Emily

“Look, all I’m saying Spence is if you’re looking for a little more experience, I’d be happy to help. I’m curious what’s under the hood.”

Morgan chokes on his coffee at that last part.

“You sound like a pervert.” Spencer frowns.

A dirty giggle escapes your lips, the expression on his face reminiscent of shell-shock.

“This conversation is so inappropriate.”

JJ falls for the wounded innocence on Spencer’s face and apologizes. You’re not that easily fooled. He smirks at you.

“Besides, statistically speaking, it’s unlikely you could handle what’s under the hood.”

That makes you cackle in the least feminine way imaginable, which is unfortunate because Hotch happens to enter the room right as the sound comes out of you.

Fearing a scolding from the World’s Most Serious Boss™, you clear your throat and sit up straight. Garcia shuffles some paperwork on the desk, handing out files to each of you. Rossi hits several buttons on a remote with great force until the screen finally turns on.

Unable to look away, you find yourself fixated on the images of the three young women. Their throats have been cut deeper than you’ve ever seen before. It’s grotesque and unimaginable, but that’s not what unsettles you the most. Each of the women is wearing a 1950s swing dress, their hair has been styled, and they look alarmingly like you.

Reading your mind, Prentiss mutters under her breath.

“Freaky.”

Everyone settles down as Hotch addresses the room.

“We’ve been invited to New York to help with an unsub targeting high-class, career women. Garcia.”

Garcia nods, oversized pink kitten earrings jiggling a little as she does.

“Yep. Um, all three of these women were badass business babes, and it looks like this slimy bastard didn’t like that so he took them, uh- did- that to them, and dressed them up like Stepford Wives after.”

JJ taps a pen against her lips, deep in thought.

Prentiss takes the floor first.

“Well obviously this can’t be someone who was in their prime in the 50s. He’d be dead or at the very least ancient and completely immobile by now. There has to be some connection to, or nostalgia for, that era.”

Morgan nods, leaning back in his chair.

“Pretty safe bet our unsub’s a white male.”

It’s your turn to float a theory now. You avoid Hotch’s intimidating glare as you speak.

“What if we’ve got someone lashing out at the shift in women’s place in the world?”

Rossi’s lip quirks up in a subtle proud smile.

“Go on.”

“They’re all modern, high power businesswomen. Probably quite outspoken, and they sure as shit wouldn’t dress like that voluntarily. Plus there’s the obvious overkill with the wound.”

Hotch’s eyes bore into you.

“Elaborate.”

“If you’re a weak man that can’t live up to today’s societal ideals of masculinity, you’d want to bring back what you perceive as better times. When women were well-behaved, controllable, stayed at home, dressed like this — kept quiet.”

He nods, expression unreadable. You don’t let it throw you off.

“The depth of each laceration is vicious, and unnecessary for the kill alone. That amount of force is pure rage. He’s silencing these women in the most aggressive way possible.”

Hotch places his file back on the desk and heads toward the door.

“Good. Garcia, start with powerful women in New York who have recently divorced their inferior husbands. That’s likely our trigger. Wheels up in 30.”

---

Curled up in your seat on the jet, you scrutinize the case files for the seventh time today.

Prentiss and Rossi are busy trying to figure out Spencer’s latest card trick, JJ is having some alone time with her beloved cheetos, and Hotch is staring at his computer screen with such intensity you wonder if he’s hoping it will explode.

Morgan, on the other hand, is in the seat opposite you, blatantly profiling you.

“Could you stop that? Is there not some sort of unwritten rule that we don’t do that to each other?”

He feigns innocence.

“No idea what you’re talking about, baby girl.”

The sound of a throat clearing though the speaker of Morgan’s macbook puts a wide grin on his face.

“Come on Garcia, you’ll always be baby girl number 1, but you know I’m a sucker for a woman in uniform too.”

Garcia’s grumbled protest fades into the background as the realization slowly hits you.

“Holy shit.”

Morgan leans forward, laser focused now.

“What is it?”

“A woman in uniform. Garcia, the women all attended fundraisers on the week of their deaths right?”

Frantic keyboard clicking down the line draws the attention of the rest of the team.

“Correct. Gimme two ticks.”

A beat. More keyboard clicking.

“Looks like two were veteran benefit dinners and one was an NYPD gala. Does that mean something?”

“I think our victimology is more complex than just successful business women. We thought they went to these events in a business capacity, but what if that’s not the case? Did any of them serve?”

Garcia continues working her magic down the line. Hotch is clearly listening to what’s happening, eyes still fixed on his screen.

“Lemme see, uh, yeah vics number one and two were marines and our third girl was a sheriff’s deputy in Atlanta.”

You grin, thrilled the noose around this bastard is tightening a little.

“Great, that narrows it down.”

Hotch chimes in next, always waiting in the wings to piss in your cheerios.

“Hardly.”

You focus all your efforts on not groaning at his response. Luckily though, it’s Spencer to the rescue — your favourite nerd puts in his two cents.

“Actually, that does help. We know he’s escalating, so he’s likely to kill again in a matter of days. If we can pinpoint the next event that fits his victimology, we could have a shot at catching him there.”

Hotch shakes his head, eyes scanning the case files on the table.

“His hunting ground’s too vast. There’s thousands of guests there, hundreds of whom could fit his victimology. It’s an impossible operation to control, let alone find the right victim in all the chaos.”

You catch Prentiss’s eye, she tilts her head in silent suggestion. You nod in agreement. 

Hotch is more likely to listen to her, so she speaks up.

“Unless we plant one.”

She waits until he looks at her, then gestures her coffee cup in your direction. You sit completely still, anxiously awaiting his decision.

“No.”

You huff out a frustrated laugh.

“With all due respect sir, I could be sisters with each of these women. We have the same hair color, eye color, and body type, I was a detective before the FBI recruited me, and I’m also classy as fuck.”

Prentiss scoffs at that comment. You stick your tongue out in retaliation. 

Hotch’s eyes search for Rossi’s, silently pleading with him to be the voice of reason. Unfortunately for him, Rossi knows you’re right.

“Kid’s got a point, Hotch.”

“There’s no guarantee he’ll choose you.”

You recoil dramatically at that, slamming a closed fist to your chest mimicking a knife to the heart.

“First off, ouch — way to bruise a girl’s ego. Second, I’ll make sure he chooses me.”

JJ pokes her head round, eager to hear what’s coming next.

“How’re you gonna do that?”

You shrug.

“He wants a tough, loud, woman that needs taming. So I’ll talk loudly about my time as a detective, how much I love to make money, and how I’m the man of the house. He’ll hate me so much he’ll be compelled to kill me.”

“No. We’re not doing this.” Hotch barks out.

Rossi’s eyes narrow from across the jet, intrigued by the outburst.

“It’s our best shot and you know it.”

---

Several hours of being dragged around high-end stores later, JJ, Prentiss, and Garcia via video call have successfully helped you find the perfect dress for the gala this evening.

You step out onto the streets of New York in a slinky black number that makes you feel like the hottest woman on earth.

Spotting the team huddled behind the SUVs for a final briefing, you scan the lot to check it’s safe to join them. 

The plunging neckline of your dress flusters Spencer, who doesn’t know where to look. Morgan, ever the professional, knows exactly where he shouldn’t look, but drinks you in anyway. 

“Damn, woman.”

You flash him your cutest smile and twirl, giving the dress its moment.

Hotch glares at you. The heat of his gaze would normally make you feel exposed, but you’re feeling brave tonight so you look him up and down. It feels more suggestive than it should. Now there’s a line you’d love to cross.

He shifts uncomfortably for a second.

“It’s a bit much, no?”

You wonder how on earth Hotch ever came to have a son with his clear aversion to women and sex. Or maybe it’s just you? a voice in your head teases.

Prentiss laughs, brushing him off.

“Absolutely not. Our unsub wants to tame a wild animal, and he’s a sexually motivated killer. This is the perfect dress.”

That shuts him up.

---

One hour of mingling is all it takes to remind you why you never come to these things. 

They’re boring, half the people attending have no right to be there, and heels really hurt your feet. 

Hotch has been hovering at the end of the bar like an angry wasp, watching your every move. You’re not sure what you did to make him hate you, but you’ll unpack that another day.

As you throw back the last drop of your champagne in a minor act of defiance, a man who can only be described as short and pathetic looking sidles up to the bar behind you.

Right where you want him, you ignore his presence and continue your insufferable conversation with the CEO of nobodygivesafuck-incorporated.

“I mean, that’s exactly why I left my ex-husband. Forgive me for being so crass, but the man was a total pussy.” 

Tossing your head back so you invade the unsub’s space slightly, you let out a bitter laugh, going in for the kill.

You can tell instantly that your plan has worked. It’s almost as though the temperature in the room has dropped five degrees. The unsub’s icy stare burns a hole in your back.

Ready to finally catch the fucker, you mumble some excuse to your conversation partner and push off the bar, ready to disappear off somewhere alone looking deliciously abductable.

Unfortunately, Hotch has other ideas. A hand grabs your wrist and tugs you away from the bar, dragging you across the ballroom until you’re out of site behind a pillar.

“What the fuck, Hotch? I had him!” you hiss.

Still holding your wrist, Hotch clocks a waiter approaching from behind. Needing a diversion, he leans in close and drops his gaze to your lips. His free hand lightly traces your curves.

Frozen in place, you watch as the waiter disappears, oblivious to the pair of you.

“He’s gone.”

As though he’s repelled by you, Hotch jolts backwards, creating some distance and leaving you feeling somewhat needy — though you’d never admit that, of course.

“What the hell are you doing? You’re gonna scare him off.”

“Good.” he grits out.

“Good? We have him.”

Hotch’s gaze drops back to your lips for a split second. It happens so fast, you wonder if you’re imagining it.

“I’m calling this off. It’s too dangerous.”

Now you really lose your cool.

“Oh. My. God. What is your problem? I’m just as capable as everyone else on the team. Do you seriously not trust me to get this done?”

Hotch almost looks hurt by the implication. He exhales, eyes flicking up at the ceiling.

“It’s not that.”

“What is it then?”

“What if he makes his move tonight? He’s escalating. I can’t guarantee your safety and you’re unarmed.”

You narrow your eyes, challenging Hotch more than you normally would. Maybe it’s the champagne.

“I am not.”

Hotch drags his eyes over your form slowly, studying every inch of you. You silently question whether someone has suddenly turned the thermostat up.

“Where are you keeping your gun? You’re practically naked.” he spits out.

Raising a brow at that word, you hold his eye. Hotch averts his gaze.

“I don’t want you to get hurt. I’m calling it off.”

You search his face, forcing him to look at you. This time he doesn’t look away.

Unsure if it’s bravery or stupidity that takes over, you allow yourself to step out of line for a second.

“Is that an order as my boss, or something else?”

Eyes fixed firmly on your own, Hotch’s hands hover over your hips, fingertips lightly grazing your skin through the silky fabric.

With a little bit of trouble behind your eyes, you raise your chin closer to his. He leans into you, cautiously placing his hands on your waist.

Neither of you say a word. You don’t need to — the air is electric.

Before you even realize what’s happening, your hands are unbuttoning his pants. Then your hands are on him. He presses a desperate kiss to your lips as you stroke his hard length. 

Throwing his head back, one thing is crystal clear to you in this moment: Hotch has completely lost control.

Skin on fire, pulse hammering, you give in to your desires completely. 

Looking up at him doe-eyed and full of want, you study his face. He looks wildly turned on and furious simultaneously.

You’ve always felt something between you, but it’s only at this exact moment as you drop to your knees behind the pillar that you realize: it’s not hatred, it’s lust.

Already past the point of no return, Hotch tangles his fingers in your hair and pulls your mouth onto him. He groans when you flick your tongue over his tip.

As he fucks your mouth, you slide your hands under his shirt, pleasantly surprised by the definition of his muscles.

The next few minutes are a complete blur. You’re a mess. Eyes watering, mascara running, hair unsalvageable. And yet, somehow, Hotch looks even worse. He swipes a thumb across your lip, tucking himself back in his pants.

Reaching a hand out to help you stand, he doesn’t say a word. He pulls you close and hovers over your mouth, tasting himself as he presses a final, searing kiss to your lips.

Nodding down the corridor behind you, he avoids eye contact.

“Bathroom.”

Understanding the instruction, you glide down the hall and disappear behind the oak door to clean up.

Hotch leaves in the opposite direction.

JJ startles you as you slip out of the bathroom, good as new. Looking around, she makes sure nobody’s watching before speaking in a hushed tone.

“Hey. Do you know where Hotch went?”

You top up your lipstick in the mirror behind her, deliberately avoiding direct eye contact.

“Nope, he chewed me out for drinking on the job, then he just disappeared.”

Her eyes scan the room, suspicious.

“Huh. That’s... out of character.”

---

Never before have you been so delighted to have a creep watching you. You breathe the biggest sigh of relief as you spot the unsub out the corner of your eye at the hotel breakfast buffet.

You may have ruined your professional relationship with your boss, and consequently quite possibly your whole career, but you haven’t ruined the case.

There is, however, one minor hiccup. You left your gun back in the room. Normally this wouldn’t be an issue and you’d simply sneak back up and grab it, but the predatory look in this man’s eyes tells you there won’t be a chance for that.

Gearing up for what’s to come, you inhale deeply and saunter toward the exit, making a beeline for the smoking area.

You’ve barely got one foot out the door before you hear a sickening crack, accompanied by a sharp pain in the back of your skull. 

Your vision fades to black as a warmth spreads across your head. Your final thought before falling unconscious is that you wouldn’t have bothered washing your hair this morning if you’d known it was going to be covered in blood.

---

Stirring awake in a cloudy haze, you wince at the unwelcome combination of the mother of all headaches and a supremely unpleasant ringing sound in your ears.

Any plans you had to check your wound are swiftly ruined by the sudden realization that your hands are tied. 

Fully conscious now, you take in the scene before you. You’re in an abandoned 50s-themed diner, tied to a chair. Your knees are all fucked up and scraped too.

You feel a presence looming behind you.

“Did you seriously have to drag me across the ground? Are you too weak to lift a 130lb woman?”

With all the restraint of a petulant child, he kicks the chair leg closest to him. It does nothing other than move you a few inches across the floor.

“Shut the fuck up, bitch.”

You bark out a laugh.

“Ooh, I’m quaking in my boots. Truly.”

Logically speaking, you know you should be buying time, not aggravating him further, but he’s so pathetic you genuinely can’t help yourself.

It’s a decision you come to regret pretty much instantly as he holds a chef’s knife to your throat.

“Women like you need to learn your place.”

Taking slow, shallow breaths and wriggling to avoid the blade biting into your skin, you run the numbers. 

One exit, one murderous asshole standing in the way of said exit. One big ass knife. Four chair legs. You could kick backwards, but your hands are tied behind your back, so you’ll probably land on them and get stuck. You could pretend someone’s at the door, but that buys you five seconds tops. Or you could try to talk your way out of it.

You open your mouth to give option three a shot, but there’s no need. A gunshot followed by the sound of the lock shattering forces the unsub to pull away from you. The knife draws blood as he retreats like a complete coward, but it’s just a superficial cut.

Hotch bursts into the door, and no matter how minor your injuries are, the second he lays eyes on you he sees red. 

Watching in shock, you sit helpless and hazy as Hotch lays into the unsub. You hear the unforgettable crack of the man’s nose breaking before Hotch slams him into the ground.

Standing over him, boot crushing the unsub’s throat, there’s venom in his words when he speaks.

