompting you to rush to the bathroom, gripping the sink as you dry heaved. Nothing. Again. Nothing.

It couldn’t be... no...

Time passed, and now you were carrying the child of the man you had long since stopped loving. Yet, despite your melancholy and disappointment, you still found a flicker of love for him, while he was overjoyed at the news.

Months had passed, and a sudden, sharp pain engulfed your body, you found yourself surrounded by stunning girls in white, the ones who had saved countless lives before. You were in safe hands... or so you believed.

But things were far from the pleasant scenario you had envisioned.

Lying on the frigid hospital bed, your thighs smeared with a crimson, sticky substance that filled your nostrils with an overwhelming scent, nearly causing you to faint from the stench...

Not to mention the agony.

Outside, the rain poured down, and Vincent sat right in front of you.

No longer clutching a cigarette.

His hair was disheveled, droplets cascading from his locks onto his face, tear streaks marking his cheeks.

Strange...

You'd find yourself wondering.

It felt almost like a dream... you'd think...

Oh, how he wished it were just a dream, unfortunately, the scene reflected his despair.

Dressed in a long black coat and a matching suit, his attire mirrored his hair and those soulless, two-colored eyes you adored so much...

How unfortunate... you would never gaze into those eyes again, and he would never see you or the son he was meant to have.

Your outfit mirrored his.

Gray and dreary, cold and damp, just like him.

Even though you no longer breathed, you lay six feet beneath the cold earth that had claimed your beautiful mind and soul.

And the tomb had already taken your face.

Oh, how he yearned for you...

He knew his end was approaching, he couldn't survive without his love...

Without his life... oh, how he regretted what he had done to you.

How he wished he had loved you harder and more fiercely.

What a pity he never had the opportunity to reveal his true feelings for you.

Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the rain, as he gently laid a white chrysanthemum on your grave before turning away and disappearing from this cursed graveyard he never wanted to see again.

The space doesn’t quite feel like it belongs to you.

It never does when you’re here, it’s too quiet, too lavish, too meticulously arranged. It resembles a setting that’s been staged rather than a place where someone actually lives. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a sweeping view of the city, devouring the skyline in a slow dance of lights, and the couch you’re sprawled on is far too large for just one person... or even two, honestly.

Yet somehow, in this moment, you’ve claimed it as your own, feet tucked beneath you, head tilted back, the ceiling fading into a blur of your thoughts.

There’s a drink in your hand, some concoction he whipped up. You can’t even recall when you started holding it, just that it’s there.

The same drink he enjoys, same glass, same sharp, slightly bitter flavor that lingers too long on your palate.

You hear his quiet footsteps before you actually see him.

The penthouse shifts when he arrives, as if it breathes differently, Vox enters without uttering a word at first. You feign interest in the ceiling, pretending you didn’t notice how your heart just decided to act up.

The soft clink of glass prompts you to turn your head slightly, he’s already got the same drink in hand. His gaze finds you.

“You’re drinking mine,” Vox says with a slight smirk.

Your fingers tighten around the glass a bit. “Didn’t realize it was marked.”

He strides further in, maintaining eye contact, and when he halts near the couch, close enough for you to catch his scent, clean and sharp, making it hard to think straight, he raises his glass slightly.

“You picked the stronger one,” he murmurs, his claws gripping the glass as he finally settles down beside you, draping an arm around your shoulder and pulling you a bit closer, his head nudging against yours in the process.

"As if it's not the same drink we're sipping on," you remarked, groaning at how close you were, pretending to dislike it while secretly holding your breath. His scent was overwhelming... it was like he had just stepped out of a cologne bath, and he was fully aware of the effect it had on you.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, love," he replied playfully, taking a sip of his drink, his red digital eyes scanning the room that felt like it was consuming you whole.

You turned your head to face him, squinting slightly as you adjusted to the light from his screen, smiling at him with half-closed eyes.

"I think I’ll go take a shower... or maybe a bath... something... I can’t stand how my skin feels," you murmured his name at the end, almost a whisper.

