The Life of Me

You give yourself two weeks to wrap your old life up. Remmick had said you could stay if you wanted, but you don’t think it’s a good idea. No, it’s better to cut the cords.

You turn in your two weeks’ notice on a day when Miles isn’t there. It’s cowardly, sure, but you have no fuckin’ clue how you’d even begin to explain this to him. He’ll figure it out.

As for Angelina, she’s been unusually quiet since the night Remmick went to her place. She’s sent you a couple of texts to check in, but she’s not trying to apologize or anything like that. You know this means that she realizes she’s royally fucked up, but you can’t bring yourself to care about it. Why waste time hating her when you’re never gonna see her again? Nah, best to cherish the time you have left.

The finale of Dancing with the Stars airs. You and Remmick watch it together, dissecting the dances, yelling at the audience to shut up, cheering for your favorites. Everyone does a great job. Rick wins, of course, with Rebekah as the runner-up. Not surprising, but you’re still glad he won, even if that’s overshadowed by your looming death.

And then you finish everything. Well, ‘everything’ is probably a bit broad, but you’ve wrapped things up for the most part. The apartment is the only thing left, but that can be dealt with…after.

Remmick has been unusually soft with you. You know he’s excited, eager, but he’s restraining himself. He doesn’t ask why there’s occasional tears freaking down your face. He doesn’t try to canoodle with you. Doesn’t try to tell you that everything’s gonna be alright, that you’re needlessly freaking out. No, he’s quiet and simply…there. He rubs your back while you cry, makes you food, watches whatever you wanna watch in the evenings. You’re the one who leans on him, who clings to his torso and digs your face into his chest, inhaling his scent and wondering how silent the world will be when you no longer have a heartbeat pulsing in your ears.

He is your anchor, keeping you from being washed away even as he drowns you.

In no time at all, the day arrives. Well, the night, that is. You spend your time out on the balcony, relishing the sunlight on your skin despite the chilled November air. As the sun begins to sink in the evening, you can’t help but hate it for daring to set. If it could only hover in the sky for longer, prolonging the inevitable, then maybe you could forgive it. Acceptance doesn’t mean there’s a lack of bitterness.

How many times have you watched the sunset without appreciating it? How may times have you witnessed the transition of vibrant oranges, dandelion yellows, and neon pinks into the soft periwinkles, deep indigos, and nearly-black navy of night? How many times have you watched stars come out, brightest to dimmest, and never fully understood how magical that was?

Past you was an absolute fool, in more ways than one.

The sun sinks below the horizon and you hate it. The balcony door opens, closes behind you. You feel Remmick sitting behind you, but he doesn’t speak. He’s got nothing but time. The wind blows, light at first, then harder, colder, almost like it wants you to go inside. You ignore it. The air itself will not tell you when it’s time to die. You can do that on your own.

The stars peek out, dozens of glittering celestial bodies watching, waiting. They all must be so much older than Remmick. How long will you live your new life with him? Will those stars still be there? Will they burn out before you do?

The wind picks up, chilling you, making you shiver as your skin breaks out in goosebumps. Your teeth are beginning to chatter, but dammit, you’re not ready, not yet.

Something soft drapes over your shoulder. A blanket. Remmick has placed a blanket on you, allowing you to remain outside for a while longer.

That makes your eyes sting in both hatred and gratefulness. You despise him and love him all the more for his silence, for his patience, for the illusion of choice that’s fractured by the harsh reality that you, (Y/F/N) (Y/L/N), are going to die tonight.

What if you stayed out here all night? What if you refused to go inside? What if you tried to freeze yourself to death instead?

Questions, questions, questions. Yet even as you wonder, you know without a shadow of a doubt that Remmick wouldn’t let you get away so easily. He’d made a promise that he fully intended to keep.

Without a word, you stand, feeling your joints pop as you do so. You open the balcony door and head to the couch, dropping the blanket to the ground. Remmick follows, closing the door behind you both. You hate that you can feel his anticipation without looking at him. You hate the way your own heart is pounding in anticipation as well.

He sits down first. You automatically sit down next to him and lean against him with a sigh. He puts an arm around you, then lifts you onto his lap, where he holds you tight to his chest. You don’t resist. There’s no point. He nuzzles your neck, inhales deeply. You half-expect to feel drool, but there’s none of that. He simply begins combing his fingers through your hair, soothing you, calming you. It doesn’t stop your eyes from welling up, though.

It’s not until your heartbeat calms down that you dare to speak. “Will it hurt?” you ask. God, your voice sounds so tiny.

“Yes,” he replies, equally soft.

You wish he would’ve lied to you.

“Will you—will you stay with me?”

He pulls you closer, tighter. His mouth moves against your neck. “Of course I will.”

The tears are threatening to spill over. You lift your head to stare out the balcony, wishing with every fiber of your being that time could reverse, that the sun would come back up, giving you one more day, one more hour, one more minute.

You inhale a shaky, watery sigh. “Okay, then. Let’s—let’s get this over with.”

“Will you look at me?” How dare he sound so melancholy? How dare he try to mimic your sadness?

No, you want to tell him. Just because you’re about to say yes doesn’t mean you have to look into his stupid eyes while he consumes everything that makes you you.

Your head slowly turns to look at him. His eyes are dark, no fangs, no drool. He looks…human.

Just for a moment, as your eyes meet, you envision a life where he wasn’t a vampire. You picture how the two of you might’ve met, might’ve dated, broken up, come back together. Maybe even gotten married in the future. You can see the wedding, actually, can see Miles and Blake cheering and clapping, can see Angelina doing her damndest to not take the spotlight off of you. You see a lifetime with Remmick in those eyes, one full of dance classes and joy and walks along the roads of Ireland, of pubs with traditional songs being sung with such enthusiasm that you can’t help but shout along even without knowing the words.

“(Y/N), will you dance with me?” Remmick asks. Neither of you blink, neither of you move.

“Yes.” It somehow comes out strong, firm. Is that you or is it the geis or is it the handfast? You may never fully know.

The air between you both is still for a moment before Remmick closes the gap, pressing his lips to yours. The tears finally break free as you kiss him back, moving to make yourself more comfortable on his lap. One of your hands tangles into his hair, digging into his scalp. The other hand curves along the back of his neck and presses in an attempt to get closer to him. Meanwhile, one of his hands is under your chin while the other is at the small of your back, eagerly assisting in your desire for closeness. You close your eyes, trying desperately to hold onto this moment, this final bit of humanity between the two of you.

But then your lips scrape against something sharp. You taste blood at the same time as the stinging starts, and you pull back.

Remmick’s eyes are a burning red, his teeth wicked and curved. Blood—your blood—is on the tips of a few teeth, resembling lipstick. You watch as his tongue licks the blood off, and his eyes flutter as he lets out a deep sigh. “Oh, I have been waiting for that,” he says, his voice husky, “for so long.”

You lick your lips, the coppery taste blooming on your tongue.

Remmick growls at the sight, sitting up as he does so, his hands latched onto your hips. “Mine,” he hisses before lunging at you, smashing his lips and fangs against your mouth. You feel his tongue tracing along your lips, eagerly lapping up any remaining blood. You squirm, unprepared for this level of ferocity, but you’re stuck in place. You can feel his erection growing as he sucks, his lips tugging at yours in a last bid for anything left, but the bleeding has stopped. He pulls away, disappointment lacing his forehead.

You swallow. You want to say something, but nothing comes out. There’s no thoughts in your brain, nothing except him staring at you, hungry, reverent.

“Give me yer hand,” he commands.

You do. Remmick holds it with one hand, still keeping you trapped on his lap with the other, and presses it to his mouth. His lips are warm from your body heat, but it doesn’t stop the shiver that shudders through your body at the sensation. “Mine,” he repeats, kissing your wrist. You feel his teeth scrape against the skin. “Mine,” he says again, pressing a kiss a little higher, a third even higher up your forearm. “Mo chuisle.”

Your heartbeat thrums, your cheeks searing. You suddenly, crazily, want him to keep going. You want him to kiss the entirety of your body, to whisper, “Mine,” over and over again as he claims each and every part for himself.

“Yours,” you agree. His eyes flick to you, like he hadn’t expected you to say anything. You see the way the hunger has deepened in the glowing red. “Yours,” you repeat, bolder.

His face cracks into a wide grin. “Yes,” he says, mouth hovering over your wrist again, and then he bites.

You cry out in pain. He hadn’t lied; it hurts. His teeth tear your skin apart easily, finding the veins beneath and sucking. You wonder how long it’ll take before your heart flutters in panic, before your brain fully realizes it’s doomed. How much longer do you have left to live?

As it turns out, not long enough. Remmick is clearly savoring your blood, but he’s also hungry as hell, and before too long, you’re feeling sleepy. Your head feels heavy, like gravity has increased tenfold. It’s hard to sit up. If Remmick weren’t holding you in place, you’d probably slump to the floor.

There’s lightheadedness and dizziness, too. Both contribute to your inability to keep upright. With nothing better to do for support, your lean your head against Remmick’s shoulder, your face buried in the crook of his neck. His arm moves up your back to cradle you in place, the other arm still holding your wrist to his mouth.

The room feels colder now than it was before. You try to shiver but your body can’t do it. With a sigh, you close your eyes. So this is it, you think. This is what dying feels like.