“If you ever put your hands on her again, I will kill you. Do you understand me?”

The unsub chokes out a garbled sentence. You’re pretty sure you hear “whore” in there somewhere, but the rest is fuzzy.

Your vision starts to black out again, accompanied by the soundtrack of knuckles repeatedly making contact with bone. Agonised grunts come from both men as they engage in a violent scuffle you don't have the privilege of witnessing.

Hotch yells out in pain and the helplessness of being tied up stirs you once more. You're paralysed with the nauseating fear that he could be being killed just a few feet away from you right now.

Chaos descends upon the diner as the rest of the team bursts in, guns trained on the unsub. 

You’re not sure at what point it happened, but when you look back over at the unsub, he lies motionless on the floor with Hotch’s hands wrapped around his throat.

Rossi grips your face, checking for signs of life. You wince at the sudden reminder of the throbbing pain at the back of your head.

“You doing okay, kid?”

You manage to nod, still unsure what the hell happened across the room.

“How did you find me?”

Crouching down behind you, Morgan gets to work untying your hands.

“Garcia identified the unsub as the caterer. You’re sitting in the straw that broke the camel’s back. One post-divorce, failed business.”

Prentiss and Reid have successfully peeled Hotch away from the unsub. He stands opposite you, shirt spattered with blood, eyes dark and fixated on your own.

Taking it all in, you search Hotch’s face for a reassurance you know he can’t offer you right now. 

The team are all here and all eyes are on you, so instead he approaches you cautiously, inspecting the matted blood on the back of your head. 

“Rossi’s going to take you to the hospital.”

His eyes land on the body on the ground. A flicker of disgust crosses his face.

“I’ve got some paperwork to fill out.”

You sit unmoving, not sure what the right thing to say is. Bodies move around the room in a blur and you’re having trouble focusing on anything right now.

Hotch checks nobody is watching, then leans in close, lips grazing your ear.

“I’ll swing by the hospital later. Alone.” 

You hate yourself for it, but you have to ask the question, so you do.

“Is he dead?”

Hotch lets out a small sigh.

“Yes.”

You lower your voice.

“Did you do that for me?”

A beat.

“Yes.”

You don’t know what this means. Whether Hotch will get in trouble, whether you still even have a job, whether the team will look at you differently — whether Hotch will look at you differently. 

Sensing your impending downward spiral, Hotch lifts your hand feigning a wound-check, squeezing it lightly.

“Everything’s fine. I promise.”

And even though your head hurts like hell and a man is dead, you trust Hotch implicitly when he says those words.

Skinner rocked on the balls of his feet, staring at the gray speckled linoleum floors that shined underneath the fluorescent lights. He still wasn’t quite sure how he got roped into this. The whole ordeal seemed below him as the Assistant Director of the FBI, but on the other hand it was important to maintain a good public image, even in a situation like this one.

Skinner tsked, picturing a few of his colleagues and how their actions on several occasions damaged the FBI’s reputation, the ridiculous things Mulder would choose to share would make them all look like fools.

He glanced up at the wooden door, gold metal numbers at the top read Rm 17. From outside the room, he could hear eager whispers and excited chatter. Taking a peek through the window that was in the center, he almost lost his nerve, his palms feeling clammy as he looked at all the faces. He wasn’t expecting that there would be so many of them.

Sighing to himself, he wondered if he could hold their attention, he could only imagine the chaos that would ensue if they all got bored.

Taking a deep breath, he finally knocked on the door.

“Quiet down everyone,” a gentle voice announced. “Our guest speaker has arrived.”

Skinner mustered up a smile, but it was more of grimace as a young woman opened the door, beaming from ear to ear. She was pretty, much prettier than he remembered his teachers ever being.

“Please come in,” she said, stepping aside. “I’m Ms. L/n. Thank you so much for coming.”

Skinner strode in, standing front and center of the classroom. He was greeted by cheeky young faces, grinning up at him from their desks.

Ms. L/n stood at the back of the class and gave him a reassuring nod before he began speaking.

“Good afternoon,” he started. “I am assistant director Walter Skinner of the FBI.”

To his surprise a hand immediately shot up in the air.

“Yes?” Skinner asked, raising his brow.

“What does FBI stand for?”

“Federal Bureau of Investigation-“

“What does that mean?” Another student blurted out.

“It means that we investigate on behalf of the federal government,” he answered. “While also upholding the law and protecting innocent people.”

Questions continued coming one after another, Skinner could hardly keep up.

“What do you investigate?”

“Do you have a gun?”

“Have you ever shot anyone?”

“Do you know the president?”

Skinner took a deep breath, “The bureau investigates a variety of crimes from terrorist attacks to serial killers. Yes, I am armed, I have shot someone, and no, I do not know the president personally.”

He noted Ms. L/n trying her best to maintain some composure. Her eyes were closed as she covered her mouth and tried to resist laughing.

After an hour or so of speaking about his position, answering bizarre questions, and listening to random stories about missing puppies, annoying little brothers, and cartoons, Skinner was relieved to hear the bell ring.

In a rapid and chaotic fashion the elementary schoolers scrambled out of their seats and bolted to the exit with their backpacks in tow.

“You might want to give it a minute,” Ms. L/n informed him. “It’s a literal zoo out in those halls and the parking lot is just as bad.”

“Thanks for the tip,” he replied, eyes still on the door as he listened to the stampede of children continue down the hall.

“Thanks again for coming in,” she smiled. “I know this probably wasn’t something you’d do normally.” She shrugged, tucking her hands into the pockets of her A-line skirt.

Skinner turned his attention to the teacher. “What do you mean?”

Ms. L/n rubbed the back of her head, sighing a little before she spoke. “You having to come here is all probably my fault,” she elaborated. “My uncle is a senator, so when I asked if he could arrange for some guest speakers to visit my class, I wasn’t expecting him to take it so seriously… I’m sorry.”

Skinner chuckled dryly, now it all made sense. “At least it wasn’t a complete disaster… I’m not used to being around children.”

“What? You did an amazing job, honestly, they had a lot of fun with you.”

He leaned against the desk. “How do you do it?” He mused. “There had to be about 25 of them, I’d lose what’s left of my hair trying to keep it all under control.”

She giggled, “Lots and lots of patience, and when that’s not enough there’s a bag of chocolate in my desk drawer and a little bottle of aspirin for the headaches… and on Fridays after a particularly challenging week, I go home and enjoy a glass of wine.”

Skinner nodded, “I keep a bottle of scotch at home for similar days… so what usually happens to get you to break open that bottle of wine?”

“Let’s see…” she hummed, leaning against her desk right next to him. “Just off the top of my head, this week we had Billy pulling Suzy’s hair and her retaliating by kicking him in the shin, then I had sent Tommy to the nurse only for him to come back to class and throw up on the floor, I had to deal with parent complaints over the amount of homework being too much or not enough, and then of course a surprise fire drill to top it all off. Thank God it’s Friday, right?”

Skinner laughed, “Sounds like you definitely earned that glass of wine or maybe even a whole bottle or two.”

“So, what does a tough day for the assistant director of the FBI look like?” She asked.

“Besides making classroom visits?” He joked. “A lot of stress, paperwork, and putting out a lot of fires caused by my own agents… I’ve got an agent who's probably just as much trouble as some of these kids.”

A comfortable few moments of silence fell between the two of them.

“Hey, do you hear that?” Ms. L/n asked, looking towards the door,

Skinner immediately straightened up, listening carefully. “I don’t hear anything,” he answered after several seconds.

“Exactly,” she smiled widely. “Sweet sweet silence. Looks like it’s safe for us to make our escape.” She grabbed her purse and coat, “Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

As they walked through the halls, Ms. L/n continued to make small talk, but it didn’t feel forced or awkward at all. It had been awhile since the last time Skinner felt so at ease with a stranger. She was lovely, intelligent, and charming.

He didn’t really have time to weigh all the pros and cons, but as they got closer to the exit the more he wanted an excuse to stay and talk to her.

“It was nice meeting you,” Ms. L/n stated as they reached the parking lot. She offered her hand for a quick handshake.

Skinner accepted and while shaking her hand noticed the absence of a wedding ring and decided to go ahead and take a shot.

“Can I treat you to that glass of wine?” He offered, before he lost his nerve. “There’s a decent bar nearby that we could go to, if you’re interested.”

She beamed, “Sure as long as I get to return the favor and buy you a drink.”

…

“A headlock? Really?” Y/n laughed in disbelief.

Walter sighed, taking off his glasses and massaging the bridge of his nose. “I’m telling you, it’s like dealing with the most unruly child sometimes.”

A half bottle of red wine sat on the bar between them along with several empty scotch glasses. The evening went by quickly as they exchanged outrageous work related stories.

“But you can’t help feeling like you're responsible for them, you know? Keeping them safe and out of trouble, trying to mold them into caring and empathetic hu-man beings,” she hiccuped.

Walter nodded, “Oh I know… believe me, I’ve put my ass on the line for them, probably a dozen times by now, yet they still don’t seem to learn.”

Y/n rested her head on her hand, elbow propped up on the bar as she gazed at the assistant director. “I’m having a really great time with you,” she added suddenly. “I don’t usually have a lot of spare time to go out like this…”

“Me too,” he agreed, his eyes meeting hers. “Dating and my kind of work don’t exactly go hand and hand.”

“Maybe we can make this a habit,” y/n suggested.

They both perked up as the bartender announced the last call.

“Oh wow,” she muttered, sitting up and looking around, what was a packed bar just hours ago, now only had a few couples and some stragglers left. “I didn’t know it was so late already.”

Walter settled the tab and then pulled out his cell phone. “Here, I’ll call you a cab.”

He could tell from the clouded look in her eyes that she was past her limit and needed a safe ride home. Walter helped escort her outside as she stumbled beside him. They waited quietly under a street light in the cool night until the cab arrived.

“Thanks for tonight,” Y/n said as the taxi pulled to the curb.

“Of course, thanks for the scotch.”

Like a gentleman, he pulled open the door for her but before she got in she quickly opened her purse and dug around until she found a piece of paper and a pen. On the scrap of notebook paper she jotted something down.

“Call me, next time you need a drink or have some time to spare,” she instructed, handing it to him.

Walter nodded, eyes downcasted as he looked at the number, but soon stiffened when he felt her press her lips to his cheek in a sweet little kiss good night.

“See you soon,” she waved as she climbed into the backseat of the taxi.

Skinner watched the cab drive away before tucking the paper away in his coat then searched for his car keys. Despite the long week, Skinner noted that he was leaving the bar feeling more chipper and excited than he had felt all week or all month.

Arriving at his apartment, he took the note out and placed it safely by his phone on the table.

It was a week or so later when he finally called the number listed. It had been a particularly trying day, when he entered his apartment. He dropped his coat on the back of the couch and loosened his tie. The bottle of scotch sitting at the bar looked appealing, but drinking with y/n sounded even better.

This soon evolved into a weekly ritual. They’d have a few drinks and unload about their day.

As the weeks passed and their meetings continued, Walter found himself becoming closer to the young teacher. Almost as if reflecting their growing intimacy, they had stopped sitting at the bar during their dates and now sat at a secluded table in the corner.

Y/n realized early on that Walter showed his affection in very subtle but meaningful ways, he wasn’t the sort of guy to spend loads of money on frivolous gifts or to toss around poetic words of love, instead he did things like walk her to her car and then call her later to make sure she got home safely.

She liked that he acted with thought and that everything he did had clear intentions behind it. He was chivalrous, fair, and had a righteous sense of justice. Walter Skinner, soldier, FBI agent, gentleman, she had thought to herself.

There wasn’t much discussion about their relationship, no labels or expectations, just a weekly tradition in a nice bar. But in that dark corner they had claimed as their own, he placed his hand over hers, her thigh brushed up against his, her head tilted and her lips parted, all leading up to a kiss.

That was when Walter suddenly realized that they had crossed a line beyond simple friendship, and it scared him. He feared where this could lead and how he wouldn’t be able to be what she wanted.

In his ex wife’s opinion he was emotionally distant. Would this relationship too become hollow or lacking?

Unsure what to do, he came up with some weak excuse the following week, and offered her a hollow promise of a rain check. He felt as though he was in some sort of emotional limbo, trapped by his desires to continue seeing y/n and his worries of breaking her heart and his own,

…

Walter sighed, slumping in his seat, scattered on his desk were photos and reports of a recent killing tied to a local serial killer who was currently on a spree.

What he found so unsettling wasn’t the gruesome nature of these murders, this wasn’t the first serial killer case that he’s worked on afterall, but it was the location. All the kills took place in y/n’s neighborhood, in fact this last one took place just a few buildings down.

This put him in a difficult position, sharing this information with her could cause a panic, and there was the moral obligation of whether or not it was fair to protect her life over others, yet he feared that she could be the next target.

She fit the victim type. Single woman living alone. Same hair and eye color as the previous victims. Predictable schedule and routine.

He shouldn’t be jumping to conclusions, making himself worked up over something that may not happen, still…

His eyes landed on the telephone on his desk, what would he even say? He couldn’t ask her to stay in a hotel until further notice, and he couldn’t arrange for her to stay in a safe house either.

Skinner drummed his fingers on top of his desk as he mulled things over, y/n would be safe at his apartment he figured. She could stay with him until they arrested the culprit or the killings stopped.

He lifted the receiver, his knee bouncing anxiously as the line rang.

“Hello?” Y/n’s voice answered.

“Hey, it’s me,” he replied.

“Everything alright?” She asked, wondering why he was calling so late.

There was a long pause, Walter suddenly didn’t feel comfortable sharing all this over the phone. Instead he felt that it would be easier to talk to her face to face. “Everything is fine,” he finally said. “Can I stop by?”

“Sure.”

“Alright, I’ll leave work in a couple of minutes. See you soon.” He hung up the phone, grabbed his coat and locked up his office.

…

When y/n opened her front door, she smiled gently as her eyes landed on the assistant director, looking professional as always in his work attire.

“Sorry for dropping by so late,” he muttered, noticing that she was dressed in her pajamas.

Her hand cupped his cheek. “You look tired,” she said sympathetically. “Rough day?”

He nodded, “You can say that.”

She invited him into her small apartment. “Was it a hard liquor sorta day or would you prefer something more comforting like tea?” She offered.

Walter shook his head, “I’m fine, really.” He sighed, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets.

Y/n tilted her head, sitting on the sofa while Walter remained standing. “I suppose you’ve heard about the recent murders,” he started.

“I have,” she said. “But the news reports have been pretty vague.”

“We’ve been focused on not letting the media turn this into a frenzy or cause any unnecessary panic,” Walter explained.

“Makes sense… must be pretty bad if it has you so worked up,” she commented.

“Not exactly,” he answered. “It’s all fairly typical as far as serial killings go, but some of the details have me concerned about your well being,” His eyes met hers.

“You mean I’m similar to the other victims?”

“Plus there’s the factor of location,” he added, “Last murder happened right down the street and the rest were also close to this area.”

He could see the fear on her face as the information sunk in. Out of instinct, her eyes panned the room as though the murderer was lurking in a corner or in the shadows.

“Guess I should make sure to keep my door locked,” she joked nervously.

“Or,” Walter started, averting his gaze. “I was thinking, if you’re open to it, that you could stay at my place, just until we either arrest the bastard or when he moves on or whatever.”

“Are you sure?” She questioned.

“I’m sure,” he replied without hesitation. He was of two minds on the whole ordeal, but after thinking it over the drive here, he concluded that he’d feel loads better knowing that y/n was safe, despite his anxiety on their budding romance.