"Hm? Here? Right now? Sure... make yourself at home," he said, pulling back just enough to get a better look at you, one of his clawed fingers slipping under the strap of your bra that peeked out from under your shirt.

"Yes... here, Vox. I have clothes here anyway, remember?" You placed your glass on the table beside the couch, immediately standing up as his hand slipped out from under your shirt, your warmth leaving him entirely.

He remained seated, taking more gulps from his drink as he watched you head towards the bathroom.

Deep down, you knew he was going to watch you or something, what a fucking creep, with cameras everywhere... of course he would!

You sighed, glancing around the massive bathroom he had for reasons you couldn't fathom, your bare feet padding towards the bathtub. You turned on the water and began to peel off your clothes, finally tossing your panties onto the pile of clothes.

One of the cameras in the corner shifted, and your eye twitched at the sound... you were right.

Without a second thought, you turned off the water and slowly sank beneath the surface, inhaling and exhaling sharply as you let the warmth envelop you.

Your eyes were shut, the bathroom lights low, ugh, what a weirdo he was. Your face twisted in annoyance as you heard another digital sound. The camera. Again.

Still, you tried to keep your cool, but a sudden creak of the door shattered your tranquility.

Vox leaned against the door frame before stepping inside, holding a drink, just for you.

Your expression softened, but irritation still bubbled beneath the surface as he approached with that same lazy smirk plastered on his face, or rather, on his screen, as he offered you the drink, waiting for your response.

"A little something for you from me, it’s your favorite... c'monnn, try it, let me know how I did!" He groaned. You rolled your eyes at his enthusiasm, bringing your lips to the black straw that stood out in the vibrant drink. You took a sip, and fuck, he really nailed it.

"It’s fine... I guess..." you muttered, holding the drink in one hand while your fingers wrapped around the straw, gulping it down as you glanced around, pointedly ignoring him.

"That’s it? You’re not going to say anything more?" He asked, and you sensed a hint of irritation in his tone. But then he just scoffed and plopped down on the edge of the bathtub. "Whatever," he mumbled to himself.

You pretended he wasn’t there, tuning out his sighs while you savored your drink and the warmth of the water.

Meanwhile, his gaze lingered on you, drinking in your beauty and the way your skin glistened under the soft lights, Vox could feel his desire stirring just from watching you.

Once you finished the drink, he snatched it away, vanished for a moment, and returned with a grin, his eyes half-lidded as he looked at you.

The instant he saw you reaching for the soap to lather your body, he snatched it from you, holding it with confidence.

"Let me take care of that... you just sit back and relax for me, alright?"

"Fine... but I swear to god if you—"

"Pffft, what?? Me? No... never, haha... don't you trust me?" He chuckled awkwardly, glancing around for a moment before he stopped. "Alright, fine... just let me take care of this for you."

You sighed, giving him the green light to proceed with whatever he had in mind while you sat back and observed him. You noticed how he picked up the washcloth, lathering it with body wash before bringing it straight to your chest, raising an eyebrow at him in surprise.

"What? I'm just doing my job," he grinned, biting his lower lip as he gently brushed against your skin, coating it with a thin layer of soap, occasionally grazing your nipples just to elicit a soft mewl from you, which sent delightful shivers down his spine.

"You're stunning, you know that?" he murmured, continuing his task, his hands gradually moving lower.

"Of course I do."

You smiled at his compliment, momentarily looking away as he chuckled warmly at your reaction, letting your arm dangle over the edge of the tub while you brushed your finger over your lips, swaying your head from side to side.

After a while, he set the cloth aside, which definitely caught your attention.

Before you knew it, you felt a new sensation... His hand was already between your legs, sleeves rolled up as he gazed at you intently, grinning at the soft whimper that slipped from your throat.

"Where's that tough act now, huh?" he teased, letting his finger glide between your folds, occasionally dipping just slightly into your entrance as he watched you.

"Shut up," you whined, gripping the edge of the bathtub as you thrust your hips.