Spots swirl behind your lids. Your heart feels sluggish. You’d thought it’d be freaking out, panicking, but no, it’s simply…slowing. Between each beat, it feels like it takes a few seconds longer. The world is dimmer. You can’t hear much aside from the sucking noises coming from Remmick. He continues to hold you up, his arm curving over you as he drinks.

It’s hard to form coherent thoughts. It’s all a jumble. Memories flicker across your closed eyelids, but you’re struggling to distinguish any of them. There’s Angelina, grinning at you when you meet for the first time. There’s Miles, rolling his eyes as someone makes a horrible jab about him being gay. There’s Wildhearts, the lights flashing, the bass line pounding, the boots clacking.

And there’s Remmick, watching, always watching, always knowing that he’s going to be your undoing.

“Yours,” you breathe into the darkness, aiming at the twinned red eyes.

Yours.

————————————

You open your eyes, startled. Something’s different, but what?

You’re not in your apartment anymore. You’re in an unfamiliar location, a place that teeters on the edge of your memory. You take a step forward, your feet clacking on a polished floor. Ahead of you, surrounding you, actually, are empty seats. You turn around to see a set of five stairs leading to a secondary stage, two staircases mirroring each other as they stretch up and out.

Why do you know this place? Your mind is foggy, the edges of everything you’re looking at blurring. You glance about some more in the hopes that you’ll know where the fuck you are. To your right is a long desk, three empty chairs behind it.

I know this, you think. I know this place.

You look up to see a massive disco ball hovering over your head. The bottom of it reflects the lights back down at you, sending them scattering across the floor.

“Would ye like to dance?” a voice asks. You spin around. A man stands in front of you, though where he’s come from, you have no frickin’ idea. He’s handsome enough, dressed in an off-white tuxedo and black pants. As he moves, you can see that he’s got a black shirt, or maybe it’s the lining of the tux, or something underneath his tux jacket and over a white shirt. He’s also got a black bow tie, which, for some reason, makes you wanna snort. His hair is neatly combed, and he’s extending a hand to you.

Well, that’s weird, but what the hell. “Yes,” you say, because why wouldn’t you?

The man grins. You place your hand in his and he pulls you close. There’s music playing from somewhere, soft, flowing, vaguely Celtic. The two of you waltz around the dance floor, which is crazy because how do you know how to waltz? You’re pretty sure you’ve never done that before in your life.

No, waltzing isn’t your favorite kind of dance. You like…you like…you frown, feeling your forehead wrinkle as you try to remember. It’s not that you don’t like waltzing. You do. But there’s another dance that you prefer. What is it?

“You look like you’re thinkin’ mighty hard about something, darling,” the man comments, and it’s weird because you could’ve sworn he had an Irish accent the last time he spoke. Is he Irish or not? “Penny for yer thoughts?” Ahh, there it is.

“I’m trying to remember—,” you begin, then stop. “I’m trying to remember something. Something…important, I think?” He spins you out, and you stretch your arm towards the judges’ desk as gracefully as possible before he spins you back in and into a deep dip. “I don’t think—we’re doing a, a Viennese waltz, aren’t we?”

“That we are. Why?” He pulls you out of the dip and you begin to dance around the floor again. How the hell do your feet know where to go?

“I don’t, I mean…I don’t—I don’t think I like waltzes?” You swirl around and find yourself facing the judges’ desk again. But how do you know it’s a judges’ desk?

The man tilts his head at you. “Oh, would ye like something else instead?”

The music crescendoes and then stops, a single string holding a note. When the music resumes, it’s darker, more dramatic. You recognize the tempo as one meant for a Latin dance, like a paso doblé or tango.

Wait, how do you know this?

The man releases your waist to step back, lifting his arms up as he does so. You mirror him, and he lunges forward. You spin to avoid him, lifting your foot and stomping it against the floor, a taunt. He’s still grinning but now his teeth look…sharp?

There’s a person in the audience, too. A single person, someone that you don’t recognize. Her eyes glow in the darkness. She’s smiling at you, or maybe she’s smirking? Sneering? You’re unsure. You’re too busy noticing the glowing eyes as you dance.

The air pulls at your hair as you spin around again. This is fun! No, wait, it’s more than just fun—it’s exhilarating. Yes, that’s the word. You know that you’re supposed to keep your expression neutral and intense in a paso, but you can’t help the grin that spreads across your face. The man matches your grin as he marches towards you on his knees, then hops up. The two of you interlock arms, slamming them against each other in a controlled manner.

“This is fantastic!” you tell him.

“Glad you think so!” he replies, beaming. Up close, you can see that his teeth are indeed sharp, curved, too, wicked fangs that fill his whole mouth. His eyes are glowing, just like the woman in the audience’s, but his are a bright, arterial red. You stumble a bit when you realize that, but then he grabs your arm, catching you, twisting your arms up as he spins you around the floor before releasing you, sending you sliding, just like Nev Schulman did to Jenna Johnson in season 29. But how do you know that?

The man jumps, his legs landing on either side of you as you look up at him and he looks down at you. His hair has come undone a bit, curling around his ears. A lock is plastered to his forehead. You want to brush it away.

He extends a hand, which you accept, and with that, he pulls you back to your feet, close to the chest. The music has morphed again, and as you two begin to tango, you spot more and more audience members, all with glowing eyes.

“Where are we?” you ask.

“Oh, you should know the answer to that, mo chuisle,” the man chides you. There’s a hint of disappointment lacing his tone. “I thought you were stronger than that.” Your legs step in several ochos, feet popping up in sharp, familiar kicks. You’ve danced this before. You’ve done these exact moves before.

And so has he. You’ve danced with this man in the past.

Which is why you know what to do next, which is to stop in front of him and allow him to pick you up by the hips. You hold onto his wrists as you walk in the air while he lowers you.

Daniella did this move on this season, you think as the man rotates you and hoists you into the air. And Remmick and I practiced it over and over again.

Remmick.

“Remmick?” you gasp as he sets you back on the floor. His hands hold yours up in frame, your bodies pressing tightly together. “Oh my God, Remmick?”

“Ahhhh, there it is. Knew you’d get there,” Remmick replies. “But you’re not quite done yet.” He doesn’t push you, but you feel the extension of his arms sending you away from him to give you the momentum to bounce back, using his foot to keep you in place. You kick your leg out, then hook it around his in a snappy gancho.

“Am I dead, then?” you demand. “Did you, did you—,” but you can’t finish the sentence.

His gaze softens. “Yes.”

You swallow. “So then I’m a vampire?”

“Yes.”

“But who are—,” you nod your head at all the people filling up the audience.

“That’s everyone I’ve ever bitten, and everyone they’ve ever bitten. Every single one of ‘em live up here,” he breaks frame to tap the side of his head. “And now, so do you.”

Just like that, the memories flood your brain. You’re still dancing, but it’s more like someone’s puppeteering your body as you process everything. There’s rounded stone buildings with thatch roofs, people walking about in clothing that looks like it belongs in a medieval movie or something. You spot Remmick, jumping in the air and laughing as he dances while a crowd watches. The memory-Remmick meets your eyes and then it changes to a stormy night, where Remmick claws himself up from the ground that he’d been buried in, muttering curses the whole time. His hands are elongated, and you feel his sheer hunger, his bloodlust as he lurches towards the village.

You see him running at night under the light of the moon, see him leaping into sky and flying under the stars, the wind in his face tasting of freedom.

You’re barraged with everyone he’s ever killed, filled with his despair at the death of his culture by the church, buoyed with rage at his inability to connect with his ancestors like he used to. You can see how he remembers being able to call on them through his singing and dancing, can see how he screamed at the waning crescent when he realized he couldn’t do that anymore.

Everything that was his life flows into your mind until you’re no longer you, you’re Remmick. Remmick and every single vampire he’s ever been connected to. You see their lives, stored in his mind. You can identify the recipes he used when he made dinner for you, the songs he sang that he stole from another mother as she’d soothed her sick child. You recognize the man and woman who’d come to your apartment for Sammie Moore’s guitar—Stack and Mary, and you know how they became part of the hive.

All the while, you keep dancing because Remmick wants you to dance, wants you to stay in his arms, and you can’t tell him no, not like you could before. His will presses into you, not exactly forcing you, but persuading you—this is what you wanna do, (Y/N). You wanna keep dancing with me forever.

The memories don’t subside. If anything, they intensify. You’re living all these lives at once, including yours, because Remmick can see your memories, too. He’s watching them and you’re watching him watching them and at the same time, you’re witnessing his perspective. You see how he found you, how he sensed the joy coming off of your body as you danced in Wildhearts. You see the way he decided he was gonna have you, no matter what. You see how he made a plan to trick you using a geis and a handfast, how from the moment he’d chosen you, you were doomed.

The entire time, you continue to dance, to tango, but the joy in it is a lie because Remmick is telling you to enjoy it, this stalker’s tango. You love this kind of dance, but being commanded to love it takes the exhilaration away.

There’s nothing you can do to stop it, though. Remmick is too strong, too powerful. Stack and Mary had broken free, sure, but that was because of their family. You don’t have that connection keeping you tethered to yourself.

“Mo chuisle,” Remmick calls, and now you know that means my pulse. “You’re stronger than this, I promise you. Fight me.”

I can’t, you try to say, but the words stick in your throat.

“Oh, yes, you can,” he replies. Somehow, he’s no longer in the white tuxedo. He’s in a light blue shirt and black pants that are held up with black suspenders.

I really can’t, you think. It’d be easier to give up, too. He’d won no matter what. There was nothing you could do to defeat him. You’d tried again and again and each time, he’d come out on top. You win, Remmick.