She smiled, “Thank you… I’ll pack a bag.” She stood from the couch and went to her bedroom.

Walter carried her bags to the car and then carried them into his apartment when they arrived. His apartment was clean and neat, nothing excessive or frivolous, a mature and simple bachelor’s pad.

“Here’s the guest room,” he pointed out while opening the door and setting her bags inside. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Y/n nodded, “Good night.”

Not wanting her to feel like he was hovering, he excused himself so she could familiarize herself with the space.

Retiring to his room, Walter laid in bed and stared at the ceiling. Before today, he had anticipated that if his relationship with y/n ever reached this point of her staying the night that they’d at least be sharing a bed.

It was strange knowing she was in the next room. She was so close but not close enough. He could only wonder how the next few days would unfold.

…

She was staring. She didn’t want to stare, but she couldn’t help it. When she woke up in the unfamiliar guest bed this morning, she hadn’t mentally prepared for such a marvelous sight. And, yes, it was truly marvelous.

Standing in the kitchen preparing a cup of coffee was Walter, shirtless. Who would’ve guessed that lurking beneath the coat, the blazer, and the dress shirt were such broad shoulders and muscular arms. His back was facing her, giving her a moment to admire him without him noticing. She watched his shoulder blades flex as he started cooking his eggs.

Y/n wasn’t sure how to put it into words, Walter was not only very masculine physically, but also emotionally and with the way he acted, yet it wasn’t at all a bad thing or in a chauvinistic way. His masculinity was exhibited through the way he provided, protected, carried himself with confidence and integrity.

The perfect man, she thought to herself. Finally averting her eyes, she took a breath before making her presence known.

“Good morning,” she chirped.

“Morning,” he greeted, glancing at her quickly before returning his attention to the stove. “How do you like your eggs?”

“Over medium.”

Y/n sat at the small dining table and practically choked on her coffee as Walter turned around and sat a plate of eggs, fruit, and toast in front of her. His chest looked… solid, firm, and adorned with chest hair. She should’ve figured his chest would be just as good as the rest of him.

“Did you sleep okay?” He asked, taking his seat across from her.

“I did,” y/n answered, then took a bite of toast. “Did you?”

He nodded, although truthfully it took him a few hours to finally fall asleep, but he didn’t want y/n to think it was because of her.

“Do you always make such a spread for breakfast?” She asked. “I’m lucky if I have a piece of toast or cereal before leaving for work.”

Walter shrugged, “Usually, I suppose it’s the meal I can count on having, some days I don’t get the chance to have lunch and other days I come home too exhausted to bother with dinner.”

“Well, I appreciate getting to have an actual meal before work.”

As she passed him carrying her plate to the sink, she kissed the side of his head. Then returned to the guest room to get ready for work.

By the time she was finished and headed back downstairs, Walter was dressed in his suit, straightening his blue tie in front of a mirror before throwing on his coat.

He gave her a spare key to his apartment, before they went their separate ways for work.

…

As Walter walked through the parking garage, he figured that he should stop somewhere to grab a few essentials and food on his way home. It was important for him for y/n to feel comfortable while living with him.

Wandering through the aisles, he grabbed a loaf of bread, more eggs, strawberries and blueberries, and a couple of other things to make a few dinners this week.

As he walked toward the checkout lanes, a bottle of Chardonnay caught his attention, the brand, if he recalled correctly, was the same one y/n had enjoyed a few nights ago. He grabbed it, adding it to his basket, before getting in line to checkout.

Opening the door to his apartment, Walter first noted the smell of a home cooked meal wafting toward him accompanied with sounds coming from the kitchen, little clings and clangs from the pots and pans and the radio was buzzing lowly.

He stood at the doorway taking it all in. He had forgotten how nice, how comforting, it was to come home to somebody.

“Hey, welcome home,” y/n said peeking out from around the corner. “Hope it’s alright that I’m making dinner, I just figured since you weren’t home yet, you wouldn’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” he responded, finally lugging the groceries he bought into the kitchen.

“Is that for tonight?” She asked excitedly, seeing the bottle of wine.

“Can be,” he shrugged, handing her the bottle.

Her eyes lit up as she recognized the brand, “I’m going to get a couple of wine glasses.”

With ease they maneuvered around each other, y/n focused on cooking while he put away food in the fridge and cabinets.

“Go have a seat,” she instructed him, playfully nudging him toward the table. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

During dinner, she told him about her day, her expressions were all so animated as she went through the highlights. He intently listened, engrossed in her stories, he felt at ease. Typically, he’d still be thinking of work, either about a current case, an old case, or wondering what trouble Mulder and Scully were involved in.

Walter insisted on washing the dishes when they were done. Y/n retired to the living room, curled up on the couch with the TV on and a stack of papers on her lap that she graded during the commercials. He joined her when he was done, sitting in his armchair and overlooking a report.

She glanced in his direction and smiled softly, before returning her attention to the tests she was grading.

As the evening progressed a single question seemed to plague his mind, did he deserve another chance at having a domestic life, at having a life outside of his work?

He was going to miss her, especially the little moments that gave him an idea of what it would truly be like to live with her, like how’d he watch her from the corner of his eye as she painted her toenails, or how amusing it was for him when she’d become so invested in some ridiculous TV drama.

With the way things were going he could see the potential here between the two of them, potential to have something resembling a healthy relationship.

But he wasn’t sure if he was ready or capable for something serious like that. Between the fear and the guilt, he didn’t know what was holding him back more.

The next few days went by just as smoothly, Walter couldn’t deny they were compatible. He also couldn’t deny how much he enjoyed just having her around.

It was late at night on Friday when he arrived home. Unlocking the door, he found the apartment dark, walking in further he saw the light of the TV illuminating y/n’s face. Her eyes were fixated on the movie playing.

“I’m home,” he announced standing right by the couch.

She jumped slightly at the sudden sound of his voice and reached for the remote and paused the movie.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he chuckled, switching on the light.

Y/n laughed a little at herself for getting so worked up, “It’s alright… I just didn’t hear you come in.”

He glanced at the frozen TV screen. “What are you watching?”

“I rented ‘The Silence of the Lambs’ on my way home,” she answered, but quickly added, “But we can watch something else.”

Walter removed his jacket and tie, laying them on a chair, before setting his wallet, gun, and badge on the table. “I’m fine with it. Did you have dinner already?”

“Does popcorn count?” She asked, referring to the bowl sitting on the coffee table.

He shook his head, “How does pizza sound?”

“Perfect.”

Walter picked up the cordless receiver and ordered a pizza to be delivered. Y/n turned the light back off and pressed play as he joined her couch. She took one of the couch pillows and wrapped her arms around it, holding it tighter against her chest as Anthony Hopkins’ stare met hers.

As the movie continued, her body seemed to slowly inch closer to him, her fingers soon gripping the sleeve of his shirt. His attention shifted from the movie to her when he felt her grip, he was tempted to place a comforting arm around her shoulders, until there was a knock on the door.

Y/n reluctantly loosened her fingers, allowing Walter to go to the door. When he returned with the pizza, so did the space that was there between them earlier, but it didn’t last long.

Plates were sitting discarded on the coffee table and y/n was again pressed to his side as the movie began to reach its climax.

Walter’s hand found hers, his fingers clutched her hand and gave her a reassuring squeeze. She smiled, snuggling closer to him, her head resting against his shoulder.

He found himself enjoying the close proximity, savoring the feeling of her hand in his. They remained that way until the end of the credits. As she slowly sat up, he wished the movie had been longer or for some other excuse to have her close again.

“So why that movie?” Walter questioned, as Y/n stretched her arms above her head.

“Cause I like it,” she answered simply, looking back at him.

“Looked like you were pretty scared a few times,” he pointed out and gave her a skeptical look.

She laughed, “I love scary movies because they scare me, what I don’t like is watching them alone.”

Walter shook his head and started picking up the plates and taking them to the kitchen. She shuffled in behind him with the empty bowl of popcorn.

“We should do this again soon,” she suggested. “Could become a weekly thing for us, like our end of the work week drinks.”

“Only if I get to pick the next movie,” he countered.

“Deal!” …

Walter was sitting on the couch, bare feet resting on the coffee table, the baseball game on the TV. He was dressed casually in just a white t-shirt and jeans, no suit or tie. It was a rare sight.

He took a sip of his beer and leaned back.

This was one of those rare days off where he didn’t have anything to do, he could just be lazy and enjoy his Sunday by unwinding with a cold beer.

Y/n was on the other side of the couch, twirling a pen between her fingers as she looked over her lesson plans for the upcoming week.

“Sometimes I think you have it harder than I do,” he mused, having noticed that Y/n brought work home with her daily and even worked for a couple of hours every weekend.

She raised her brow, “What do you mean? You literally catch criminals and save the country.”

“Yeah, but I work with adults who are usually capable at their jobs,” Walter elaborated, having thought about the challenges she must face compared to his. “I get to yell at people who screw up and if they really piss me off, I can fire them.”

She laughed, he had a point.

“You’re stuck with pretty much every single child put under your care, it’s a lot of responsibility,” he added. “Not everyone has the patience or dedication.”

She looked at him, her expression soft and her eyes swimming with gratitude. “Thanks,” she said.

“For what?”

“For saying that. For treating my job like an actual career rather than something that’s fluffy or cute…” she blinked away a couple of tears. “My family has always been very condescending when it comes to my career,” she explained. “They assume it’s not difficult or important. Or at least not as important as anything they’ve accomplished.”

Walter furrowed his brow, listening to her intently as she spoke about her family, about how she didn’t share their views or values, about how they scoffed at her life choices.

“Sorry,” she muttered, looking away. “Didn’t mean to lay all of that on you.”

“Don’t be,” he assured her. “You’ve got a break coming up, right?”

She nodded, “One of the perks of the job.”

“Good,” he said in approval. “You deserve a break, maybe you can even go on a real vacation.”

Walter took another sip of beer, he had racked up quite a few vacation days himself. It was a tempting idea, to get away from it all, maybe rent a cabin in the mountains and spend some time out in nature, fishing, or maybe go somewhere tropical, stay at a fancy resort where they serve cocktails with those little umbrellas.

He wondered what type of trip y/n would prefer, either way, he liked the idea of him and her taking a trip together whether it included taking an early morning hike or sitting side by side near the pool.

Y/n moved the papers on her lap over to the coffee table, and scooted closer to Walter. “So who's winning?” She nodded at the TV.

“Yankees,” he answered, casually putting an arm around her shoulders as they both watched the game.

…

Walter woke with a start one night, his body covered in a cold sweat. The red light of his alarm clock read 2:00 am. He groaned, rubbing his forehead, before he sat up and swung his legs over the side of his bed.

He knew it would be futile to try to go back to sleep, and even if he could, he didn’t want to return to whatever nightmare woke him in the first place. Rising to his feet, he quietly made his way downstairs.

He turned on the TV, turning the volume down. He wasn’t in the mood to actually watch, but it felt better to have it on compared to sitting alone in the dark.

His head perked up when he heard footsteps coming from upstairs.

Y/n rubbed her eyes as she reached the last step. “Hey,” she croaked, seeing Walter on the couch. “Can’t sleep?”

He nodded, “You?”

“Thirsty,” she answered.

He sighed, resting his elbows on his knees, listening as she went into the kitchen. Walter closed his eyes, only for them to snap back open when he felt y/n’s hand on his shoulder.

He lifted his brow as she peered worriedly at his face. The hand that had been on his shoulder slowly crept to his face, gently stroking his cheek with her fingers.

For a brief moment, he looked vulnerable like there was something that he wanted to confess to her, but almost immediately his stoic expression returned.

“You should go back to bed,” he urged.

She glanced at the TV screen, some late night infomercial was playing, advertising some sort of CD compilation, the thought of him sitting alone like this bothered her.

“You should go back to bed too,” she retorted.

“Don’t think I can,” he murmured.

“Why don’t you try,” she suggested softly. “Or at least come lay down with me so I know you aren’t alone out here.”

Walter’s forehead creased as he looked up at her face, then at her extended hand, the same hand that had gently caressed him just a couple of seconds ago. From what he’s learned of y/n, she was typically easy going, flexible and willing to roll with the punches, but he could tell this was one of those things where she’d be willing to put up a fight.

Accepting her hand, he rose from the couch and followed her upstairs. She pulled him into the guest room and climbed into bed. He stood there for a moment, awkwardly, until she patted the space next to her expectantly.

“This really isn’t necessary-“ he started and then sighed, y/n appeared exhausted, her eyes slowly closing and snapping back open as she tried to stay awake. “Fine,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.

Sliding under the covers beside her, he pulled the tired woman close, her head resting against his chest. Her fingers absentmindedly drew slow circles over his skin until she finally fell back to sleep.

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his own hand now tracing up and down her upper arm as he listened to her breath. The weight of her arm and head draped over his chest made him feel grounded, stable. …

Walter’s eyes were still closed when he could hear his alarm clock faintly beeping. He didn’t question why it sounded so far away, and instead he reached out and felt around on the nightstand, trying to hit the snooze button.

He cracked an eye open after several failed attempts, peeking at the nightstand he didn’t see his alarm clock… or his glasses.

Suddenly he was very aware of the weight on his chest and beside him. He must’ve fallen asleep, he half smiled at the realization. Maybe y/n had the right idea.

With a steady hand, he eased her arm off his chest and slipped out of bed. Before quietly exiting the room, he leaned over y/n and pulled the blanket back over her shoulders, his thumb gently caressed her cheek as he admired her for a moment longer.

…

The assistant director reviewed the case files multiple times now, the serial killer had been arrested and was currently locked away while awaiting trial. All the evidence seemed to be in correct order, the man they had taken into custody had access to all the victims, and he fit the profile.

Of course, the suspect was claiming he had nothing to do with the murders, but he was unable to provide any sort of alibi for his whereabouts either.

Walter knew this was going to happen sooner or later, logically he was aware that this was a good thing, they caught the bad guy and y/n was now safe, but he was struggling with the fact that things were going to go back to how they were. His apartment was going to feel quieter, darker, emptier without y/n being around.

He could ask her to move in with him, he snorted as the idea crossed his mind. He’d probably come off looking like a nut asking her to keep living with him.

Taking off his glasses, he sat them gently on his desk as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He should probably tell her how he feels first before even considering asking a question like that anyways.

Grabbing the telephone receiver he quickly dialed his home phone.

“Skinner residence,” y/n answered in a cheerful tone.

“Hey,” he greeted in return, slightly swaying in his office chair, eyes returning to the files on his desk. “What do you think about going out for dinner tonight?” He suggested.

“Oh? What’s the occasion?”

“I’ve got some… good news,” he explained.

“Must be some really good news,” she pointed out.

“Yeah, I think you’ll be happy to hear it,” he stated, though from the tone of his voice, he didn’t seem too thrilled.

Hanging up the phone, Walter proceeded to dial the number of a restaurant he was familiar with, one that was quiet and intimate. When the hostess answered, he made a reservation for two at 7.

Now he was left to decide what news he wanted to share with her first.

…

Y/n scrambled around the apartment, digging through the bags she packed, hoping she had something nice, like a dress to wear. She gave a relieved sigh, when she found her favorite dress at the bottom, hopefully not too wrinkled.

She shimmied out of her outfit and slipped into the dress. Then rushed into the bathroom to fix her hair and make up.

She twisted and turned in front of the full length mirror in the guest room when Walter arrived.

“Are you ready?” He called from the living room.

Grabbing a pair of heels, she slid them on before skipping downstairs.