"So wet and warm... you're even warmer than usual... fuck, the things I’d do right now just to be inside you," he spoke to you in a sinful tone while his fingers rubbed your clit slowly, even underwater he could feel just how soaked you were. His words made you moan, your hips rolling against his hand as you tried to look away.

"Don't look away now.. you should know who can touch you like this, touch you in places only I know.." you whimpered at his words again, finally meeting his gaze before gripping his forearm, your nails digging into his skin as his fingers slid inside you completely, moving in and out, curling just right to make you see stars.

"Can we make love before you go? Please.. god, I want to feel you so bad.. need you on my cock.. please.." he pulled his fingers out, leaving you feeling unsatisfied as you whimpered in frustration. But when those words hit you like a freight train, you nodded eagerly.

A smile spread across his face again as he stood up, lifting you from the water in one swift motion before stepping into the shower with you, quickly tossing his clothes aside near your pile as he turned on the water, letting the steam envelop the modern, dimly lit bathroom.

Before you knew it, his face crashed against yours. His bright blue tongue intertwined with yours as your fingers found their way to his gills, playfully brushing against them while you felt his claws dig into your skin beneath your breasts. Occasional whines escaped him while your fingers continuously teased and played around his sensitive gills.

When he broke the kiss, he roughly grabbed your hair, forcing you to look up at him before slamming your face against the foggy glass, your breasts and cheek pressed against it while your hands were nearly above your head, also pressed against the cold surface.

You huffed and laughed at his antics, turning your head back slightly only for him to slam it against the glass again, while with the other hand, he gripped your ass, positioning himself between it as he rubbed his aching cock back and forth a few times, letting his precum mix with the water and your sweat.

"Aren’t you a sight.. shittt.. I can't hold back any longer, doll, I need you.." He gripped the base of his cock, letting the tip tease your entrance once, then twice, before he slowly pushed all the way in, releasing your hair as both of his hands spread you wide for him.

"Mnngh.. s'big.." you gasped, your face, chest, and hands pressed against the glass, hissing in frustration..

"I know.. I know, love, you can handle it.. take it, be the good girl you are." He allowed you a moment to adjust before he started to move, your displeased whines quickly morphing into sultry moans, echoing throughout the room as the water tried to muffle the sound of skin slapping against skin and your moans blending together.

He was losing control, and you could sense it. How? By the filthy words spilling from his lips as he pounded into you like a beast, his claws digging into your hips, screen and voice glitching with every thrust.

"Dirty little whore.. so good for me, shittt, squeezing me so t-t-t-tight! You love this, don’t you? Being treated like the w-whore you are? Huh? Shit.. how about you let me use this pussy ev-every day after work? Ohhhhh...fuckkkkkkk.. you’d like that, wouldn’t you?"

A long moan escaped him as you writhed in front of him, his hips slapping against your ass, his thick cock twitching inside you as if it had never known a woman's touch.

"Fuck babe, I’m so close.." You could barely comprehend his words, certain he was about to shatter the glass with how hard he was fucking you, how fast and rough he was, his clawed hands roaming your body before finally settling near your clit, rubbing rough circles to push you over the edge with him.

Oh yeah, he was definitely going to bluescreen.

And that was all it took, your back arched, hips grinding against his as he relentlessly bullied himself into you, rubbing your clit with fervor as he leaned more on top of you, his chest pressing against your back, practically moaning into your ear while your pussy clamped down around him.

Thick ropes of cum filled you up as he released everything inside, making you feel so incredibly full.. ugh..

His cock twitched a few more times before he finally pulled out, cum spilling almost immediately from your cunt as you whined at the sensation, your legs already trembling and barely able to support you.

"I've got you, sweetheart.." he murmured, holding you by your waist and spinning you around while placing a gentle kiss on your forehead.

"Mnn.. sore.." you whispered, your head resting against his chest as he held you close, letting the water cascade over both of you while you tried to gather your thoughts and catch your breath.

"I know.. let's get you cleaned up... properly.. and then we can head to bed, I have an early meeting tomorrow anyway.." you nodded carefully against him, then looked up at him, smiling.

Oh, how much footage he has of just the two of you to watch when he's away from you..