The tango cuts off abruptly. A fiddle plays instead. It’s joined in by drums and flutes and you recognize the song not because you’ve heard it before, but because Remmick knows it intimately, having stolen it from another Irishman he’d killed. The audience of vampires claps and sings along. Remmick himself lets go of you and dances, kicking his legs up, his arms loose, just like the night you’d had your first date. His hair is plastered to his scalp now but he doesn’t seem tired. This feels like finality somehow, like he’s celebrating his victory over you.

He won. He fucking won. He rigged the game, sure, but he still won. You’re his now.

He’s stolen your life and claimed it for himself, just like he’d done with all these other victims who were cheering for him.

A tiny bubble of rage begins to swell from somewhere deep inside. How dare he. How fucking DARE he.

He rocks back and forth on his toes, taps them rapidly, spins around. You watch in angry fascination. He’s still an amazing dancer, even after he’s consumed you. Nothing can change that.

He won.

That bubble of rage is tight in your chest where your heart used to beat.

No, he cheated. You’d seen it all—seen him plotting, seen him stalking, seen him waiting in the dark and watching you for weeks—weeks, before he’d approached you. And he’d had the audacity to let you approach him first, just to give you that illusion of choice, but there’d never been a choice in the matter, had there.

How. Fucking. Dare. He.

Remmick locks eyes with you and holds his pose, reaching out. “Dance with me,” he commands.

You begin to walk towards him but stop.

Remmick frowns, cocks his head at you. “(Y/N), come here and dance,” he orders. You feel him pressing on your mind, persuading your body to respond to him. Your legs take the steps, bringing you closer, closer.

The bubble ruptures, sending that indignation and fury rushing throughout your body.

The lights of the ballroom spotlight on the two of you, but it’s not bright. It’s soft like full moonlight. The audience is no longer in the sides, but surrounding you and Remmick in a circle, still clapping, still obeying. You feel how much they want to participate, how Remmick has convinced them to listen to him, how he’s manipulated them.

You search deeper, using the hive mind to find their residual memories of being human, of their initial reluctance to comply with Remmick’s wishes. It’s fuel.

Your hand lifts towards his. Your fingers graze his outstretched hand, and then you throw everything you have, all of that fury on behalf of the other victims, on behalf of you, at Remmick. He blinks, confused, and the fiddle music cuts off. You take a step backwards, then another, then another. The other vampires have stopped their celebration. They watch, wearing equally confused expressions on their faces.

“What are you doing?” Remmick asks. He doesn’t sound angry.

You stand apart from them all. Remmick has stolen so much from you. Your mind, your life, your whole world.

He’s not about to take dance, too.

You kick with your right leg, stomp it. Kick your left leg, stomp it. Repeat.

Then you kick your right heel out, bring the toe across the left knee. Repeat the motion with the other foot. The kicks and stomps echo across the dance floor as the hive watches you do the line dance to Copperhead Road all by yourself.

The music starts, soft at first, but you remember it, and that’s all that matters because with each stomp, the volume increases, a little at a time. It grows louder and louder, your stomps more and more emphatic, and then you’re no longer in the ballroom of Dancing with the Stars, you’re on the dance floor of Wildhearts. The ghosts of the hive watch from every chair, every available opening, and Remmick is standing at the edge of the stage. His head is still tilted, but a slow smile makes its way across his face as your kicks get higher and higher, amped up by vampire stamina. Your arms are moving with the momentum, a feral grin on your own face.

You could do this for eternity and never get tired of it.

When the music ends and you stomp for the last time, you’re facing Remmick, giving him the most defiant look you can summon. It’s tempered with joy, but this joy isn’t tainted by Remmick forcing it on you—this is your own. You found it.

The space between the two of you vanishes as you move at the same time, you jumping into his arms while he holds you up, both of you pressing your lips together. You feel his fangs scrape your lips but you have fangs now, too and they scratch against his, earning a deep moan from him that sends heat shooting through everywhere. This kiss could last until the world ends—neither of you need to breathe, not anymore, at least.

Remmick somehow manages to pry himself away, if only long enough to tell you, “I knew you could do it.” You feel the pride radiating from his mind to yours and kiss him again, harder, deeper. You want all of him.

You open your eyes and lift your head to see Remmick watching you with glowing red eyes. You’re back in your apartment. The light is nearly blinding, even though it’s artificial. There’s noises everywhere, too—thrumming, humming, footsteps above and below. You can hear the neighbors having sex upstairs, can hear the argument three floors down, the cars passing by on the road. You hear the electricity powering the building, the lights, the TV.

There’s a strange absence of something in your ears. It takes a second for you to realize it’s the absence of a heartbeat.

“There you are, mo chuisle,” Remmick says with a wide grin as he leans his forehead against yours. “I knew you could do it.”

“What do I—,”

And then you’re looking at yourself. You see yourself as Remmick sees you right now—messy hair, wide eyes that glow like his own. You feel his affection, how it demands that he remain by your side until the day you both perish. You can feel his desire, how he wants to fuck you over and over and over again until you beg him to stop, but how he also knows you never will because he is yours and you are his.

You expect him to rip your clothes off and fuck you right there on the couch, but no, he stands, tugging you gently to your feet as he does so. He leads you to the balcony, where he opens the door, allowing the night air to waft into the apartment. You smell smoke, asphalt, fast food, life. The moon shines down on you both as you step onto the balcony. Remmick climbs onto the railing and extends his hand again.

“Shall we?” he asks, that toothy grin never leaving his face.

You place your hand in his, returning his grin. “Hell yeah,” you reply.

You text Miles to let him know that you’re alright. Well…alright enough. Then you crawl into bed, exhausted. For the first time since being sick, you don’t close the bedroom door. It’s not an invite, and Remmick seems to understand that, because he doesn’t join you. He remains in the living room, giving you space to process the reveal that you were never making it out of this alive, that he intended to kill you all along.

You don’t cry. You press your face into the pillow in despair, but you don’t cry. You breathe deep, inhaling the scent of your room. It smells familiar, but you’d be hard pressed to identify the specific smells that make it up.

Somehow, you fall asleep. Your alarm wakes you—you don’t remember setting it, but whatever. You rise like the sleepy zombie you are and go through the motions of getting ready for work.

I’m going to have to quit my job, you think as you brush your teeth. To keep Miles safe.

Not only that, but you’re gonna have to move away, leave everyone you know behind. You can’t risk hurting them after—after you say yes.

The thought stings your eyes, and you blink at your reflection. You’ve never really noticed your face before, or if you have, it hasn’t been with the ominousness of knowing that one day, you won’t see it anymore. You stare at your nose, your eyes finding pores that you’ve ignored forever. You notice the delicateness of your eyelashes, the hairs of your eyebrows, the shape of your earlobes. All of these things are so old to you and yet so new.

“You’re gonna be late,” Remmick calls down the hallway, startling you into movement.

You finish brushing your teeth and wash your face, then stride to the kitchen to grab your shoes and tug them on. He’s already made coffee for you, which you gratefully and resentfully accept.

“You okay?” he asks as you take a sip right off the bat, even though you hate drinking coffee so soon after brushing your teeth.

“Fine,” you reply.

Remmick holds out an arm towards you. “You don’t look—,”

“I said I’m fine, Remmick,” you say, stepping back, away from him. “See you when I get home.” With that, you leave. You don’t really remember the walk to the elevator or to the car, just that it’s cold. You’ve forgotten a jacket. But maybe you should relish the chill, too. Do vampires get cold?

Work passes in a hazy blur. You move mechanically, going through the motions on autopilot, responding to your coworkers with the most generic statements possible. You don’t give Miles a chance to corner you, to demand to know what happened. You feel the weight of his eyes on you, though, aching with concern.

Remmick has dinner ready for you when you arrive at the apartment. You register that there’s food, then ignore it, going straight to the shower. You roast yourself under hot water, almost like you hope that the heat will scald the truth of Remmick’s geis off of you.

He lets you be until it’s nearly seven, then he’s there, in your doorway, a dark silhouette blotting out the light of the living room and kitchen behind him. “You gonna watch the semifinals?” he asks. “I’m kinda invested in finding out if Jazz is gonna make it to the finals or not.”

You blink, your eyes finding your alarm clock and staring at the red glow in confusion. It takes a minute for your brain to catch up to Remmick’s words, to understand that he’s referring to Dancing with the Stars. With a sigh, you drag yourself out of bed, your still-damp hair plastered to your scalp. The journey to the couch is a slow one, but there’s food awaiting you, and as much as you don’t wanna eat, you also had skipped lunch and you’re hungry.

Remmick continues to give you space. It’s the kindest he’s been to you, which is meaningless now. You wonder if he senses that.

Meredith and Alan are the first dance. You stare at the screen, numbly making mental notes of the sharpness of her turns, the way she’s clearly struggling with a rib injury yet pushing through because she wants this. The baby-blue dress she’s wearing swirls in the foxtrot spins, the feathers splaying outwards then inwards. She deserves tens, but receives mostly nines instead, though Bruno gives her that ten. You see the annoyance flicker on Alan’s face—he knows what scores she’d deserved.

“She oughta have gotten higher scores,” Remmick comments. “Don’tcha think?”

“Mmm-hmm,” you reply, unwilling to give him any more than that.

“Food okay?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“How was work? Anything interestin’ happen?”