Walter was waiting at the landing, hands tucked in his pockets. “You look,” he paused, trying to pick the right word. “Stunning.”

Y/n gave him a dazzling smile, “And you look incredibly handsome, as usual.” She gently smoothed the lapels of his blazer.

Walter rolled his eyes and she playfully pushed him. “It’s true though! You always look good.”

“We better get going,” he said, opening the door to the apartment. “Our reservation is at 7.”

After locking up, they headed towards the car. Walter got the passenger side door for her, before getting into the driver's seat and departed for the restaurant.

Walking toward the entrance, he held her hand. This was different compared to their other outings, more official, a real proper date. Despite having gone out to bars and essentially living together, he was still feeling those first date jitters.

There were two things he was hoping to accomplish tonight, one was letting y/n know that she was safe and the other was establishing where they were at with this relationship.

Walter held the door open for her and then followed her in. The restaurant was like how he remembered, dark tile floors, ambient lighting, candles on each of the tables. The food, if he recalled correctly, was good, fresh, portions were on the small end but that was usually the expectation for a place like this.

The hostess led them to a nice table by a window. Walter pulled a chair out for y/n, waited for her to sit down before taking his own seat.

“How was your day?” He asked, giving the menu a once over before directing his attention to her.

“Exhausting,” she replied, sighing heavily for exaggeration. “The end of the school year is always rough… there are so many things that need to get done before break.”

“Anything I can help with?”

“Well, I could use someone big and strong to move some furniture around for me,” she smirked.

“I believe I qualify as big and strong,” he pointed out. “What do you need moved?”

“Student desks, my desk, things like that,” y/n shrugged.

“I’ll see if I can clear part of my schedule,” Walter stated offhandedly.

“Oh, you really don’t have to,” she said quickly, slightly panicked, leaning closer to him. “I was mostly kidding.”

He placed his hand over hers, his thumb tenderly stroking over the top of her hand, “I wouldn’t volunteer to help if I didn’t want to help.”

When the waiter came by, Walter released y/n’s hand. The waiter filled their glasses with water and took their drink order.

“So what about you, how was your day?” She asked, changing the subject.

“Productive,” he answered vaguely, he still was hesitant on sharing the information of the arrest with her, but it also wasn’t right of him to keep it from her. “Actually,” he added. “It’s part of why I wanted to go out tonight, to celebrate.”

“Oh?” Her eyes lit up. “Let me guess… Are you getting promoted? Receiving a plaque that says best FBI Assistant director? A new copier in the office?”

Walter chuckled dryly, eyes flickering to his hand that was fidgeting with the table cloth, “We’ve apprehended someone who fits the profile of the serial killer.”

Y/n blinked, processing what he said slowly. She should be happy, right? They caught the guy, that’s a good thing. Now her and a lot of other women were a little safer.

She mustered up a smile, “That is good news.”

Walter nodded, tearing his gaze from the tablecloth to the beautiful woman sitting across from him. “I bet you’re excited to be going back to your own place.”

She bit her lip, holding back on saying all the things she really wanted to say, like how much fun she’s had living with him, how nice it’s been to have his company, and how she didn’t want to leave.

“Yeah, I guess everything will go back to normal,” y/n finally said, her voice wavering just slightly.

“Is everything alright-“ Walter began to ask until the waiter reappeared ready to take their orders.

Y/n seemed to have recovered from whatever was making her upset, so he dropped the subject. They talked about their work day, shared stories, and asked each other questions about their lives and childhoods.

The waiter came to clear the table after they were done with their entrees, and left behind a dessert menu for them to review.

Walter shifted in his seat a little and cleared his throat, their little date night was coming to a close quicker than he’d like, “There’s something else I’ve been wanting to discuss with you tonight.”

She laid the dessert menu down and tilted her head looking at him intently as he continued.

“I’ve been thinking about us, and how I’d like to continue seeing you, preferably under more official terms,” he proposed, sounding so formal that y/n couldn’t help but smile widely.

“So, what you’re saying is that the assistant director of the FBI is officially my boyfriend?” She teased.

Walter made a face at the word ‘boyfriend’, it seemed so juvenile especially for someone his age, “I suppose that’s one way to put it.”

She laughed, “Can’t wait to brag about you to all my friends and coworkers.” Her hand reached out across the table, fingers twining with his. “How about we share dessert,” she said, lifting the menu again.

…

They stumbled through the doors of Walter’s apartment. He had barely closed the door before y/n’s fingers curled around his tie, urging him closer as their lips desperately collided.

Walter planted one of his hands firmly on the wall next to her, his palm completely flat, supporting his weight as he leaned forward. His other hand ran up her arm, shoulder, and then snaked around her neck pulling her closer to him.

His tongue swept across her lip, in response she parted her mouth.

With her eyes closed, she loosened his tie before fumbling with the buttons of his dress shirt. After so many mornings admiring his bare chest, she couldn’t wait to feel him under her own hands.

She was going to miss those moments, watching him prepare breakfast in just his pajama bottoms, or seeing him reclining in his chair wearing a tight white t-shirt.

God, why did it hurt? Why did it feel like he was kicking her out? She was aware that it was all temporary.

She was still going to see him, they were still going to go out, but it no longer seemed like enough. None of it would be enough to satisfy her, especially now knowing what it was like to see him practically every night and every morning.

Walter pulled away when he felt something wet on y/n’s cheek. His brow furrowed with concern.

“What’s wrong?” He whispered breathlessly.

“It’s nothing,” she lied, a few tears trickling down her face.

“Are you sure?” He pressed, taking off his glasses and tucking them into his shirt pocket. He tried to look into her eyes but she turned her head away.

She was so upset with herself for ruining the moment. Stupid thoughts. Stupid brain having to think those things instead of just letting her enjoy what was happening.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” she sniffed, straightening herself out. “I- I should probably start packing anyways.”

“It’s pretty late already,” Walter reminded her. “You should get some rest instead, your apartment will be there tomorrow night.”

Y/n nodded, “Yeah, you’re right.”

Walter watched as she retreated upstairs back to the guest room. Sighing heavily, he removed his tie and finished unbuttoning his shirt and headed for his bedroom. He placed his glasses on the nightstand, then removed his shirt and tie resting them on the back of the chair.

He collapsed onto his bed, rubbing his face with both of his hands as he wondered about what went wrong.

…

Y/n stood in the middle of her apartment, something was off, she couldn’t put a finger on it, but it was like things weren’t exactly where she had left them while she was gone. It had been bugging her since last night, she kept tossing and turning, mind racing wondering what it was that was giving her the creeps.

It had to be her imagination, right?

She cautiously paced around, studying every little inch of her home. Nothing seemed to be missing, so it’s not like she had been robbed, and it’s not like the place had been trashed either.

She tried to rationalize it, explaining to herself that being back just felt odd because of how much she enjoyed staying with Walter, almost as if her subconscious was making up excuses.

But as she looked closer at the framed pictures displayed on her bookshelf, she could see that they had all been slightly moved. There were faint lines she could see through the thin layer of surrounding dust.

God, she had to be going crazy, rubbing her head she tried to recall if she had moved them recently, because that would make sense, it had to be that. It would be completely insane to believe that someone snuck into her apartment just to move around her photographs.

Y/n took a few deep breaths and tried to ignore the violating feeling, and go on with her evening. She did admit to herself that she was tempted to call Walter, but he was still at work. She knew that just speaking with him would make her feel safer, but she’d feel like such an idiot if nothing was actually wrong.

She bit her nail, now examining her bedroom. Her eyes darted from wall to wall, searching for anything out of place. But nothing was jumping out at her. Maybe she really was just being paranoid.

Walking around her bed, she paused feeling something unfamiliar under her barefoot. Stepping back, she crouched down, fingers feeling around the plush carpet until she found whatever she had stepped on, a cigarette butt.

Where did it come from? Her skin crawled, staring at it in the palm of her hand.

Despite the fact that her suspicions were confirmed about a stranger having recently been in her home, the evidence only made her more upset. Breathing fast, she stumbled back into her living room grabbing her phone and dialing Walter’s number.

…

Walter was sitting at a long wooden table, half listening to his colleagues as he looked over the paperwork relating to their meeting. The voices around him seemed to drone on and on, becoming white noise in the background.

Suddenly, his cellphone rang, breaking the monotony. He gave the people around him a quick look of apology as he pulled his phone out from his pocket to ignore the call, only to change his mind when he recognized the number.

“Excuse me,” Walter cleared his throat and rose to his feet. “But I need to take this.”

Stepping into the hall, he finally answered. “Hey, is everything alright?”

“I-I’m not sure,” y/n said uneasily. “But I think someone has been in my apartment, at first I thought it was just my mind playing tricks on me but I found a cigarette butt… I don’t smoke… I don’t know anyone who does, I don’t know how it got here. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s going to be alright,” Walter said in a calm voice, listening to her sniffling on the other end. “Do you still have the spare key to my apartment?”

“Um, yeah, I do.”

“Good, why don’t you go to my place? When I get home we can both go to your apartment and figure out what’s going on.”

“Okay,” y/n sniffed. “I can do that.”

“Alright, I’m going to see if I can get out of this meeting, I’ll see you soon.”

…

When Walter arrived home and found the door to his apartment still locked, he knew something wasn’t right. Opening the door only confirmed his suspicions, instead of being greeted by y/n, he walked into a dark empty apartment.

He could hear his heartbeat, hammering in his ears as his mind went straight to the worst case scenario… Did they get the wrong guy?

Immediately, he raced back to his car. In a reckless fashion, he backed up and sped out of the parking garage.

Swerving through traffic, he called her phone only to toss it on the passenger side seat when all he got was her answering machine. He inhaled deeply through his nose, his jaw clenched tightly as he tried to figure out what the hell was going on.

“There’s still time,” he muttered to himself, he had to stay somewhat level headed if he was going to be of any help to y/n.

Going over the details of the crimes in his head, he knew the killer usually kept his victims alive for roughly 24 hours. He had just spoken to y/n an hour ago.

In all the cases there were no signs of a break in, suggesting that the killer either had access to their homes or was someone people trusted.

“She’s fine, she’s going to be okay.”

The victims were killed in their own homes, which meant that y/n should still be in her apartment. He just needed to get there. His foot pressed the gas pedal harder, not caring at all about how fast he was going.

The wheels of the car screeched as Walter took a sharp turn right.

Finally reaching her apartment building, he put his car in park. He didn’t bother with the elevator, running past it towards the stairwell.

As he climbed the stairs, Walter had an inner monologue, convincing himself that he wasn’t going to hold back any longer, that life was too short for him to take this relationship so slow.

He promised himself that he would ask y/n to move in, who cares if they’ve only known each other for a few months, if it makes them both happy, then why not? And they were going to go on that trip, any trip to anywhere, a road-trip, a cruise, it didn’t matter. He would take a whole week off and spend each day with her.

He was going to take advantage of this opportunity, this possibility to have a life with someone he cares about, to have a life outside of his work. He figured this was a lesson worth learning twice, to not pass up or wait too long on the things he wants.

It didn’t matter if their relationship lasted for the rest of his life or just a few years, it would simply be worth it in the end.

Walter unlatched his holster when he reached her floor, his fingers curling around the grip as he removed his gun. His hands were steady as he approached her door at the end of the hall.

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, side pressed against the wall as he listened near the door. It was quiet on the other side, which could be a good thing or bad.

Cautiously, he tested the knob, and just like he assumed, it was locked. Without wasting more time, he kicked the door open. Doors and locks could be fixed after all.

Creeping into the living room, he immediately noticed the scattered items and broken trinkets. His eyes scanned the room, hoping his loud entrance hadn’t forced the attacker’s hand into doing something rash.

The door to her bedroom was ajar, pushing the door open further, he saw y/n with her hands and feet bound and tape over her mouth. Seeing him in the doorway reignited her efforts as she struggled against the restraints.

As he attempted to crouch down beside her to help, he was blindsided, his back hitting the floor as he was tackled by the assailant. Walter’s gun fell from his hand, landing beside him on the carpet.

His attacker took advantage of his disoriented state, landing several blows before Walter recovered.

Grabbing the man by the collar of his shirt as he swung his fist, hitting him square in the jaw. Quickly, Walter reached out for his gun, his index finger curling around the trigger as he fired.

The killer fell over unceremoniously, dying from a single bullet wound to the head.

Walter stepped over him, immediately returning to y/n’s side as he untied her wrists and ankles. He held her, her body trembling as she sobbed, soon sirens could be heard as emergency vehicles arrived.

The street outside of y/n’s apartment was glowing now with red and blue lights. She was sitting in the back of an ambulance with a fleece blanket wrapped around her frame. Her eyes closely followed Walter as he discussed the situation with the officers who arrived at the scene.

Several concerned and nosy neighbors had made their way out of their homes to figure out what was going on. Calm and authoritative, Walter took control, quickly shutting down the prying questions being asked by civilians and directing the officers and agents on what to do before approaching the paramedics.

His stern expression softened when he saw y/n. He leaned against the vehicle beside her. “The paramedics say you are free to go.”

Fear crossed her face at the thought of returning home, there’s no way in hell she was ready to set foot back into that apartment, especially not alone.

Walter looked at his feet and rubbed his head, “I was thinking, it would be best if you came home with me, unless there’s another place you’d like to stay.”

Her eyes went wide at the offer, but she rapidly nodded her head.

“I think they’ve got it from here,” he commented, watching for a moment. “Let’s get going.”

Carefully getting back on her feet, Walter wrapped an arm around her shoulders and led her towards his car.

The drive was quiet, his eyes focused on the road making sure to get them home in one piece, while y/n buried her head against his shoulder, hand clutching the front of his shirt.

Without turning his head, he placed his hand over hers, trying his best to console her. His thumb stroked over the back of her hand for the remainder of the drive.

She clung to him as they walked from the parking garage to his home.

“Not that I mind being close with you, but walking up the stairs might be a challenge,” he said trying to lighten up the mood.

She smiled, her first smile since all this went down.

They opted for the elevator as they were both physically exhausted. When the doors opened and they entered, Walter pulled her into an embrace.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he reassured her, kissing her forehead. She whimpered a little as he cradled her against him, but she soon composed herself when the elevator dinged.

Stepping into his apartment, she felt relieved, her shoulders visibly relaxing as she went into the familiar space.

Walter’s fingers reached out and hooked around hers. Y/n didn’t question him as he led her upstairs to his bedroom.

He released her hand and headed directly toward the attached bathroom, leaving her to stand awkwardly in the middle of his bedroom. His room, similar to the rest of the house, was sleek and minimal. He had a desk in the corner, a large bed with matching nightstands, and opposite of the bed was a TV stand.

She jumped as she heard the shower being turned on, full blast.

“You should take a shower, it’ll help,” Walter said, emerging from the bathroom. “The water should be warm enough now.”

He retrieved his bathrobe from the hook on the back of the door and handed it to her. She slowly walked towards the bathroom, but hesitated, turning back around and looking at him.

“I’ll be right here,” he promised.

Y/n closed the door, leaving it unlocked. The small room was already steamy thanks to the hot water. She placed the bathrobe on the sink counter, before taking off her clothes.

Alone, she noted that everything she did seemed slower, like she was moving in slow motion. Everything that happened earlier seemed like a blur, it all happened so fast.

She recalled getting off the phone with Walter, and how valid she had felt after the call knowing that he believed her. Before she even had a chance to grab her purse she was attacked. She remembers trying to fight back, grabbing whatever was in reach but it wasn’t enough.

Y/n closed her eyes tightly fighting back tears as she stood underneath the hot water.

…

Walter stretched his arms above his head, but then drew them back down, wincing as he realized how sore he was. As he removed his suit, he saw bruises along his back and ribs beginning to form. He didn’t remember getting hit so hard, but he was probably running on adrenaline for most of that fight.

Pulling on a pair of pajama bottoms, he sat on the edge of his bed and placed his glasses on the nightstand. He stared at the closed door, resting his elbows on his knees.

He considered going downstairs just long enough to make y/n a warm cup of tea or hot chocolate, but remembered that he promised he’d be right outside the bathroom waiting for her.

The minutes ticked by slowly as he waited. His mind returned to all those thoughts that had gone through his head when he rushed up to y/n’s apartment. He was still determined to act upon them, but probably not tonight. Today was already overwhelming enough for her.

He raised his eyes as he heard the door open. Y/n’s hair was still wet, her arms wrapped around herself while dressed in his bathrobe.

Even with the remaining drops of water from the shower, Walter could tell y/n had been crying. He figured that she would be a walking bundle of nerves and would need to be treated gently as she recovered, despite whatever brave face she was putting on.

Thanks to his position and military experience, surviving life threatening scenarios had become somewhat routine, but he could still recall how it was after the first time, the jitteriness, the feeling of being on the brink of spiraling, but most of all he knew how important it was to stay with her. It was too easy to get caught in the web of that moment, reliving it, and cycling through every moment.

“Need anything?” He asked.

She shook her head.

“You sure? I was thinking about making myself a cup of hot chocolate.”

She smiled, “That does sound nice.”

Even though he told her that she could wait in the room, she still followed him into the kitchen. She watched him gather the ingredients and mugs from the cabinets.

Her eyes widened as she noticed the red splotches on his back under the bright kitchen lights.

“You’re hurt,” she mumbled.

“I’m fine,” he replied. “Nothing broken, just a little sore.”

She frowned and almost as if he could read her thoughts, Walter continued. “This isn’t your fault, none of what happened today is your fault.”

He handed her a mug, holding it with both hands, y/n felt the warmth permeating her cool skin.

“Thank you.”

“C’mon let’s get to bed,” he nodded towards the stairs.

“Together?” She asked, her heart skipping a beat.

“If that’s alright with you,” Walter added, shrugging his shoulders. “I just assumed you wouldn’t want to be alone right now.”

“Yeah,” she confirmed quietly, not at all surprised by his thoughtfulness this entire evening. “You’re right.”

Sitting on his bed, they idly sipped on hot chocolate while flipping through TV channels before settling on Seinfeld reruns.

This was nice, an unexpected ending to such a horrible day. Y/n looked at Walter from the corner of her eye, his legs were crossed, arms resting over his stomach, chuckling dryly over some joke, his half-full cup sitting on the nightstand forgotten. It was strange how these mundane and simple moments with him brought her so much joy.

If only all days could end with hot chocolate, late night television, and Walter by her side.

Setting her empty cup on the nightstand next to her, y/n laid back on the bed, her head resting against Walter’s shoulder. Reaching over, he turned off the lamp, but left the TV on.

Having her near like this felt right, like that empty space in his bed for the last couple of years was waiting for her to fill it. It was the same with his life, it was fuller with her around. He probably laughed and smiled more these past few months than he had the entire year.

“What do you think about making this arrangement permanent?” Walter asked suddenly, even surprising himself.

Y/n lifted her head, looking him in the eye, “You mean like us living together?”

“We can bring your stuff over from your apartment here,” he elaborated. “I’m willing to part with some things to make room for yours, you can even redecorate the place, I don’t really have an eye for that sort of thing anyways.”

She stared at him in disbelief.

“I know that we’re still in the early stages of our relationship but I honestly think that this could work-“

“Yes,” Y/n practically shrieked, some of her liveliness returning to her. She bounced practically on top of him, her hands on his shoulders. “Yes, I’d love that,” she repeated more calmly.

Walter smiled, “Then it’s settled, we’re roommates.”

Her hands moved to his face, cupping his cheeks as leaned forward and kissed him. The kiss was sweet and slow, it wasn’t motivated by lust like the kisses they had shared a couple of days ago, but instead was an expression of her pure affection.

She lowered her head onto his chest, his hand lazily drawing circles on her back.

Deciding to go all in, Walter asked another question. “How about we go on a trip next month? Somewhere quiet and relaxing.”

She nuzzled against his chest, he could feel her smiling on his skin. “Or we could just stay here… not leave the apartment or your bedroom at all for a whole week.”

“We can do that too, if I recall you’re starting your break soon and I’ve got plenty of vacation time saved up… we could do both.”

They discussed plans for the near future into the early morning, until y/n finally fell asleep, her head tucked under his chin, both of her hands pressed against his chest with his arms securely wrapped around her.

…

It was quiet, so quiet compared to the usual city noises that y/n was so accustomed to, no horns honking or constant traffic outside, here there was only the occasional bird or rustling from the wind.

Pushing the curtain open she looked out onto the lake, the morning sun reflecting on the calm waves. She couldn’t be happier with her and Walter’s choice. The cabin was reclusive and cozy, surrounded by tall evergreens. It provided lots of privacy, giving the illusion that it was just her and him all the way out here.

She closed her eyes, leaning back against Walter as he peppered kisses along her bare shoulder. His lips moved up towards her ear, giving her lobe a gentle tug with his teeth, before he whispered in her ear.

“Come back to bed,” he breathed, his voice low and deep.

Y/n laughed, twisting around to face him, they had already spent the day before in bed and it seemed as though he had the same plans for today.

“What about all those things you wanted to do, the fishing and the hiking and all of that?”

“We’ve got plenty of time,” he murmured, gripping her chin and leaning forward, capturing her lips in a kiss.

She wrapped her arms around the back of his neck as she reciprocated, her soft lips pressing against his just as eagerly. The sheet she was using for modesty’s sake, slipped off her form, pooling around her feet.

Without breaking the kiss, he took a few steps back, successfully leading her back to the bed. When his legs hit the mattress, he sat down pulling her along with him.

Y/n smiled against his lips, now straddling his thighs with her knees on both sides of him, resting on the edge of the bed. His large hands were on her hips, helping to hold her up.

Her breath hitched as he sucked on the nape of her neck. Over the last few weeks he had become somewhat of an expert on her body, catching on quickly to what she liked and how to make her squirm.

Her hips rocked against him, causing him to hiss, his cock hardening underneath her. His fingertips pressed down firmly on her skin as she continued. Her body was so warm, soft, he loved the feeling of her skin under his hands.

With ease Walter flipped her over onto her back and climbed on top of her. His hands caressed her sides leaving a trail of goosebumps as they traveled lower.

Her back arched when his fingers delved between her folds, stroking and circling over her clit. She moaned, desperate to be filled after his teasing.

His hand moved to his crotch, slowly stroking his cock. He teased her slit with the head before easing it into her needy cunt. Leisurely, he began moving his hips, rocking in and out of her.

Looking down at her, chest rising and falling, he was reminded how crazy he is over her.

Cupping her cheek, he kissed her again, his tongue sliding over her bottom lip, urging her lips to part. Her mouth parted and her tongue met his. He hummed, leaning further down as the kiss became more passionate.

Her legs wrapped around his waist, encouraging him to fuck her deeper. She was so hot, wet, and felt so good. He furrowed his brow, focusing on how pleasurable it was being inside of her, but he was determined to make her cum first.

Y/n gripped his back, nails digging into his skin, writhing as she got closer to her own release.

He increased his pace, thrusting harder and faster. Soon Walter was panting, his warm breath fanning over her sweaty skin. His arms firmly placed by her head as he held himself up.

She gasped, squeezing her eyes shut as she came. Her legs around him tightened, holding him in place as her walls spasmed around his cock.

Y/n continued to writhe while Walter resumed moving his hips. His thrust became erratic as he neared his own climax. His fingers curled around the sheet as he finally came.

He hovered in place, catching his breath before falling onto his back beside her. The only sounds in the entire cabin were them breathing as they basked in the afterglow.

“Better than fishing?” Y/n asked playfully, rolling over onto her side, one of her legs draping over his.

Walter hummed in agreement, while placing his hand over hers and bringing it to his chest.

She giggled, “We could’ve just stayed home, y’know, to do this?”

It was a blessing when Elizabeth’s uncle had procured Victor’s help for his experiment. It meant Elizabeth would be free from Victor’s leering eyes and domineering presence. And you would no longer have to stomach the humiliation of being so disenchanting to your own husband. 

But each blessing must, of course, come with some sort of penance. You had your own rooms in the tower, separate from Victor's. He claimed he wanted no distractions. But you knew that he had finally found an excuse to escape from you. Aside from that, you were not permitted access to any other chamber. 

You knew of the laboratory on the topmost floor. There was a drainage system that was like a sort of catacombs below you. But this room, this lovely gilded cage, was the only place you were truly allowed to exist in. It did not stop late-night wanderings or occasionally dipping your head into the laboratory when Victor finally slept. 

For once, you were allowed peace. No husband breathing down your neck, demanding perfection you were not capable of. No reminders of your failings as a wife. It was a blissful quiet. 

But only for a short while. 

The candelabra in your hand burned bright against the dim moonlight escaping into the tower. You usually did not risk a light during your explorations, but tonight it felt like you might have need of it. You had heard Victor shouting in his laboratory earlier, raging against something you did not know of. 

But he had gone silent long before sunset. Hopefully, that meant you would not have anyone interrupting your rare experience of rebellion. 

The floors were cool against your feet. The chill shot straight through your legs as you moved toward the lowermost floor. The catacombs were one of the rare exceptions to your exploring. Until tonight, you’d had no desire to creep through wet, dirtied tunnels. But something was beckoning you forward, calling you toward a mission you were not yet aware of.

Just at the entrance, shouting stilled your movements. You quickly blew out your candles and hid behind the overgrown foliage infesting your new home. “One thing!” Victor’s voice, you recognized his anger well. 

“Say one thing that is not my name!” He demanded. Either your husband had finally lost his mind, or he’d accomplished his life-long mission. You could not determine which one terrified you more. 

There was loud grunting, the smack of something metal against flesh. It made you grimace, further tucking yourself into the vines. A loud metallic clatter against the floor and then your husband was storming out. His robe flew behind him as he ran up the stairs, raging about something you could not understand. 

Watching him carefully, you waited a few minutes before you decided it was safe enough to leave. You should have picked up your candelabra, should have headed back upstairs and gone to sleep. 

Instead, you find yourself turning toward the catacombs, searching for the source of Victor’s rage. “Hello?” you call softly, the cold night air seeping in from one of the drains. 

Silence is to be expected as you lean toward the idea that your husband’s mind has finally shattered. Instead, you hear something broken and strained. “Vic-tor.”

The voice stills you, your heart thudding against your ribs as you keep yourself hidden behind one of the stone columns. The gravel of the voice is deep and rougher than any man you’ve ever heard. But there’s something broken rattling within it, scared and hesitant as it waits for your husband to return. 

The pain calls to your own as you slowly reveal yourself. In front of you, curled up like a babe on a stone slab, is something grotesque. 

Not revolting in the sense that the creature hurts to look at. Though the seams along his body do make you ache for it. It is grotesque that any man would attempt to play god like this. To finally bring life into this world and then shelter it away from the sun, from life and light. 

“Oh,” you breathed out. Lifting your skirts, you rushed over the small canal of water and moved toward it. The creature, or man, you suppose, remained curled. 

His hands were covering his head and you could see fresh blood spilling along his arms. Beside him, abandoned on the floor, was a metal poker. Disgust burned in your stomach as you kicked it away. He stirred at that, lifting his hands and peering up at you. 

Something lit up in his eyes at his discovery. You smiled softly at him, attempting not to flinch as you took in just how much your husband had pieced him back together. How many sons did he mutilate to make his own? How many mothers will mourn their young while he takes them and shames them for still living?

“Hello,” you whisper. Your voice is soft from lack of use, strained after remaining silent in this tower for so long. 

The creature’s eyes widen as he slowly unfurls himself. Something about you, perhaps just that you are not Victor, stops him from cowering. And as he uncurls, you realize just how much of himself he was protecting. 

His movements are stilted, like a poorly manipulated marionette, as he moves to stand in front of you. You take a step back, peering up at his face and marveling at just how your husband sculpted him. 

“Has he named you?” You ask, smiling as the creature tilts his head, observing the lace of your gown with fascination. His eyes dart to your hair. To the tight style that Victor insists on, he does not take well to disorder in his wife. 

He lifts his hand, movements stilted as his fingers fiddle with the charm hanging from your pin. “Here,” you reach up and pull it out, caring not for the unkempt look as your hair falls free. You hold out the golden pin with its dangling charm of a leaf.

The creature runs his finger over the charm and the barest thing close to a smile lifts his lips. You watch, perplexed, as he tucks the pin to his chest and turns back toward the stone slab. With how broad his body is, you struggle to see around him. 

Though he does not make you wait long. He turns back quickly, holding out a large, orange maple leaf. 

“For me?” You ask, and he gives a quick nod, eyes eager as he watches you trace your fingers over the veins. “Look,” you reach out for the pin and smile. “We match now,” nodding toward the charm. 

His mouth moves, though no sound escapes. He seems to be attempting the word match, but his voice can’t conjure the sound. His eyes narrow, and you place your hand over his. The coldness of his skin is startling. But your husband had left him with no clothes or blanket, you should not be surprised he froze down in the catacombs. 

Before he can grow frustrated, you tug your shawl from your shoulders and reach up. It’s a slight challenge, attempting to drape the fabric over such broad shoulders, but you manage. He seems startled by the gift, watching you warily as you sit on the slab behind him. 

“So you might be warmer,” you tell him. You know not how much of your words reach him. Victor seems to have taught him nothing but his name. He rubs his fingers over the softness of the fabric and smiles as he sits beside you. 

“A name?” You ask once more. 

“Vic-tor.”

You take his hand in your own, noticing just how much he seems to lean into your touch. His eyes track your thumb as it rubs against his palm. Slowly, he reaches up to trace the shapes of your veins, to marvel at how differently your skin is compared to his seamed flesh. 

“That is his name,” you tell him. “You deserve a proper one.” Looking up into his eyes, you’re reminded of the freshness of a babe. He has just been brought into this world, with no love or warmth to greet him. No mother’s hand to cling to and explain the workings of the world. He is the first of any sort of creature like him. 

“He does always call you his Adam. While he plays with the power of a God.” You reach up to cup his cheek and his eyes flutter shut, the weight of his head resting easily in your palm. “Adam, then.”

His lips part, but again, he cannot produce any sound. “That’s alright,” you soothe. Instead, you tell him your own name. “You don’t have to say it. Just remember me.”

His chin dips and, again, you wonder how much of this he can truly understand. Is it just the softness of your voice he registers? The kindness of your touch? You wish you could better understand him. Wish that you had been with him since Victor dragged him into the world. He did not deserve the cold and darkness all on his own. 

Glancing down, you see the chains on his legs and wrists. “Wait here,” you tell him. His grip around your wrist barely tightens and you offer him a brief smile. “I’ll be back. I swear.” Slowly, his fingers drift along your skin until you’re backing away and running out of the catacombs. 

It did not take you long to find the chain’s keys in Victor’s laboratory. They had been so easily disregarded, as if he never planned to release Adam at all. When you had returned, he’d seemed surprised. Delighted, but surprised. As if he were already so used to people breaking their promises that he could not comprehend you keeping yours. 