You sigh and set the plate of food down on the couch armrest. “You don’t have to do that,” you say.

“Do what?”

“Act like you care. Pretend that you actually wanna know. You’ve won. Good for you. There’s no need to keep acting like you give a shit about me.”

The couch creaks as Remmick turns his whole body to face you, his foot barely missing the coffee table as he moves. “But I do care about ya,” he replies.

You dare to glance at him. His eyes are normal, his head tilted to the side in confusion. He looks like he’s perplexed by your statement. But you know how excellent of an actor he is. “You care about winning. Well, you won. Yippee-ki-yay for you.”

The couch creaks again as he leans towards you. You flinch, pulling yourself away from him, even though there’s not much room to flee. “(Y/N), you know that isn’t true.” He runs a hand through his shaggy hair. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I am mighty pleased with the situation, but I ain’t—I do genuinely care about you. I wanna make sure you’re alright.”

“Maybe you should’ve thought about that before shoving yourself into my life,” you tell him. It feels like it should be yelled, but you’re calm, soft-spoken. “‘Cause I hate to break it to you, buddy, but I’m not fine. I’m not alright.”

His brows lift, giving him that pathetic puppy-dog look again. “How come? Is there anything I can do to fix it?”

Yeah, you can get the hell outta my life! you wanna snap, but you don’t. How many times have you had this conversation? How many times has he offered to listen but then claimed that ‘it doesn’t work like that’? It’s pointless to try and explain it to him.

Fortunately for you, the commercial break ends, and Remmick knows the rules of watching Dancing with the Stars. He shuts up.

Rebekah’s dance is up next. Her fiery red hair makes a lovely contrast with the green-and-black satin number that she’s got on. She swooshes her skirt over her partner’s head, her paso kicks aggressive and precise, but there’s something lacking in her expressions. She doesn’t have passion. You’ve noticed this for several weeks now, even had conversations with Remmick about how she’s an amazing technical dancer, but she just doesn’t…click with you. You’ve seen this happen with a few other stars in the past, and have always been disappointed if those people win the trophy, though you can admit that their freestyles are always epic even without the emotion fueling it.

She executes a move that involves her sliding around her partner’s body to the ground, her legs creating a spiral as he grabs her arms and drags her across the floor backwards, her back arching but careful to keep her feet on the ground so Carrie Ann doesn’t deduct points for lifts. You swear you see the foot leave the floor, though, and you almost reach for the remote to rewind it and confirm. The remote, however, is closer to Remmick than it is to you, and you have no desire to enter his space.

“Whatcha think of that one?” he asks while Alfonso asks his questions and the judges give their critiques.

“She had a lift. If Carrie Ann doesn’t comment on it—aaaaaand nope, she didn’t, because she’s playing favorites.” It’s irritating how easy it is to slip into old habits, to engage with him over this show. “She’s literally gotten soooo much backlash online over this favoritism. Why the hell is she not dealing with it?”

“I thought it was a fine dance,” Remmick counters. “The scissor kick was done well. Better than you, at least for now.” He flashes you a goofy grin that you ignore, pursing your lips in annoyance. “Aww, don’t you worry about that. We’ll have time aplenty to refine your legs.”

And just like that, he’s fucked up the mood. Again. This guy sucks.

You wonder if he can feel the chill radiating from you. Probably not. For someone who’s been around for as long as he has, he’s not picked up on any human common sense.

You punish him by ignoring him the entire commercial break. You focus on your food, on chewing and swallowing and drinking the can of soda that he’s gotten out for you. But then it’s Lexie’s turn to dance, and you’re tensing up in anticipation because she’s got a tango and you expect it to be excellent.

It is, earning soft gasps of delight from you and all tens from the judges. “Oh, she totally can win this,” you can’t help but say. “And I would be one hundred percent cool with that.”

“What about Rick?”

“Well, he’s the obvious favorite ‘cause everyone loves him, but Lexie is so good. I would be happy with either of them. Or Jazz, as long as her dance tonight is on par with what she’s been doing.”

“D’ya think Jazz will actually make it? ‘Cause she’s been underscored all season long.”

You cross your arms over your chest and squint at the TV. “Yeah, and everyone is pissed off about that. If she doesn’t make the finale…” you pause. “Wait. Lemme rephrase: If she, Lexie, and Rick all don’t make the finale, I’m gonna be very angry with the producers.” You shoot a glare at Remmick to emphasize your point.

He gives you a small smile in return. “Guess you’d better vote, then!”

You snort. “Yeah. Guess I’d better.”

Just like that, the tension from earlier is dissolving. Not entirely, mind you, but that stupid easyness of his presence is eating away at your attempts to stay cold towards him. Is this the geis? The hand fast? Or is it you?

You flex your hands. “You said geisses can’t be broken without seriously bad things happening, right?”

Remmick’s head bobs in a gentle nod. “The plural of ‘geis’ is ‘geasa’, but yeah.”

You hesitate, but your curiosity is stronger than your wariness. “And you said that, that part of the terms of yours was that you wouldn’t, you wouldn’t bite me or drink my blood or whatever until I said yes, right?”

His head tilts to the side as he blinks. “Ye-es?”

You grab the fork resting on your empty plate. “So what’s to stop me from stabbing myself with this fork and shoving my hand at your mouth? What if I broke the geis by forcing you to drink my blood without explicit permission?” You poise the fork at your palm.

Remmick sighs and angles his body to better face you, leaning into the corner of the couch. “Yeah, this is another one of those questions you’re not gonna like the answer to—,” he says, but you cut him off with a small jab of your fork into your palm. It’s not enough to break the skin, but enough to leave an indent on it. Remmick’s eyebrows lift in a condescending manner. “(Y/N), I really don’t think that’s a good idea on your part.”

“Why the hell not?” you challenge, pressing the fork deeper. It’s starting to sting. “Explain to me why the fuck I can’t break this stupid curse or whatever by doing that.”

Remmick’s gaze flicks between your palm and your eyes several times, like he’s considering what to say. “Well, ‘cause if you break the geis, then there’s absolutely nothin’ stoppin’ me from killing you and turnin’ you right here, right now.” He says it so nonchalantly that you know he’s not lying. “That geis, (Y/N), is the only reason you’re alive right now.” He gestures towards you with a flippant wave of his hand. “You break it, I don’t need to wait for a ‘yes’ anymore, and you get no choice in the matter. At all.” His eyes flash red. “So go ahead. Make yourself bleed, shove it down my throat, see what happens. But I can guarantee you prolly won’t like it too much.”

You stare at him, daring him to be wrong as you poke the fork deeper, almost enough to draw blood. Remmick holds your stare easily, expectantly. He’s bluffing, you wanna convince yourself. He’s bluffing, he’s gotta be.

Something in his glowing eyes convinces you, though, and you lower the fork with a huff. “Damn. Really thought I might’ve had ya there.”

Remmick gives you what might almost be considered a sympathetic smile. “Hey, I don’t blame ya for tryin’. It was a good idea.” He shrugs. “Just wouldn’t work.”

That, more than anything, is weirdly comforting. You don’t know why he’s trying to—what, console you? Praise you?

The semifinals resume. Now it’s Rick’s turn to dance. He’s got a paso, and it’s pretty damn good. He’s definitely making the finals; his growth has been exemplary.

The next commercial break, you don’t waste any time. “Okay, what if I killed you? Would that free me from the geis?”

Remmick laughs. “D’you think you could?”

You look at him. “I’ve got a yew tree in the car. I could try, at least, right?”

He sends you another toothy grin, his fangs bared, eyes still red. His fingers aren’t as elongated as they could be, but they’re certainly longer than usual, giving him a bat like appearance. “You’re very welcome to try,” he purrs, “but somehow, I don’t think you’ve got it in ya.”

You scowl. “Rude. I’m defiant and determined as fuck. I could totally take you on.”

With that, Remmick moves. You blink, and then he’s in front of you, the coffee table pushed away, towards the TV. You punch at him, more out of reflex than actual fear, and he catches your wrist, pins it to the couch arm. You swing with your other arm, which he grabs equally as easily, pinning it to the couch cushion behind your back. You try to headbutt him, but he simply leans back out of range, his elongated limbs giving him extra leverage. He clucks his tongue at you. “Aww, c’mon, is that really all you’ve got?” His grin widens, taunting you. “You’re s’pposed to be determined and here you are, acting like you’ve given up.”

You kick at him, but Remmick handles that by blocking you with his hip, then straddling you. You feel your blood pounding in your head, racing through your veins in and out of your heart as it frantically pumps away. Now you can feel him, and to make matters worse, he grinds on your lap just enough to make you ache. You let out an involuntary moan.

Remmick leans in close, his mouth right by your ear. “What was that? Hmm?” He applies a little more pressure to his grinding, earning another low moan. “Thought you were taking me on, yeah?”

You feel heat rising to your face and also lowering to your groin. “Get offa me,” you say, but it’s not emphatic at all.

Remmick’s teeth graze your neck, sending your pulse jumping erratically. “What was that?” he repeats.

“I said, ‘get off of me’,” you say again, this time putting a little more force behind it.

“Is that what you really want, (Y/N)?” He draws out your name, adding a growl to the end of it. “Is it?”

No, I think I actually wanna rip your clothes off and let you fuck me senseless, but considering you’re planning to murder me… “Yes,” you lie, peeling your eyes away from the ear that’s right next to your mouth, right within suckling distance. “Please get off.”

Remmick does so, but he moves slow, pulling his weight away from you. Your body protests, automatically trying to scoot closer to him, but he’s still pinning your arms in place. He notices the struggle, however, and gives you yet another toothy smirk as he lifts each individual finger away from your skin.

“Thank you,” you mutter, fighting the urgent to shiver. It’s not that he’s warm, but his presence is so—so—

“What was that you said about tryin’ to kill me, then?” He raises an eyebrow.

You roll your eyes at him. “Okay, so it might be harder than I thought.”

Remmick shakes his head. “No, I want you to tell me the truth.” He’s next to you, no longer giving you any space on the couch. He grabs your hand and places it over his chest, over his heart. “Could you actually do it?” he murmurs, each word softer and softer. “Could you actually put a stake through my heart, end my lonely suffering, eradicating a whole group of people in the process? Could you end us all?”

He looks at you, really looks at you, with such sadness and heaviness that you feel your own heart stutter under the weight of it.

You exhale, your shoulders slumping in resignation. Your hand clenches at his shirt, wrinkling it. You spot the chain necklace around his neck before lowering your gaze to his chest. “No,” you admit. “I don’t think I could.” You lift your head to meet his red eyes. “Is that—is that ‘cause of the geis? Or the handfast?”

His expression is tender, sympathetic. “I don’t think it’s either of those, (Y/N). I think it’s somethin’ else, somethin’ you’re too scared to admit.” His other hand reaches up to cup your cheek.

He doesn’t make the first move. No, he lets you do it, lets you be the one to lean forward and press your lips to his. Lets you deepen the kiss, lets you push him down and climb on top of him, your lips never once pulling away from his. You probe at his mouth with your tongue, and he lets you in, lets you trace over his still-sharp teeth with your tongue. His hands grab your arms, helping you lean down without falling, and then you’re straddling him, but right at that moment, you hear the familiar theme music that indicates Dancing with the Stars has resumed.

You ignore it. What’s the point? Why should you care about who wins when your life is all but over?

Surprisingly, it’s Remmick who gently pushes you away. “Hey, show’s back on.”

“I don’t care,” you tell him.

His eyes radiate pity. “Yes, you do. You know it.” He full-on picks you up, earning a grunt of protest from you, and sets you on the couch next to him. “There will be time for that, too. So much time.” The pity is gone from his gaze, replaced with hunger. “So much time,” he repeats. You sense that the hunger is more than carnal, that it runs deeper than that, and why the hell doesn’t that scare you anymore? It should. It should be terrifying. He wants to devour you in every way and you’re—you’re gonna let him. You’re gonna let him, oh, God, you’re gonna let him.

But not tonight.

Not. Tonight.

Jazz is last to dance. There’s one more commercial break before they announce the finalists. You don’t turn to Remmick as you text your votes. He’s got his own phone out and is doing likewise, also going directly to the ABC website to vote there.

“Will we have to leave?” you ask softly as your fingers tap the screen.

“That all depends on what you wanna do,” Remmick replies, setting his phone down. Evidently, he’s voted. “If that’s what you want, then that’s what we’ll do. If you wanna stay…” You see him rubbing the back of his neck. “We can make it happen. Might be tricky, but it’s doable.”

You submit your votes. “What about my family?”

Remmick makes an odd sound that seems a bit like a mixture between a laugh and a scoff. “What about them? They stopped givin’ a shit about you a long time ago.”

You should question how he knows that. Was scoping out familial connections part of his scouting you out? You’ve spoken little about them in his presence, so you don’t think you’ve given him too much information. No, he must’ve learned this on his own.

He isn’t wrong, though

“People disappear all the time, (Y/N),” Remmick adds, setting a hand on your thigh. “You won’t be the first, and you’re far from the last.” He glances at you. You glance back and are surprised to see a kind expression on his face. His eyes are still glowing, but the fangs are gone. “You’re gonna be okay. We’ll be okay, yeah?”

You chew on your lip in consideration. You don’t dare vocalize anything in case that constitutes an agreement. You nod instead. Remmick pats your thigh and turns his attention to the screen, scooting himself closer as he does so. When your shoulders brush, he sets his head on top of yours.

It feels so natural to have him leaning on you like this. Your hand automatically goes to rest on top of his, earning a low sigh of contentment from Remmick.

Surprisingly, Rebekah makes it through, which means Rick is the only male star left in the competition. You’re a bit annoyed that there’s five fucking finalists, which translates to a three-hour finale next week where they have to do three fucking dances (including an instant dance), but whatever. You can’t do anything about that; it was production’s decision, not the audience’s.

The show ends, but neither of you move. You stare blankly at the pink screen that states the repeat episode will start shortly. Remmick is holding so still that you wonder if he’s asleep before remembering that he doesn’t really seem to sleep. Your fingers are absentmindedly stroking his hand, still on your thigh.

“Remmick?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“What’s that, darlin’?” he murmurs back.

You chew on your lower lip again. “Just…wanna watch the repeat?”

“Sure. Long as that’s what you want.”

It is and it isn’t. Who the fuck even knows what you want anymore. You want to peel his clothes off and feel his bare skin against yours. You want to run away. You want to ask him to turn you right now, to get it over with. You want to beg him to renege on his vow to turn you in the first place. You want…you want everything and nothing.

“Yeah, that’s what I want,” you reply.

“Works for me.”

You don’t have to work the next day, thank whatever god may be listening. You lay on the couch for a few hours after waking up, the sunlight pouring in from the windows and filling the room with warmth. It’s nice. You’d forgotten what it was like to sit in a room of daylight. Remmick keeps the curtains closed at your place, and so do you out of habit and fear of fire.

You bask in it, allowing the bright yellow to trace a path up your legs as the sun rises higher. Miles has already left for work, but he’ll be home sometime in the afternoon. Blake is awake and moving; you’ve heard him slipping into the kitchen to make himself some food, but you’d pretended to be asleep to avoid any uncomfortable conversation. You’ll probably have to tell Miles something when he gets home. He’s curious as hell and he deserves to know at least part of the truth at this point. It’s more a matter of how much you can safely explain.

You give a nervous glance to your phone. Remmick hasn’t texted you, which is…good? Maybe? Miles hasn’t, either. No one has reached out to you, which feels weird because surely someone should sense the turmoil and desperate need for help. Humans are supposed to be intuitive about this kind of shit, so why hasn’t anyone noticed? Does no one care?

Remmick cares, in his own messed-up way. But you can’t think about that because you need to hold tight to your anger, to the fury at his audacity. If you don’t keep a firm grasp on that, then you might start to miss him, and that is unacceptable.

He notices you, though. He cooks for you, rubs your back when you’re sick, encourages you to try these crazy complicated dance moves and explains what you’re doing wrong in a way that you can comprehend no matter how tired you are. What makes it worse is that now that you’ve gotten some distance from him, you can kinda get why he’d thought luring those two vampires to your place had been a good idea. It was a horrible one, to be sure, but you think back to the argument about his mind-control and how he’d told you that they weren’t connected to him in that way, that they’d broken free, and you…you get it. You hate that you understand his motives. You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t think about how in his fucked-up monstrous brain, he’d been trying to show you that eternity with him is nothing to fear, at least not when it comes to your independence.

This shouldn’t be so complicated. You don’t want to die. That should be the end of it. You don’t want to be a vampire.

You don’t.

Why do you have to keep reminding yourself of this, though? Why do you have to intentionally tell yourself that you don’t want it? Why can’t your brain just…accept it and lock into it?

And you don’t like wondering that, because in the deepest recesses of your mind, you know why. You know why you’re turning this train of thought over and over in your head like it’s a labradorite stone and you’re trying to see all the colorful shimmers.

You huff and rise from the couch at last. Neither Miles nor Blake will care if you eat something here. You can chip in for pizza or some other takeout later.

The clanks of the stoneware bowls don’t do much to silence the paused thought in your head. Neither does the crunching of cereal, the burst of flavors on your tongue, the warm water running over your hands as you handwash the bowl. You breathe deep, inhaling the scent of the dish soap.

You could run home and grab some clothes. It’s daylight; Remmick should be sleeping or resting or whatever it is that he does when the sun is up.

No, it isn’t worth the risk. Better to go to a store and buy cheap new clothes.

That’s exactly what you do. You take your time, cherishing the presence of people. How long since you’d been in a sober crowd like this? Sure, you’d gone shopping since he’d moved in, but you rushed to get home on those days more often than not, eager to see him and spend the night watching a movie. Now that you’re somewhat free, it feels different. It feels like you can breathe again, like you’ve emerged from a tiny, dark tunnel into a forest of trees and light and birds.

At the same time, it’s suffocating being around these strangers. You flinch every time someone’s gaze lingers a bit too long on you. Can they sense that you’re struggling? Do they see the wariness in your eyes, the way you’re constantly checking around to see if anyone’s following you? You make your way to the clothing section slowly, stopping in front of a rack of sunglasses to check your reflection.

Damn, you look rough. Sure, you’re eating delicious meals nearly every night, but there’s circles under your eyes. Your skin is paler than usual, no doubt due to the stress. And there’s a hunched way that you’re holding yourself, like you’re trying to make yourself smaller without meaning to.

The mirrors also give you a way of checking that anyone behind you has a reflection. Remmick had sworn that the two vampires from last night wouldn’t bother you, wouldn’t send anyone after you, but while you could trust him, you can’t trust them. Or take the chance that Remmick had turned an unwitting victim for the sole purpose of staying hidden to spy on you, connecting to his hivemind and letting him track you.