You led him from the catacombs, and though he’d wanted to explore, you made him be quiet and follow you up the stairs. He did not resist or fight your grip, but rather followed you like a freshly imprinted babe. 

There was an instinct inside of you, left unfilled for too long, that called for you to care for him. To sit him on your bed and wrap him in as many soft blankets as you could find. You threw open your curtains and finally let him see the true glory of the night sky. 

After so long being trapped in the dark, he’d nearly walked through the window trying to get closer to the stars. “No,” you told him, struggling not to laugh. “You must watch from here,” you directed him back onto your bed. 

He smiled up at you and you brushed your thumb across his cheek, frowning as one of his seams opened. A small trickle of blood ran down his skin, but the wound closed as quickly as it had opened. “Does it hurt?” You asked, wiping the blood off. 

You had not expected an answer and he did not give one. You’re not sure he would even know what hurt means if it’s all he’s known since his heart has beat. 

Slipping onto the bed behind him, you simply watched as he marveled at the night sky. His lips parted slightly, eyes wide and shining with something you’d never seen in Victor’s gaze. “If the only word you know is Victor,” he repeated the name dutifully and you smiled. “Perhaps, tomorrow, I will read to you. Let you learn more of the world outside of your creator.”

Adam watched you now, but silence was thick between you. You pulled back your comforter and leaned against the headboard. “Let’s sleep,” you beckoned him forth. He followed hesitantly, seemingly confused by the softness of your bed. Your hand grazed gently across his arm as you helped him lower himself. 

He curled like a child again, his head resting against your thighs as you tried to revive warmth in his limbs. Tomorrow, you will read to him and work on fitting him with some proper clothes. 

When you awoke, the sun was shining brightly through your open window. It rested along Adam’s back, a better blanket than any you might provide. He’d moved in the night, one arm twined around your legs and the other around your waist as he held you close. His head still rested against your thighs, and you smiled at how soft his face was while he slept. 

“So,” you jumped, head whipping up to find Victor standing at the end of your bed. “This is where it had gone.”

“It?” You questioned, voice sharp and quiet as you tried not to wake Adam. 

“Do you dislike how I refer to my creation?” His lips are tilted in the familiar sneer you’ve grown to despise. 

You scoff, pulling the blanket higher up Adam’s chilled shoulders. “You do not get to claim him when you would not even name him. Would not give him clothes or light or warmth.”

Victor’s head tilted and he shook his head with a dismayed expression. “Do not tell me that you care for that… that thing.”

“If you will not, then someone must.” 

His lips pulled back and he let out an incredulous scoff. “This is ridiculous and I will not allow you to indulge him in such soft comforts.”

“Comfort? Do you not mean basic respect? The barest responsibilities of what we owe the life we create.”

Victor rounded your bed and your hands tightened around Adam’s shoulders. It was enough to finally have him stir. His eyes were bleary as they opened, the soft look on his face slipping through your fingers as his widened eyes found Victor’s glare. His hands tightened around you and you tried to comfort him, but Victor was reaching for his wrist and jerking him forward cruelly. 

“There was no ‘we’ in this, wife. As I recall, you seemed to fail under the one responsibility women have to society.” Your brows turned in as you leapt to your feet. You took Adam’s hand in your own, stopping Victor from dragging him away. 

“You have no right wielding that against me. If I gave you children you would treat them as you treat Adam. And when I do not you create your own life and mistreat it still.”

But Victor heard nothing you said, he never did. The only aspect he would give attention to was Adam. “You named it?”

“Him,” you snapped. Adam shrank into himself as you argued around him. You ran your thumb across his wrist but it did little to quell the fear in his eyes. 

“Enough!” Victor snapped. He released Adam and turned to you instead. You had little warning as he shoved you back against your bed. Your spine hit the post of the frame and you let out a low groan. Adam whipped around, hands raised as he stumbled toward Victor. 

For a moment, there was true fear in your husband’s eyes. A reminder to you why he’d had Adam locked away. He was something new, something fresh, built into the strongest body conceived in this new world. When a babe heard its parents fighting, it cried. But what was it to do when it had all this unknown strength in its hands?

”Back!” Victor shouted, as if Adam were nothing more than a rabid hound. When Adam continued toward him, his only noise a low growl, Victor darted back to you. His hand wrapped into your loose hair and you whined as he jerked your head back. “Back or I will strike her!” He threatened, hand poised over your cheek. 

Adam paused, the anger on his face ebbing into worry. “It’s okay,” you assured, reaching up and ripping Victor’s grip from you. Slowly, Adam’s arms fell to his sides and he shrank back into the shadows of your room. 

Victor spared you no looks or words as he strode toward Adam. He grabbed him so roughly, Adam’s arm bled as he jerked him from your room. 

“Victor!” You shouted, rushing toward your door. But he slammed it closed, your hand wrapped around the handle just as you heard the click of the key outside. “Victor, don’t you dare!” Your fists pounded against the wood but he did not respond. He did not answer your calls. 

The only sound you made out was Adam’s pitiful call of your name. Your heart ached as you slid back against the door, nightgown pooling around your legs as your head fell into your hands. You did not want to fathom what Victor’s punishment would be for Adam being allowed warmth. 

Victor did not return to you until the sun was resting well below the horizon. You had moved from your door to slump against your desk. Your hand stilled on the letter you were penning when you heard his footsteps approaching. You quickly covered the parchment, worried he might catch a glimpse of the plea you were sending Herr Harlander. 

His key slid home and the lock clicked just as you sprang to your feet. Victor’s chin was tilted down as he walked in, curls fallen over his disheveled face. You were going to remain silent, let him stew in his feelings before he finally decided to release you. Just as you always did. 

But then you caught a glimpse of the crimson staining the hems of his sleeves. The composure you usually kept so well shattered as you let out a shuddering breathing. 

“What did you do to him?” You demanded. 

Victor’s face finally lifted, there were grooves so deep under his eyes they might be mistaken for bruises. Never before have you seen your husband so worn, so weary and human. He rarely showed you more than carefully curated disinterest. But if he had wanted you to see him in any other light, he should have done so before you discovered Adam. 

“He plagues me,” he beseeches. “He is an insult to that which I dedicated my life. I have done nothing but be disappointed by him.”

“Oh,” you scoff. “Is that your excuse for beating him?”

Victor shakes his head. “I thought you might listen, I should have known better.”

He turns to leave and you follow. “No, Victor. You do not walk away this time.” He turned but it was clear how little he cared for what you said. “When I am with you, I have no voice. When you are beside me you have no ears. But tonight, for once, you will listen to me. You will pretend I am someone that you care for, respect. Pretend I am Elizabeth if you must, but listen.”

Your voice is the surest it’s ever been when addressing him. It is not soft or controlled, but filled with the jagged edges of anger. Victor watches you warily, eyes widened in surprise that you might speak against him. But, for once, you hold an ounce of his attention. 

“God has granted the gift of life to women. He did so with care and reason. And you stand there and spit in his face, in the very face of life and nature. You have stolen a dozen mother’s sons. You have not granted them the peace or even the dignity of a burial.”

Victor shakes his head with a scoff and turns toward the stairs. But this time you will not allow him to escape. You will not let the sins of his past slip through his fingers as he simply ignores them. You will be the voice of all those he has hurt if you have to, if only to help the man he keeps buried beneath your home. 

“You have debased them and dissected them to create your own life. Through that you ignore the cries and grief of those mothers. You care not for any pain or suffering but your own as you torture and shun that life which you created. The life which you so vehemently sought after.”

"Oh, yes!” He whirls around as you both reach his laboratory. “And what a life it is! Dull and useless, capable of only one word!”

"Yes! Your name. You are his creator, his father, his mother. There is a reason, my dear Victor, that God gave this gift only to his women. Through this endeavor, you have not grown closer to your mother or recovered the pieces of her that were stolen from you. You have become your father as he was to you.”

"Do not,” he steps forward, finger jabbing toward your face. “Do not compare me to that man,” he hisses, turning and pacing the length of the lab. You are relentless, a shadow nipping at his heels, a voice to all the ghosts following behind him. 

“Why? Because you know I speak the truth? He saw you, Victor. He saw the hollowness, the void where a soul and heart ought to be. You have no light inside of you so you must steal it from others. This is why he cherished William, why he hated you as you hate your own son.”

Victor lunges for you and the breeze brushes along the back as you realize how close to the edge of the lab he’s backed you. “That thing,” he shouts, “is not my son!”

"No,” you agree, eyes welling with tears as you struggle not to reach out and just hurt him. “He is the son of a dozen other women. All of whom would rip you to pieces so they might have another moment with their child.” His hands wrap around your arms, jerking you back, but you will not relent. You will not cower. “You have no respect for life,” you hiss. “You wish only to control it. And if your mother could see what you have become, she would turn from you just as you have Adam.”

You could see this shift in his gaze. The moment where he stops seeing you as a wife, as something to dismiss, and as an adversary. Victor hated Adam because he was a reflection of all that Victor could never be. And now, in your eyes, he saw the same. He saw the honesty of himself, the monstrosity of his grotesque being. 

“Enough!” He shouted, releasing you with a shove. Your feet slipped along the cool floor and your breath remained frozen as you fell from the edge. Victor rushed forward, eyes wide as he reached for your hands. But all you could feel was the wind against your back, the momentary weightlessness as you saw nothing but the moon shining above you. Until your body smashed against the rocks below and the lights went out. 

And Adam, stuck beneath the home, he could hear only the vaguest noise of anger and hatred. Then, through his one opening to the world, he saw something white and free. Like the biggest bird he’d never seen, falling past him. And he wondered what it would feel like to fly. 

Victor held no particular love or affection for you. You were a living reminder that even beyond the grave, his father would always have control over his life. You had not given him sons of his own, or embodied the role of his wife in any sort of way as his mother had. 

Truthfully, he’d always imagined that your death would make his life better. Oftentimes, he caught himself picturing how a fever might take you, or you might even face death as his mother had. But, despite his disinterest, he always found himself shamed after such thoughts. 

Still, in all of those shadowed moments of his life, he had never imagined himself so desperately working to bring you back to him. Not as he did now, with thunder sounding above his laboratory. His hands bloodied and shirt ruined as he stitched together the ruined pieces of your flesh. 

The rocks had done much damage to your body, but he could fix you. Just as he’d done with the creature. He could make you better, stronger, and live again. Perhaps, him doing this so quickly after your death meant you might retain some of the intelligence his other creation lacked. Perhaps you might return to him as you once were. 

Much of your bones had been shattered against the jagged coast. He’d had to borrow skeleton and skin from his leftover remains. But you would not nearly be as patchwork as the creature was. Even now, he could still see you beneath his stitches and seams. Your eyes were still your own, your lips and nose. You were still his wife. 

Victor placed the metal casing around your body and lifted you as he’d once done with the creature. You would be his once more. No one ever need know of what happened tonight. Of his brief insanity when he’d pushed you over the edge. 

Elizabeth would never have reason to look at him with hatred in her eyes as she learned of what he’d done to her only companion. 

Victor pushed his rain soaked hair back from his face and watched the lightning strike from above. Your body arched from the slab as his lab worked to ignite life in you once more. 

Yes, it could be as it always had been. 

But, perhaps, this time you would not look at him with such ire in your eyes. 

Adam, that was what you called him. Victor, he’d thought, was the name for all. He knew the sun, knew that sun meant life. But the rest was slow to come. His name first, and then he’d discovered yours. It was the prettiest word he’d ever heard. Though, he had not heard many. 

With that name, it was followed by softness. A touch that was not accompanied by the sharp sting of that rod Victor used. He had not had long with you. But it had been the sweetest moments since he’d first opened his eyes. Sweet as it had been when Victor had first shown him sun, before he took it away. 

And when Victor brought you back down to Adam, he felt something tight within him. He had no word for the feeling, just that it was good. Even in the presence of his creator. 

Adam looked up from the pretty charm you’d given him and stood as Victor carried you closer. The sharp glare his creator gave him had him moving back a step. “Back!” Victor snapped, even if Adam was already doing so. Another feeling, aching and sharp, rattled through him. It was like having something taken from him, that’s all he knew every time Victor appeared. Though, that was less and less lately. 

Victor moved to the slab across Adam and placed you carefully down on the stone. Adam frowned, seeing that you now had bandages similar to his own. They were wound around your arms, chest and bottom. But your face remained similar, only a few marks along your chin. Victor allowed you to keep your hair, something he had not granted Adam. 

Victor’s hands ran over your chest before he leaned down, pressing his ear to the bandages. Adam crept closer, wondering why you were not smiling or speaking. “Back!” Adamn flinched and stayed where he was. But you did not move, your eyes were not open to him and he felt that ache once more. 

Why did you not look at him?

Victor’s eyes pinched closed before your chest lifted and he finally let out a sharp breath. He moved, pressing his forehead to yours as he whispered something Adam could not hear. Victor’s lips lingered against your temple before he stepped back. 

“Do not touch her,” Victor warned. He even picked up the rod, lunging toward Adam until he was curled up along his slab. “I will be back later. Do not make a noise, do not even look at her.” 

For good measure, Victor brought the rod down against Adam until he could feel his seams splitting. Only when Adam was limp against the ground did Victor leave once more. Adam waited until the cold of the ground began to hurt to finally stand. 

Slowly, he crawled toward you. His chains managed just enough length to be able to kneel at your side. His fingers reached out, slowly trailing along the seams of your arms. You had not looked like this before. But now, you were like Adam. Cold like him, skin discolored as his. Did this mean Victor would hate you now as he did Adam? 

Your chest stuttered and Adam watched the bandages around them carefully. Slowly, your eyes began to open. He sank down further, worried you might not want his to be the first face you see. 

Your eyes darted across the ceiling before you sat up. Slowly, Adam began to recognize something else you shared with him. Your eyes, once so warm and soft, were as confused and scared as his so often were. 

His lips struggled around your name, the sound coming slow and broken. Nothing like how you had so sweetly told him. Finally, you looked at him. The care was gone, the warmth was gone and Adam felt that unnamed feeling. Your lips parted, but nothing came from them and he realized just what Victor had taken from him. From both of you. 

He held you as you had held him. The coldness of your skin made him ache as you curled into his arms. Adam did not think himself capable of gentleness, not when Victor had told him he was nothing more than an abomination. The word was foreign to him, but he knew that it was not a term one would use for a sweet creature such as yourself. 

He missed you, even as he held you. He missed the gentleness of your touch, how you had looked at him with such care. You seemed only frightened now, trembling as you took in the grey confines of your new home. You were not chained as Adam was, but you stayed with him nonetheless. 

He said your name again, clumsily stroking your hair as you struggled to repeat the word. You caught on quicker than he had. Already, you had more words than Adam did. “Wrong,” you kept saying. Adam wasn’t sure he knew what you meant, but a bad feeling accompanied the word. 

“Am wrong,” you muttered. Adam simply handed you his favorite leaf, hoping the color might distract you from this feeling of yours. 

Footsteps echoed through the room and Adam tensed, grip tightening around yours. It would be Victor, coming to take him away from you again. 

“Hello?” 

No, this was not Victor. This voice was soft, kind as yours had once been. Adam turned slightly and found the most colors he’d ever seen greeting him. The woman offered a fragile smile, pulling back her veil and revealing hair even brighter than his leaf. 

She moved closer and Adam did not release you. Even as you sat up, head tilting like you recognized the sweet cadence of her voice. She stilled as your face appeared above Adam’s shoulder. The smile fell away and she dropped her hat. 