The reflections of other shoppers going about their own business sends a wave of loneliness crashing over you. You can’t tell these people what you’re enduring. You can’t tell anyone. You can spend time with them, you can bask in the glow of the sun, you can pretend that you’re free and safe, but you know far too much to actually believe it. You know what lurks in the shadows of sunset. You know that most of these people will go the rest of their lives unaware of the monsters lurking around the corner.

At least with Remmick, you could be as honest as you needed to be. You could yell at him, argue with him, ask him questions and receive answers. Remmick never judged you, either. He listened. He…cared.

Oh, now you’re missing him again. You don’t want to. You don’t need to. You need to get him out of your life ASAP.

You grab a few shirts, a couple sweatpants, and some underwear and socks. You also grab some snacks as an offering to Miles and Blake.

In the checkout line, after scanning the the cashiers for glowing eyes (as ridiculous as that was), you wonder again how the hell Remmick bought stuff. Did he kill people and snatch their wallets? Did he turn them and make them buy it before killing them and taking the stuff? Did he outright steal it and use his monstrous charm (or hell, flight?) to get away before anyone could stop him?

Stop thinking about him! you chastise yourself.

As always, actively telling yourself to stop doing a thing just makes you do it more. By the time you get back to Miles’s house, you’re pissed at yourself for not keeping your mind under control. This isn’t a bad breakup—this is a stalker vampire! You don’t need to give him any more of your energy! He’s already sucked a lot of it outta you!

Blake seems to be gone, but he’d left the door unlocked, apparently aware that you would be back soon enough. You stomp into the house and set everything down before showering and putting on fresh clothes. Then you sit on the couch, munching on a bag of chips, and wait. When the silence gets too loud, you turn on the TV.

It hits you that tomorrow is the semifinals of Dancing with the Stars. Once again, that pang of dammit, Remmick punches you in the gut. You punch it back, shoving your closed fist into the couch pillow. It helps…a little.

Miles finds you reclining on the couch, TV off, the bag of chips empty. He joins you, sitting in the chair next to the couch. “Are we gonna talk about it?” he asks.

“Talk about what?” you reply sulkily.

You hear his exhale, hear the chair cushion make a soft noise as he scoots to the edge of it. “Last night.”

You don’t respond, instead adverting your gaze. As necessary as this conversation is, you don’t want to actually partake in it.

Miles is beyond the point of allowing you to ignore him, though, like the true friend he is. “Something happened between you and Remmick, didn’t it.” It wasn’t a question. “(Y/N), you know I’m here for you, but you’re hiding shit from me. I can’t help you if you’re gonna be like this.”

How do I tell him without putting him in danger? “I…it’s complicated,” you begin, then promptly clamp your mouth shut.

“Complicated, my ass! It’s only complicated ‘cause you’re the one overthinking it!”

You finally lift your gaze and meet his eyes. “I’m not overthinking it!” you retort, but Miles lifts a hand to interrupt you.

“It was Remmick. Something happened between you and Remmick, yeah?”

You nod, slow and intentional.

“What. Happened?”

“I—I can’t—,” What do I say? Shitfuck, why didn’t I think this through? “He…he’s pushing boundaries.” There. That’s the best way you can frame it without admitting the supernatural element. “He’s invading my space, he’s pulling me into these—these situations—and he’s doing all while pretending that it’s for my benefit, like everything he does is for me, but it’s not. It’s for him, for his benefit, not mine!”

“Like what? What is he doing?” Miles presses, leaning closer.

You see the way the orange light of the November sun reflects off of the clouds and into the kitchen across from the two of you. It’s warm and cozy, but is that because of the light or because you’re in a space that Remmick can’t slink into? “He’s…” you pause to let out a sigh. “He’s tricking me into falling in love with him,” you admit softly. “And it’s working and I can’t handle it anymore. At this rate, I’m gonna, I’m gonna say yes to him and then it’s gonna destroy me.”

“Say ‘yes’ to him? What does that mean?” Miles shifts in his seat, then leans even closer. “What, did he propose to you or something?”

You feel your mouth lift into an amused grin at the thought. “Yeah, kinda, I guess.”

“You two have only been together for a month or so, though, right?”

You nod, that grin still plastered on your face. “Yeeeep.”

Miles moves to the couch next to you. He’s not touching you, but he’s close enough that your thighs could touch if you’re not careful. You immediately flinch, reminded of Remmick doing the same thing. Miles seems to notice your reaction, because he mutters an apology before scooting over to give you more space. “Are you in danger, (Y/N)?” he asks, his voice low, just above a whisper.

Your smile twitches. You feel the muscles in your cheek jump as your eyes water. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I think I am.” You reach for Miles’s hand and clench it. He gives you a reassuring squeeze as you breathe in and out, blinking away your tears as you calm yourself. “Miles, I don’t know what to do. I can’t try here forever, but I can’t go back there because if I do, I think, I think—,” you shudder as you try to imagine never being able to see him again, never being able to feel the sunlight on your skin, always hiding in the dark and killing people. You imagine it as a contemporary dance, the way you’d go home and try to avoid Remmick but he’d follow you, lift you away from the relative safety of your bed. You’d strain, arching your back as you reach for the sun to save you, and he’d spin you around to keep you out of the light, setting you down and blocking you. You’d run, leaping into his arms, flowing into a lift as he hoists you up towards the dying light.

You see how he’d twirl you both away, how the dance would shift in energy as you fight him, mimicking a paso doblé in the way you two slam arms together, back and forth, in the way you try to charge at him and knock him to the floor but he just gets on his knees and walks to you, stopping you. He grabs your wrist, spins you into his body as you reach one last time for the dimming light, and then he bites your neck. You see yourself falling limp as blood dribbles down, staining your top, dying alongside the sunset. Remmick cradles you in your mind’s eye, strokes your face with such tenderness as he waits with glowing red eyes, and then you open your own eyes, the glow matching his. He helps you up, and you two waltz off-stage, into the night.

You see it all so clearly; how could that not be how it goes in reality?

“Hey, didja hear me?” Miles asks, waving his other hand at you.

You blink, the dance fading away in your mind. “What? Sorry. I missed it.”

Miles releases your hand. “I said, ‘Then don’t go back home, (Y/N)’. Stay here, and we’ll figure it out.”

“But what about work? I left my uniform—,”

“We’ll figure it out. But you’re not about to go back into danger, understand? You’re not gonna do that to yourself.”

You nod. “Okay. Okay, I won’t. I’ll stay here.” You lift your other hand to wipe your eyes. “It’ll be fine, yeah?”

He nods, too. “Yeah. Yeah, everything’s gonna be alright now.” He sighs. “Okay. Do you, uh, wanna get pizza for dinner?”

At least he’s distracted from the vampire thing for the time being. You nod again. Can we get extra garlic? you almost ask, but don’t, because that’ll remind him and make this situation worse.

Blake returns home, pizza in his burly arms, and the three of you eat while watching Parks and Recreation reruns. You’re feeling much better about the situation with food in your stomach, surrounded by friends who genuinely want to keep you safe. Blake has seen this show a dozen times, apparently, because he’s quoting lines alongside the characters and mimicking their facial expressions. A few times, you nearly choke on your food because he’s so spot-on.

It’s close to seven when there’s a short rap at the door. You automatically rise to answer it, but Miles waves you back. You turn your attention to the screen, content, but then Miles calls your name, his voice sounding somewhat strained.

Unease drops into your gut, churning your stomach. There’s more knocking. You turn to look at him. He’s staring out the peephole, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Just like that, you know who’s knocking at the door. You stand and walk over to him. “It’s Remmick, isn’t it?” you ask in a quiet murmur.

“Yeah,” he replies, unmoving. “What do you want me to do?”

You look at the gilded peephole. “Think it’s worth telling him that I’m not here?”

Miles tilts his head. “We can try.” You step away from the door, towards the kitchen. Miles sucks in a deep breath and opens it ever-so-slightly. “Can I help you?”

“Hey there,” Remmick says from the other side. Just the sound of his voice sends goosebumps prickling down your arms. “I’m lookin’ for (Y/N). Have you seen ‘em?”

“Who?”

“You know. (Y/N). I believe you two work together.”

“Ohhhh, yeah.” Miles sounds so sarcastic. “Yeah, I know (Y/N).”

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen ‘em around? We, uh, got into a fight last night and, uh, I’m tryin’ to find ‘em so I can properly apologize.” You can picture him standing there on the porch, fingers looped through his pants, all charm. Fortunately, Miles is smarter than that.

“Haven’t seem ‘em,” Miles replies.

“Oh, really?” Remmick sounds confused. You’re positive it’s an act. “That isn’t (Y/N)’s car right there?”

“Nope,” Miles lies. By now, Blake has paused the TV and is turned around, watching the whole scene. He looks like he’s ready to leap to Miles’s assistance if he needs it.

You tiptoe closer to the door, eager to listen in further.

“Huh. Could’ve sworn it was. Well, I guess you wouldn’t mind if I, uh, came in and looked around?”

Miles’s grip on the door handle is hard enough that his skin is paling. “Absolutely I fucking mind, actually.”

“You sure ‘bout that?” You hear a soft footstep and know that Remmick is trying to intimidate him. “‘Cause I’m pretty sure you’re lyin’ to me ‘bout (Y/N)’s whereabouts. I just wanna find ‘em. That’s all. Not tryin’ to hurt ‘em or nothing. I just wanna talk.”

The door opens just a hair further, bumping gently into you. “Don’t invite him in,” you hiss.

Miles’s hand on the doorknob releases and flaps at you, like he’s telling you to back off. You shouldn’t have said anything, though, because you hear Remmick let out a soft chuckle.

“(Y/N), I heard that. You should know better by now.”

Shit.

You step around the door, around Miles, who shakes his head at you but it’s too late. Remmick sees you, perking up immediately. You nudge Miles out of the way and take his place with your arms crossed. “Remmick,” you say in a flat voice.

“(Y/N)! Boy, I surely did miss you last night.” He gives you that familiar lopsided grin. “I was hopin’ you’d come home. Dancing with the Stars is tomorrow night and it isn’t the same, watchin’ it without you.” His thumbs are indeed threaded through his belt loops, his hair mussed like he’d flown here. Which he probably had. “I figured you might come here and cool off, but it’s time to come home now.”

You shake your head. “No. I’m not coming home, Remmick.”

He tilts his head at you, puzzled. “You’re not? How come?”

You shoot him a sardonic grin. “You know exactly why.”

“Hey, you know as well as I do that I didn’t mean nothin’ by it! I was just tryin’ to prove a point. You were never in danger. I wouldn’t’ve have let them hurt you.” He holds out one hand towards you, beckoning. “So come on out. We’ll get in your car, go back to the apartment, and forget everything that’s happened over the last coupla nights.”

“No.” The word is sharp.

Remmick flinches like he’s been stabbed. “‘Scuse me?”

“I. Said. No.”

He reaches up to scratch the back of his head. “Aww, come on. Please? Pretty please with a little cherry on top?”

Oh, God, is he whining? Pathetic. “No,” you repeat. “Fuck off.” You begin to close the door on him.

“You sure you’re making a good decision right now? I just wanna talk. Why can’t we just talk?”

You slam the door and lock it. “If he starts knocking again, just ignore him,” you tell Miles and Blake, loud enough that there’s no way Remmick doesn’t hear it through the door. “He’ll go away eventually.”

You stomp over to the couch and take a seat. “Go ahead and hit ‘play’, Blake,” you order. You don’t mean for it to come out so aggressive, but Blake picks up the remote and resumes the episode. Miles slowly wanders over to join you, but you feel him glaring at you. You ignore him the same way you’d ignored Remmick.

About an episode and a half later, your phone vibrates. It’s Angelina. You huff and jab at the phone screen with your finger to open the message. It’s a selfie of her at her apartment, sitting on the couch with a big smile on her face.

On the other end of the couch is Remmick, a knowing glint in his eyes.

“Oh shit,” you hiss. Miles shoots you a startled look, but you’re already on your feet, heading towards the door.

“Where you going?” he asks. You ignore him until suddenly he’s in front of you, blocking your exit.

“Move.”

“Where are you going, (Y/N)?” he asks again.

You thrust your phone at him. “Angelina, bless her stupid little heart, says that Remmick swung by her place looking for me.”

“But Remmick already knows you’re here,” Miles says, puzzled.

You nod. “Yep. Which means he’s there for one reason and one reason only. Now move.” You shove him, but Miles stands firm, arms crossed over his chest.

“What’s the reason?”

You turn your head to glance at Blake, who’s not-so-secretly spying on you two from the couch with the TV muted. He catches your eyes, flushes, then turns back to the TV, though he doesn’t turn up the volume. Miles is still giving you his pointed look with the addition of a judgmental eyebrow. “He’s warning me,” you admit in a low voice. “He knows that Angelina is my bestie so he’s telling me I’d better come home or—or—,” you drop off.

“Or what?” Miles asks in an equally low tone.

“He’ll…hurt her.” Kill is more like it, but you can’t say that to Miles. “So move outta the way so I can get there before it’s too late.” You try to shove past him again.

Miles snatches your wrist and leans in, his voice practically a hiss. “You’re telling me that Remmick is threatening you? And you’re about to do exactly what he wants?”

“I don’t have a fucking choice,” you hiss back. “Angelina invited him in and now she’s in some serious trouble unless I get there soon.”

“You can’t give him what he wants! It’s not safe for you!”

“It’s not safe for her, either!”

“Fuck her! You’re the one I’m worried about!”

“Well, you shouldn’t be, because Remmick isn’t gonna hurt me!”

“You just told me that you’re not safe around him! That you’re in danger when it comes to him!” His eyes are wide, ferocious and angry.

You’re flattered that he cares so much, even if each second spent arguing with him is a second that Angelina could be dead. “He can’t hurt me,” you lie. Well, it’s a half-lie. But you’re not about to clarify that Remmick can’t kill you, though he can indeed hurt you.

Miles lets go of your arm to throw both hands up in the air. “What the fuck—that’s not what you said earlier!”

“No, Miles, what I said was that it’s complicated. And that’s because it fuckin’ is.” You try to sidestep him, but he blocks you with his legs. “Let me go! I’ll be fine!”

“Why don’t I believe you, then?” he demands.

You stop trying to wrestle with him and settle for a matching glare. “You can’t keep me here. I’m not a prisoner. I came here of my own free will and I’m leaving of it, too.”

“I don’t think you can call it ‘free will’ when it’s under duress,” Blake adds from the couch. Both you and Miles send him a withering look. Blake turns back to the TV.

“He’s not wrong, (Y/N),” Miles says, his voice a hair softer now. “You literally said it was a warning to you.”

“Well, what do you wanna do, call the cops?” Miles flinches at that. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. No, this is something I gotta do, and you know it.”

“Not really,” he mutters, but he sounds less angry, more resigned. He sighs, looks up at the ceiling. “Blake, babe, can you go get the thing from the back deck?”

Blake’s face scrunches up. “What thing?”

Miles’s eyes harden at him. “The thing. The sapling.”

“Oh!” Blake hops up and dashes towards the back of the house.

“Sapling? What sapling?” you ask.

Miles sucks in an audible breath. “Look, whatever the hell is going on with you, there’s stuff you’re not telling me. I don’t know if it’s because you don’t trust me, don’t think I’ll believe you, or—or maybe you think that it might put me in danger—,” your breath catches at that, but Miles presses on without stopping, “—but there’s more to the story. And whether you believe me or not, Remmick is a monster.” You hear a door close and Blake’s footsteps heading in your direction. “I think he’s a vampire.” You open your mouth to protest, but Miles continues. “You don’t have to agree with me, but I think…” he hesitates, then locks eyes with you. “I think you know better. I think you know what he is and you’re trying to keep it a secret, which puts you in the line of fire. So I wanna give you some…ammunition, I guess.”

Blake joins you both, a small pot in his hand with a skinny twig of a tree sticking out of it. The sapling looks like a fir of some kind, but you don’t recognize it.

“It’s a yew tree,” Miles explains as Blake offers you the pot. “Whatever Remmick is…this might help you.”

“A yew tree?” you repeat, dumbfounded. “You remembered?”

“Yeah. I told you that a week or two ago.”

Your chest swells. He’s trying to help you as best as he can, even without all of the facts. You accept the tiny tree. “Thanks,” you tell him softly.

“Try not to die,” he says as he stands aside. “I’d hate to have to help hire your replacement.”

The quip brings a small smile to your face, though his face is still somber. “I’ll text you to let you know I’m not dead, ‘Kay?”

“You’d better.”

With the yew sapling in one hand, you reach for the doorknob with the other. “Thanks for letting me crash here!” you call behind you, more towards Blake than Miles.

You think you hear an “Anytime!” But the door closes before you’re sure, and then you’re heading to your car. You open the back door to place the sapling on the seat and buckle it in. “Safe and sound,” you say as you pat the pot to make sure it was secured. Then you get into the driver’s seat. “Alright. Let’s get this over with,” you tell the steering wheel.

The drive is simultaneously too long and too short. In what feels like both a year and a minute you find yourself in front of Angelina’s apartment complex. You turn the car off and stomp towards the stairwell. It’s a quick march to the apartment itself, since it’s only on the second floor, and you barge in without knocking.

“Hey! I didn’t think you were gonna come over—I was just—,” Angelina hops up from the couch. She’s suspiciously close to Remmick but as far as you can tell, there are no bite marks on her exposed skin. You stop in front of him.

“Get up,” you order.

Remmick raises his eyebrows. For a moment, you see that he doesn’t like being told what to do, but before you can relish the tiny bit of power, the gleam in his eyes changes to something akin to relief. “(Y/N)! You came! I’ve been so worried ‘bout you—”

“Cut that bullshit out right now and get up. We’re going home.”

The expression on his face brightens. He eagerly gets to his feet, a wide, goofy grin on his face. You spin around and aim your feet towards the door, but now Angelina is standing and blocking your way.

“(Y/N), I swear, nothing happened between us—he came over and he said that you had left last night and he didn’t know where you were staying, so I told him I’d text you and try to find out, and I swear to you that nothing happened—,” she was babbling, waving her hands frantically around to emphasize her blathering. You shove past her—she’s easier to push past than Miles—and stalk to the door, Remmick following you like an obedient dog.