Your name was a broken sound as she rushed toward you. Adam flinched as she dropped before you both. Her hands shook as she reached toward. Another shattered whisper of your name and you were sinking from Adam’s grip into her arms. 

“What has he done?” The woman curled her arm around you and looked at Adam. Her hand came up to cup his cheek and he sank into the warmth of her touch. “Oh, to both of you? You poor creatures.” Her hands urged at Adam until he was compelled to follow beside you and sit on the floor with her. 

It was in her arms that he felt the warmth Victor had stolen from you. Even you stopped your whispers, simply leaning into her touch. “I am sorry,” she told you. “I never should have let you follow him.”

“Elizabeth,” his creator’s voice. Not as sharp as it always was, but enough to make Adam curl himself around both of you. 

Elizabeth looked up and glared at Victor. “What have you done to her?”

“There was an accident,” Victor snapped. “I saved her.”

“No,” clear liquid trickled down Elizabeth’s cheeks, dissimilar to the blood that usually stained Adam’s skin. “You killed her.”

Victor came over then, he growled when he saw Adam holding you both. “What did I say?” He jerked the chains around his wrists and dragged him back to his own slab. “You do not touch her!” Adam flinched as Victor shoved him back into the slab. 

Victor stood in front of Elizabeth, arm outstretched as you slowly uncurled from her. “Elizabeth, come, I do not yet know if she is dangerous.”

“Dangerous,” Elizabeth scoffed as she got to her feet. “The only dangerous one here is you.”

“Trust me,” Victor breathed sharply, “it is not me.”

“Wrong,” they both went still as you whispered. “wrong,” you muttered again. Adam wanted to go to you, but he didn’t want Victor to punish you both. 

“What?” Victor’s eyes were wide as he discovered an intelligence that had been buried in Adam. 

You lifted your gaze, stringy hair dropping in front of your face. “Victor,” you pushed out, words strangled and cracking. “Victor did this. Am wrong.”

Victor grabbed Elizabeth before you could stand. He led her and another man from the catacombs, despite Elizabeth's protests. You stayed where you were, glaring as he retreated. Slowly, you slumped back against the floor, eyes fluttering shut. 

Again, Adam had little time with you. Despite Victor’s vehement hatred of Adam, you would not leave his side. Victor attempted to shackle you, but you did not trust him as Adam once had. Instead, you fought, clawed and kicked until Victor was flying through the catacombs. His back had struck a column so hard debris had rained down around him. 

Then, you crawled beside Adam and sat stubbornly at his side. Victor had not tried to separate you again after that. Words came to you faster than Adam could discover them. Sometimes you would just mutter them under your breath, stringing something together that Adam had not witnessed. 

“Fall,” you would say. Push and Victor. You would tell him names of people he had never known and Adam would listen, just so long as you stayed so stubbornly at his side. 

Now, something pungent struck the air. Greasy and wrong, something pooled through the water of Adam and yours canal. You held tight to Adam’s hand as Victor carried down large metal jugs that held the same smell. 

Neither of you spoke, simply watched Victor. Each time Victor grew too close, you would position yourself in front of Adam, eyeing the metal rod by your feet with a threat. Victor did not acknowledge either of you, not until he had brought down the last foul-smelling jug. 

“One word,” he said to Adam. “One word!”

Adam said the only word he truly loved, your name. Adam doubted he ever could have said something that would have been the right answer. But that was clearly worse than anything else he could have uttered. Victor strode forward and before either you or Adam could react, he slammed a knife deep into your chest. 

Adam was frozen, eyes wide as he watched the blood spill from your chest. Watched as it bled through your bandages and stained the stone below you crimson. Victor did no hesitate in throwing your limp body over his shoulder. He did not turn even as Adam shouted your name, as his chains rattled as he failed to chase after you both. 

Your blood dripped from Victor’s shoulder, oozed into the water splashing around Victor’s feet until it made its way back to Adam. Something ached in his chest, it burned and ripped until he thought his seams might split. 

When a word made its way to his mind, when something that could poorly capture this devastation was discovered, the fire came. Adam could not chase after you or Victor, not as the water before him ignited. He had little choice but to rip at his chains and follow the downward path of your blood in the water. 

Elizabeth ran her fingers gently across your hair. It was her, not Victor, who taught you what life was. Who read books to you until you could remember the vague outlines of your life. Your mind held no faces, no true memories, just the shadows of feelings. 

Victor had been your husband. Now, he was your creator. Nothing more than a warden to keep you hidden from the world. Elizabeth, you assumed, must be what a mother is meant to be. 

It is her wedding, yet she sits behind you and cares for you. You read from the Bible, a passage of Adam and Eve as that familiar ache of loss burns against the back of your throat. Elizabeth’s fingers go still in your hair as your voice stumbles to a stop. 

“Are you thinking of him again?”

You nod, forgetting the words she’d dutifully retaught you. Elizabeth moves from her chair and kneels before you. Her soft hands soothe over your cheeks as she offers you a small smile. “He is out there,” she promises you. “You feel when the people you love are gone.”

Her hand presses to your chest and you mimic the movement, letting the beat of her heart calm your racing mind. “It is something hollow inside you. Something instinctual as breathing. We feel those we truly love.” She tilts her head and smiles, “Do you still feel him?”

“Yes,” you whisper. 

She nods and brushes your hair back. “So do I,” she promises. 

You let yourself sink into her touch and revel in the warmth only she seems capable of in this cold, aching estate. 

“What have I said?”

You refuse to open your eyes as Victor limps into her room. She pushes your hair down and looks over your shoulder. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

”I thought that was only meant for the groom,” he attempted humor but he was a poor actor at hiding his own bitterness. Again, you could feel his eyes boring into your back. “Now, Eve,” the name was a mockery of the one you’d gifted Adam. A cruel reminder of that which he had stolen from you. 

Elizabeth slowly released you and you got to your feet. As you brushed past Victor, his hand shot out, jerking up your elbow. “I do not want to have this conversation again.”

Your eyes narrowed on his hand and he faltered. With a sharp shove, you sent him stumbling back, his new leg buckling from under him. You took no joy in watching him suffer, just felt that familiar emptiness within you. 

You spared him not another glance as you left Elizabeth’s room and moved quickly to his. He did not want others seeing you. You would not even be allowed to watch Elizabeth be wed tonight. Your only joy would be hearing her recount it to you later. 

Why would he bring you back if he did not even want you? If he had never wanted you?

Inside Victor’s rooms, you found yourself walking toward the windows as you often did. You watched as the guests began to arrive, women veiled and gowned in white. You looked down at your own black dress and felt yourself begin to crumple.

Tears were something new to you. Discovered only after you’d awoken after Victor’s second time murdering you. When you realized the other half of yourself had been left to burn away. But if you could come back, surely so could he. 

Sniffling, you sank to the floor and let your head press to the cool glass. 

“You,” a low voice called. 

You gasped, jumping to your feet as you whirled around. “Who’s there?” You attempted to peer into the shadows of the room, but Victor kept it far too dark for you to see anything properly. 

Then, softer than anyone’s spoken to you in a long time, you hear your name. And he’s appearing. Bigger than you remember, with hair grown in rebellion against your creator. His eyes are still the same, wide and yearning for a kindness the world has given neither of you. 

“Adam,” his name was the first breath of relief you’ve had since you were reborn. Possibly before then. 

He stepped fully into the light, shoulders hunched beneath his furs as you rushed toward him. Your arms flew around his waist and he stilled, unsure what to do with himself. But when you tightened your grip, when you let out a shuddering cry against his chest, he finally held you. Just as he’d done when you’d first woken up in a new body. As you had done for him when you’d first discovered him. 

“I thought he had stolen you from me,” he whispered, back hunched as he cradled you in his arms. 

“I knew,” you whispered. “I knew you would find me again.” Adam’s arms held tighter to you and you basked in the warmth he was finally capable of providing. 

“I will not let you walk this world alone,” he swore. “Will not let you face the harshness of the hordes of man on your own.”

"You will not lose me,” you promised to him. “No matter what man or creature tries, we only have each other in this life and all the next.”

Vows more meaningful than any a priest might have you echo, you and Adam parted, finally having found a reason to live again. Not simply to survive, but to move through this life knowing that there was purpose for it. 

And when Victor returned, he found his chambers empty. His wife and creation having disappeared completely. The only sign where she might have gone being a dying leaf left on his desk. 

end. — I do not own the characters or the novel/movies Frankenstein, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2025. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

Your entrance was fit for a queen, yet within your breast beat the heart of a mere woman. The very air seemed to bow as you passed, and the bells poured their solemn song upon the streets like a rain of bronze blessings. Each peal did not merely announce your arrival; it hammered the death of one age and the dawn of another. Men, women, and children chanted your name, yet in their voices was not only jubilation; there was a blind faith, an adoration that verged upon the divine and which, for an instant, rendered you as powerful as you were vulnerable. Flowers burst into petals at your feet, an ephemeral and fragrant carpet the wind seemed to weave solely to honour you. The soldiers guarding you did so with the martial reverence of those who protect a being beyond their comprehension. You were no maiden, no common bride: you were the heart of a kingdom and, for one man alone, his only reason for existence.

As you crossed the threshold of the church, the doors, tall as centuries, groaned open, unleashing a gust of cold air that kissed your skin not as a whisper, but as the very breath of history. For a moment, the world outside faded. The murmur of the multitude was extinguished, drowned by the sound of your own heart, a slow and tremulous drum beating the measure of your destiny. You felt something within you, the last seed of the girl you had been, break open to make way for the sprouting woman you were to become.

Incense floated in the penumbra, a veil of sanctity that your very step illuminated. Your gown, woven with threads of sunlight, flowed like a liquid current of light, and every fold glittered, stealing fire from the votive candles. The gaze of the congregation fixed upon you, they bowed, but your eyes were only for the figure waiting at the end of the nave.

Vlad.

His eyes, a blue as deep and tempestuous as the northern sea, lifted to yours, and in them was no trace of the warrior prince, the sovereign of iron will. There was only the devotion of a man who beholds, at last, his own salvation. Upon his face was no doubt, no pride, but a tenderness so intense it seared your soul. An intensity that promised his love would be both a refuge and an eternal fire.

When he saw you, the world lost its contours, its logic. His lips parted, a near-imperceptible gesture that betrayed how your mere presence had stolen his breath. And in that instant, you felt it: that invisible thread, that shared pulse beating in the space between you, a secret known only to you both.

He extended his hand to you. A hand, firm and pale, whose marks told tales of battles and an ancestral lineage. And yours, tremulous and warm, surrendered to his with the certainty of the dawn yielding to the horizon. In that first contact, skin against skin.

It was desire and absolution, strength and vulnerability, all as one.

Then, the priest spoke. His grave voice resonated beneath the vaults, and the sacred words—"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit…"—wove themselves with the crackle of the candles.

But you scarce heard him. The altar, the relics, the stained glass that cut the light into blades of colour… all blurred into a distant dream.

You saw only him. His gaze was your only world.

And then, unable to contain yourself, you smiled at him. It was not the conscious smile of a queen for her people, nor that of a bride for foreign eyes. It was *that* smile of yours, the very same you had gifted him long before your mind understood what your soul already knew: that he was the man with whom you yearned to share not just one life, but all that might ever exist.

When the moment for the vows arrived, the words flowed from your lips with a terrifying ease.

"You are the storm I was never afraid of, and the peace my soul never knew it craved. I am not merely giving myself to you, for I have been yours since the beginning of time. I am choosing you, Vlad Tepes. Before this altar, before God and our kingdom, I choose you. I vow to be your sword and your shield, your sanctuary and your strength. I will walk with you in sunlight and stand with you in the deepest shadows. My love for you is not a fleeting emotion; it is the very core of my existence. I am yours, completely and eternally, bound to you in this life and in every life that may follow."

To pronounce the oath that would bind you in life and, if need be, beyond death, was the simplest and truest promise you had ever made.

His eyes, glistening with a raw, unchecked emotion, held yours captive. His voice, usually so commanding, was a low, fervent whisper meant for you alone with your name.

"From the moment I saw you, I knew the emptiness had been a prelude to your light. You are not just my wife; you are the resurrection of my heart, the purpose forged from my every sin and battle. I vow to honor you as my queen, cherish you as my wife, and protect you as the most vital part of my own soul. No kingdom, no throne, no power will ever hold a fraction of the meaning you hold for me. My life is yours. My name is yours. My eternal fidelity is yours. I am bound to you, body and soul, until death do us part."

Your hands, now firm, clung to his as anchors in a silent storm. You felt the coolness of his skin and the heat of your blood merge into a single torrent. To speak his name was not a mere sound, it was an invocation, a key closing the circle of your destiny. You swore to stand by him in every joy and every shadow, until Time itself, exhausted, should surrender and part you.

The ceremony advanced, a river of rituals towards its culmination. And then, when the Archbishop proclaimed your union with a voice that rumbled in the stone—"…I declare you husband and wife"—the world held its breath.

He did not wait. There was no protocol that could contain the torrent of his waiting. You are his wife.

His hands rose to frame your face. His palms became the most tender of sanctuaries. His touch was at once firm and infinitely delicate, as if he were holding the very essence of light.

And then, he inclined his head.

His kiss was not a simple seal; it was a consecration.

It was the first kiss of Vlad, the Voivode, with his wife. It was soft yet deep as the abyss in his eyes. In that contact, there was not only unleashed passion, there was a silent oath that pierced flesh and engraved itself directly upon the soul. It was not merely the kiss of a man to a woman; it was the promise of the warrior to his only love, of the eternal being to his reason for existing through eternity.

As you parted, the air that filled your lungs was new. The world remained, yet nothing was the same. You had ceased to be "you" and had become "we." And in the stillness that followed, there was only the echo of his lips upon yours and the absolute certainty that, finally, everything had begun.

Upon stepping from the sacred gloom into the castle corridors, a boundless energy, too long contained, was unleashed in a torrent of pure jubilation.

The solemnity shattered like a spell felt his arms encircling you, and from your throat sprang a crystalline laugh that flooded the ancient stone, a sound so vital and carefree it seemed to restore the soul to those walls.

He lifted you into the air as if you were light as the petals that hours before had kissed your feet. The world became a whirl of lights and shadows as he spun with you, possessed by an ecstasy as primitive as it was powerful. No protocol held value, no other glance held meaning. There existed only the vertigo of his embrace and the promise of his lips seeking yours.

When they found them, the kiss was as ardent and possessive as the first had been reverent. He leaned over you, arching you backwards in a perfect, daring curve, and in that total surrender, with blood singing in your ears, only one mundane concern managed to filter into your ecstasy.

"My crown!" you murmured against his lips, unable to suppress a smile that belied all protest.

Your hand, clumsy and joyous, did its utmost to keep the heavy diadem of gold and gems in its place, the symbol of your rank which in that moment seemed the most frivolous thing in the world. He broke the kiss for but a moment, his blue eyes shining with amused mischief and a love so vast it made you dizzy still.

"Damn the crown," he murmured, his voice a hoarse, loving echo that coursed through you like a shiver of desire. "The only crown that matters is this," he added, letting his lips brush your forehead with a sweetness that contrasted with the ferocity of his embrace. "The place where resides the woman who has just crowned me king of her own heart."

It was a wonderful, intoxicating madness, absolute and wholly yours. A happiness so complete it defied words, for it had transcended language to claim every fibre of your being. You did not understand how he had managed to conquer every corner of your heart, but you knew it with the same certainty with which you knew the sun would rise at dawn: just as he was irrevocably yours, you were, and always had been, the most precious possession of his soul.