“(Y/N), wait!” Angelina rushes to catch up with you. “Hey, why are you so mad? You don’t need to be! He came over asking for help, not to cheat on you, and you know that I would never do that to you—,”

“Angelina, shut the fuck up,” you growl. She does, her mouth falling open in a perfect O shape. You lean in close to her, speaking in a low voice that you know Remmick will hear but whatever. “Look, I literally do not give a shit about whether you cheat on Tag or not. Make out with anyone who wants to, it’s not my problem. But right now, you need to stay the fuck away from Remmick. Do you understand?” Her eyes are wide, bouncing from you to Remmick behind you and back. “Angelina. Do. You. Understand?”

She nods. “I swear, we only kissed once,” she whispers. “And I shouldn’t have pushed him to doing it, I just wanted to see if he actually missed you that much, and he was the one who pushed me away. He didn’t do anything. I’m so sorry. I love Tag. I don’t—I don’t care about other people.”

What’s crazy is that you believe her. You know her. You’ve witnessed this happen over and over again with her relationships, but one thing is for certain: she’s always turned her eyes, however wayward, back to Tag, even before they started dating. And the way she’s pleading is genuine. She thinks you’re mad that Remmick was cheating on you with her. You don’t care if she kissed Remmick—what matters is that she’s not dead. You need to get him away from her as soon as possible.

“Angel,” you reply, careful to soften your tone. “When we leave, go to Tag’s place. Stay there for a while. Don’t come back here for a few days. And if Remmick ever shows up at Tag’s place, do not invite him inside.” You grab her shoulder and give it a squeeze. “Please. For my sake.”

She nods. “Okay. I-I promise. I won’t let him in and I’ll tell Tag not to, either. If that’s what you need from me, okay.”

You give her a final squeeze before sparing a glance at Remmick. “Let’s go,” you tell him, your voice sharp once more.

“Happily,” is all he says.

He doesn’t say anything when you get to the car. You unlock it. “Get in,” you command him. He does so.

You pull out of the parking lot and begin the drive home. It’s almost a half hour, and you have no intention of conversing with Remmick for the duration of the drive. Remmick, it seems, has other ideas, though. He sits in the silence for all of fifteen minutes before he has to open his stupid mouth to speak. “I missed you,” he says.

You ignore him.

“I mean it. I really do. I missed you. Even though it was only one night. I couldn’t bear the thought of being apart for another evenin’.”

Each word grates on you, filling you with rage. You grit your teeth together.

“Angelina wasn’t lyin’, though. She did kiss me, but I didn’t ask her to. I told her I didn’t wanna do you wrong, that I was loyal to you, and she said she understood. That was right before you waltzed in.” He sighs. “At least she took the time to ‘fess up.”

Without warning, you wrench the steering wheel to the shoulder of the road and turn your hazards on for any oncoming drivers. Your hands are gripping the steering wheel so tightly that you can see your knuckles whitening.

“Whoa, there, what’s goin’ on?”

“I’ve changed my mind. You can fly home. I don’t want you in the car with me.”

You see him shifting in your peripheral. “(Y/N), darlin’, I don’t—,”

“I’m not your fucking darling, Remmick!” you yell, hitting the steering wheel. You twist to look at him. Remmick is watching you, startled, which is hilarious considering he’s a vampire. “I’m just your victim! Your stupid, unsuspecting victim that invited you in and now you won’t leave me alone and I’m tired of it! I’m tired of worrying about whether you’ve killed anyone and it’s gonna trace back to me! I’m tired of wondering if you’re gonna kill my friends to convince me to let you turn me I’m tired of it all, and I just want to be done with you!” You’re crying, fat angry tears that splatter onto your shirt. “I just wanna be done,” you repeat.

Remmick—the fucking ignorant asshole that he is—leans towards you, trying his best to hug you, of all things. “Shhhhsh, don’t cry,” he croons. “It’s alright now, everything’s gonna be alright.”

And what’s mortifying is that what he’s doing is working. His attempt at soothing you is effective as his words slide into your ears and his hands rub your arms and back in gentle motions. You can’t even bring yourself to pull away because it feels so nice to be comforted.

“I just wanna be done,” you repeat. “I want you gone.”

He chuckles into your ear. “Sorry, but that ain’t never gonna happen.”

“I know.” You’re not lying to him. You get it now. You get that this was never gonna end with you refusing him three times. Somehow, this snake slithered into your life and made a bed in it, and now you can’t actually picture life without him, no matter how much you’d like to. He’s tricked you, manipulated you into developing feelings for him, and no matter how hard you’ve been fighting, there’s only one inevitable conclusion to this story.

“Why won’t you let me go?” you dare to ask. It comes out all croaky and scratchy. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

He nuzzles the side of your head. His skin is cool, as usual, and it soothes your own skin, flushed with anger. “D’you know what a geis is?”

You shake your head, feeling his nose rub against your scalp as you do so.

“What about a handfast? That sound familiar at all?”

“Uh-uh.”

His arms continue to move. “Let’s go home and I’ll explain everything. I promise. Okay?”

You sniffle as he pulls away, though he’s still looking at you with those glinting eyes. “Yeah, ‘cause your words means soooo much.”

“I have not once broken my word to you, (Y/N), and you know it. You’re frustrated by it, too. And that’s fair.” He lets out a soft laugh. “I might feel the same way, were I in your shoes. But the fact of the matter is that I’ve never lied to you ‘bout anything and I’m not about to start now. So yes, I promise I’ll explain it when we get home.”

That’ll have to do.

The rest of the drive home is in silence. Remmick unlocks the door for you and lets you inside first. You trudge to the couch, where you collapse while he goes around, turning on the lights. Then he sits down across from you. His eyes are normal, but the look he’s giving you is…intense. It feels like the very air itself is holding its breath.

“A geis,” he begins, “can be many things. But to you, it’s probably easier to just say it’s kinda a blessing and a curse at the same time. It’s, uh, like a thing you have to obey or else, there’s dire consequences.”

“Dire consequences,” you repeat dully.

“Yeah. We’ve got a story—lots of ‘em, as I’m sure you’re aware—one is of Cú Chulainn. He’s placed under a geis that means he can’t ever eat dog meat, but he’s also got a geis that says he’s gotta eat any food that a woman offers him. So when an old, tricky hag offers him dog meat, he’s stuck, and he dies as a result of it. You followin’ me?”

You nod.

“And a handfast is a temporary marriage agreement. Usually there’s ribbons involved, and it’s a whole ceremony, but the gist of it is that you shake hands and you’re married.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Okay, it’s more complicated than that, but again, you get the idea.”

“What does this have to do with me?” you ask, drawing your legs up onto the couch and leaning against the armrest.

“D’you remember the day we made our little bargain?”

How could you not? You can see it perfectly—the way he’d tapped the table with his claws, the red glowing eyes, the teeth, the storm raging in the background. It’s imprinted in your mind and likely will be until the day you die.

“It was thunderin’,” Remmick adds, helpfully.

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, I remember. I remember the whole thing, dude. Probably all too well, actually.”

Remmick gives you a pitying smile. “Do you remember how the lightning streaked across out hands when we shook on it?” His voice is soft, his Irish accent coming out just a tad.

“Kinda?”

“Like ribbons of light,” he continues in a wistful tone. “Ribbons of lightning bindin’ us together.”

You sit up, alert and understanding what he’s implying. “Remmick, we—we’re not married. That wasn’t a-a handfast or whatever! That was just a deal!”

He shakes his head. “It was two things at once, (Y/N). It was a geis and a handfast.”

Your own head is shaking. “No. No, it can’t—how the fuck is it both?!”

His smile widens. The pity is gone, replaced by triumph. “‘Cause I placed a geis on you when we shook, and then the storm married us.”

You’re still shaking your head in disbelief.

“The geis was woven into the agreement itself—that if you say yes, I’ll turn ya, but if you say no three times, I’ll have to leave you. The geis says that you’ll eventually say yes to me. But the handfast is a marriage contract, (Y/N), and that means that I can’t ever leave you.” He moves across the couch to look at you. You turn your head, but he grabs your chin and gently lifts it to look at him. “Don’tcha see? You have to say ‘yes’ in the end because you’ve already agreed to be my partner for eternity.”

“No,” you whisper.

But it explains the sinking feeling in your chest. It explains how no matter how hard you try to pull away fro Remmick, you keep coming back to him. You’re fucking bound to him.

But maybe there’s still a way out. ‘Dire consequences’ could mean anything, right?

“What if—what happens if I break it? What happens if I say ‘no’?”

“Then I kill you anyway.” There’s finality in his tone, none of that softness, just flat, cold truth. “There’s no way around it. No matter what you say, you die in the end.”

“Then what was the point?” You want your voice to be strong, powered by indignation, but it’s still whispery and faded. “If you’re killing me anyway, what was the point?”

“I thought it would be kinder to give you the illusion of choice,” is his response.

You almost laugh at that, but it would take too much effort, and right now, you’re trying to keep from unraveling completely.

A liar he may not be, but a trickster nonetheless. He’s given you no choice in the matter at all…except, perhaps, a say in when you allow him to turn you.

Oh, God, you really were doomed from the start.

Waves of emotions ranging from despair to wrath to fear wash over you. Your lungs can’t pull enough oxygen from the air. You start shaking, your breath coming out in short, sharp gasps. Remmick lets go of your chin and pulls you into his embrace. He pats your head, rubs your back, shushing you softly and telling you, “It’s alright. It’s alright, (Y/N). You didn’t know what you were doing. It’s alright.”

Over and over again. “It’s alright. Shhhhsh, you’re gonna be okay. It’s alright.”

“I’m gonna take real good care of you, you hear?”

“Shush, now, darling. It’s alright.”