With a deliberate slowness, almost reverent, you brought your fingers to his chin. Your thumb traced the line of his jaw, a gesture of tenderness and adoration that mapped a territory already known, already beloved. Your eyes drank from his, travelling the familiar landscape of his lips, the abyssal intensity of his gaze, as if you were etching every detail for the eternity they now, at last, had permission to share.

"You always were," you whispered, your voice a thread of sound. "You were always the king of my heart, Vlad. Only now..." A shy smile, filled with the complicity of all shared secrets and stolen glances, played upon your lips. "Now I need not hide it. The entire world may see."

His eyes, for an instant, seemed to mist with an emotion so raw and powerful it stole your breath. It was the vulnerability of the warrior who, before the truth of your love, let all his defences fall.

"And I love you," he confessed, and the words sounded not as a simple declaration, but as a vow more sacred than any uttered at the altar. "I love you with a fervour that terrifies me. You are the heartbeat that returns life to my veins, the light that banishes the darkness of my nights. To love you is the only and truest law of my existence."

No further words could contain the storm of feeling his confession had unleashed. His seeking of your lips was not a kiss, but a reaffirmation.

When you finally parted, breathless, your forehead resting against his, a fanfare of trumpets sounded and the world outside returned to your bubble as a distant rumour.

"They await us," you murmured against his lips, your voice still tremulous from the intensity of the moment.

He gave a broad, carefree smile, an expression that made the years of war and darkness seem but a fleeting bad dream.

"Let them wait," he whispered, but then a spark of pure mischief shone in his blue eyes. "Or not."

Before you could question him, he bent and, with one fluid and powerful motion, swept you into his arms as if you were little more than a feather. A stifled cry of surprise and delight escaped your lips as your arms instinctively encircled his neck.

"Vlad!"

"Hush, my queen," said he, and his voice was a caress filled with pride. "A royal entrance demands a royal extravagance."

And thus, carried in the arms of your husband, you made your entrance into the great hall of the banquet. The massive oak doors were thrown wide and an explosion of sound enveloped you: the roar of hundreds applauding, the thunderous cheers of the boyars and soldiers, and the joyous melodies of the minstrels filling the vault with lutes and flutes. It was not a procession; it was a conquest. He, your Voivode, carrying you as his most precious spoil of war, and you, radiant and laughing, the queen who crowned his sweetest victory.

The hall was an ocean of light and colour. Immense fires crackled in the hearths, and hundreds of candles glittered in the gold of the tapestries hanging from the stone walls, where scenes of the hunt and ancient legends seemedq to spring to life with the dancing shadows. The long tables groaned with an abundance worthy of legend: boars roasted with apples in their mouths, golden loaves, mountains of winter fruits and rivers of red wine that gleamed like rubies in silver goblets.

But the true magic lay not in the opulence, but in the joy. A palpable happiness hung in the air, a spirit of celebration that united lord and servant in a single dance of jubilation. And at the centre of that universe, were you.

You were the living image of pure love, the embodiment of a fairytale sprung to life. He, with his sovereign's bearing, softened his gaze only for you. You, with your grace, found rest only in his arms. You danced until your feet burned, a spinning, joyous dance where the world narrowed to his eyes and the firmness of his hand at your waist. Your laughter—his, low and husky; yours, crystalline—intertwined and were lost within the music, a sound sweeter than any melody.

The guests toasted again and again. "To the Voivode Vlad and his Queen! Long life and prosperity!"

The final toast still echoed in the hall when, with a conspiratorial smile towards Vlad, you withdrew amidst applause. Your ladies led you to the nuptial chambers, where the gown woven with threads of sun was replaced by a robe of the finest white linen, simple and light.

Seated on the edge of the conjugal bed, a goblet of red wine held between your hands, you waited. The silence here was different, a sweet nervousness that made your blood pulse more fiercely. Whatever was to transpire this night, it would be for a future you had so often been told was impossible.

The door opened with a soft creak and he was there, framed within it. The fire from the hearth gilded the contours of his body, accentuating the breadth of his shoulders and the firm line of his jaw. Your heart, already beating furiously, quickened to an almost painful rhythm.

The overwhelming certainty of how his mere presence filled the chamber with a warmth that prickled your skin.

A roguish smile, full of a newly discovered confidence, curved upon your lips. You brought the goblet to them and took a slow, deliberate sip, never taking your eyes from him.

"My lord husband," you said, your voice low, laden with a playful tone that was an invitation in itself.

Vlad's eyes, which already watched you with intensity, darkened with desire. One corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile.

"My lady wife," he replied, and the two simple words resonated like a caress in the penumbra.

He advanced then, with the deliberate slowness of a predator savouring the moment before the feast. Your pulse quickened, feeling the air thicken around him. When he stood before you, you expected him to take your hand to help you rise, but to your surprise, he did not touch you. Instead, he knelt.

It was a gesture of such profound and powerful humility that it stole your breath. The feared Prince of Wallachia, on his knees before you. His hands came to rest with infinite tenderness upon your thighs, over the white fabric of your robe. The heat of his palms seared through the cloth, an intimate brand that affirmed his possession.

"I missed you," he confessed, his voice a husky whisper, a breeze laden with storm. His gaze, fixed on yours, burned with a devotion that bordered on worship.

A slight, nervous laugh escaped your lips. "It was only a few minutes, my love." You brought your fingers to his hair to sweep it back from his face.

"Minutes," he repeated, as if the word tasted of gall. One of his hands rose to caress your cheek, and you leaned your face into his touch. "Every instant I breathe in this world without you at my side is an eternity in hell. It is as if the sun itself refuses to rise, leaving me in a cold twilight." His thumb traced the line of your lower lip. "You are the beat of my heart, the air in my lungs. Without you, I am but a shadow, and shadows cannot love. They cannot live."

His words, as possessive as they were desperate, only served to stoke the fire burning within you.

Without a sound, you brought your hands to his face, framing that countenance you had loved even before understanding why.

"Now you have an entire lifetime to ensure you never become a shadow again, my lord," you whispered, bringing your face closer to his. "Your life, and mine. Entwined forever."

The groan that emerged from his chest was pure, satisfied yearning. It was the final surrender to a love that consumed and redeemed him in the same breath.

And when his arms encircled you, drawing you against his hard, muscular body, and his parted lips met yours, your consciousness abruptly stilled. It was a kiss unlike all others, because he knew where it would end: a kiss of exquisite restraint, of pagan hunger.

His tongue swept over your lips, urging them to part, insisting, and when they did, he plunged into your mouth. His hands slid restlessly, possessively, up and down your back, over your breasts, tracing your spine, pressing you firmly against his hardened thighs, and you felt yourself slowly falling into a dizzying abyss of sensuality and awakened passion. With a silent moan of helpless surrender, you wrapped your arms around his neck, clinging to him for support.

Somewhere in the recesses of your mind, you felt your robe slip away, and then the touch of his palms against your swollen breasts, the sudden increase of fire in each searing kiss. Arms like bands of steel encircled you, lifted you, cradled you, and then carried you to the bed, laying you gently upon the cool sheets. Abruptly, the warmth, the security of his arms, his body and his mouth withdrew.

Emerging slowly from the dreamy stupor in which you had deliberately sought refuge from the reality of what was to come, the cool air touched your skin. He was standing by the bed, removing his clothes, and a tremor of alarmed admiration shook you. In the firelight, his skin resembled oiled bronze, and the heavy muscles of his arms, shoulders and thighs rippled as his fingers went to the fastening of his breeches. He was splendid, you realised, magnificent.

Swallowing a knot of awe, it finally dawned upon you that this man was your husband, yours alone.

The bed dipped under his weight, and you could not maintain your composure. You never could, not when it came to him. You stretched your arms to feel the heat of his chest beneath your palms and to look directly into those blue depths that somehow conquered your heart each time they met yours.

Vlad was not so hasty. Stretching out beside you, he gave a light kiss to your ear and, with gentleness but determination, pushed aside the little that prevented him from seeing you completely. His breath caught as he beheld you in all your naked splendour. A blush stained your skin from your hair to your toes as he gazed upon you. Without thought, he voiced his thoughts aloud. “Have you any conception of your own beauty?” he whispered, his voice husky, as his gaze drifted slowly upward to your enchanting countenance, tracing the hue and light of your hair, which lay in luxuriant waves upon the pillow. “Or of the depth of my desire for you?”

A tremor, born of awe and sweet anticipation, coursed through you as his hand came to rest upon your cheek, his thumb caressing the line of your jaw with a tenderness that belied the fervour in his smouldering regard.

“Open your eyes, my love,” murmured Vlad, and his voice was like rough velvet, laden with a desire that resonated in the penumbra. “I wish to look upon you. I wish for you to look upon me.”

Your eyelids, heavy with pleasure, lifted slowly, and you found yourself captive to his blue gaze, an ocean of stormy devotion. His hand slipped from your cheek to your neck, and then, with a reverent possessiveness, to your bosom, where his palm curved about your gentle swell. A tremulous sigh escaped your lips.

“Don’t fear,” he murmured, as his fingers found your nipple and stroked it with a deliberate slowness, tracing circles of fire that made you arch your back. “Never fear my love.”

His mouth then descended upon yours, not as a conquest, but as a question. The first contact, soft as a butterfly’s wing, sent a shiver of pure pleasure down your spine. Then, his tongue traced the contour of your lips, beseeching entry, tempting with a patience that was both torture and ecstasy. And when you yielded, when your lips parted for him, his kiss became deep, moist, and hungry, a feast of shared tastes and mingling souls.

“Kiss me,” he pleaded, his voice ragged, and you obeyed, tangling your hands in his hair, returning every caress with an urgency you knew not you possessed. A growl of pure satisfaction vibrated in his chest, and his arm closed about your waist, pressing you against the evident, firm proof of his desire.

When he finally parted his lips from yours, his breath was a ragged gasp against your skin, and you felt the very blood singing in your veins, each beat of your heart a drum marking the rhythm of this new, glorious madness. With fingers that could scarcely be stilled, you touched his face, tracing the line of his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth, feeling the texture of his skin beneath your fingertips.

Your gaze then travelled downward, and in the faint light, you glimpsed the marks that furrowed his torso. They were not mere scars; they were maps of battles, histories of pain which your heart read with a pang of agony. Without thought, your fingers followed the path of one such mark, the longest, that drew most perilously near his heart.

He held his breath, watching you, awaiting the revulsion or pity he had ever found in the eyes of others. But in your eyes, there was none of that—only a reflected sorrow, an empathy so profound it clouded your vision with unshed tears.

“My God, how you have suffered,” you whispered, your voice fractured with emotion.

And before he could react, you bent forward, and your lips, soft as petals, touched each of those marks in turn, kissing them, as if by that simple act you could absorb his ancient pain and grant him succour. A violent tremor shook him. “For you,” he growled, his voice rough, charged with a raw emotion. “All the pain of my past… for you, it is transmuted into light.”

His control shattered.

With a hoarse moan, his hands tangled in your hair and he turned you gently, placing you beneath him. “My love,” he murmured, again and again against your skin, kissing every inch he could reach: your eyelids, your brow, the line of your jaw, before reclaiming your mouth with a passion that left you breathless.

His mouth descended to your breast, and the world dissolved into sensation. His tongue and lips toyed with your nipples until they were hard and sensitive, and every suckle, every caress, made you moan and writhe, your hands clutching his shoulders as anchors in a sea of pleasure. His hands, meanwhile, roamed your form, tracing lines of fire from your hips to the inner softness of your thighs, urging you to open for him.

A vestige of nervousness made you tighten your legs, but he answered with a whisper against your skin. “Trust in me,” he murmured, and his fingers found the very core of your desire, touching, stroking, preparing you with a skill that drove you to distraction. “I shall make you feel only pleasure, this I vow.”

You yielded to his words, to his caresses, and as your muscles relaxed, his fingers delved into your warmth, an expert intruder that found a rhythm which made your body arch from the bed. Sensations mounted within you, a sweet, burgeoning pressure that made you forget all but his name upon your lips.

He settled over you then, and through a fog of desire, you saw his face, marked by an inner struggle, his muscles taut with the strain of holding back. His hands slid beneath your hips, tilting you towards him, and you felt the heat of his manhood pressing against your very entrance.

“You are mine,” he whispered, and in his eyes there was no doubt, only an absolute truth. “For ever.”

And then, with a slowness that was both a blessing and a torment, he sheathed himself within you.

A stifled moan, a pang of sharp, unknown pain, and your nails dug into his arms. He stilled at once, frozen, his gaze seeking yours with a heart-rending concern.

“Breathe, my love,” he begged, his brow resting against yours, his very frame trembling with the effort of stillness. “Only breathe. I have you.”

He waited, patient as the night, until your body acclimated to his incredible fullness, until the pain ebbed and was replaced by a sensation of union so profound it filled your eyes with tears. Only then, when a sigh of acceptance escaped your lips, did he begin to move.

It was an ancient dance, a primal rhythm your body recognised at once. Slow at first, each thrust a deep caress that explored every secret part of your being. Then, as your breath quickened and your hips began to move in unison with his, his rhythm intensified.

Pleasure built within you, a rising tide that threatened to sweep all before it. Your names mingled in the air, a mantra of desire and surrender. Your gazes remained locked, and in his blue eyes you saw not the dreaded Voivode, but the man who was surrendering utterly, as vulnerable to your love as you were to his.

“Vlad,” you cried out, and it was a torn sound, a plea and an affirmation.

It was his undoing. With a guttural groan that was your name, he sank into you one final time, deep and complete, and you came undone. The wave of pleasure broke, shaking your body with countless spasms, a blinding ecstasy that made you cry out as his own release filled you with warmth, sealing your union in the most primal and sacred of ways.

He collapsed beside you, panting, and immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his sweaty chest. His heart beat strongly against your ear, a wild rhythm that gradually calmed. His lips found your forehead, your hair, your shoulder, in a rain of silent kisses that said more than any words.

Beneath your cheek, you heard the heavy, rhythmic thumping of his heart, and you swallowed hard to hold back a knot of painful emotion.

As if your need to hear his voice had been communicated to him, he spoke:

"Did I hurt you too much?"

You shook your head and, after two attempts, managed to whisper: "No."

"I'm sorry if I hurt you."

"You didn't hurt me."

He asks, his eyes searching your face for any signs that you might regret this or that you’re somehow hurt. But there was nothing that made you regret this decision.

Not being by his side, nor having married him.

In this city of millions, it was something that only affected the upper echelons, a part that actually remained in the shadows until the paparazzi illuminated the elite in a floodlight of camera flashes.

She did not stand in this floodlight; she just held her notebook and wrote down the answers to the questions of those she interviewed.

“A prince, he's just a prince” she muttered to herself as her fingers pressed the steering wheel again to calm herself.

She had been sitting in her car for a few minutes, the invitation a white letter with a red wax seal in the shape of a dragon. The prince's invitation still seemed unbelievable.

Dining with the elite of Bucharest in the castle of his ancestors, his private residence – but the reason why was still missing.

She was just a reporter, not even big or famous enough to be seen on the television news.

So what did a prince want with her?

She didn't know, but the invitation was real, and as she looked towards the driveway, she knew that the limousines and tinted cars would soon be leaving and she would have to go inside.

Grabbing her small handbag and slipping her notebook inside, she took the invitation with her and got out of the car.

Late evening, early night would be cool; it had taken almost three hours to drive from the city to the middle of nowhere, but it was worth it.

A few months ago, she had passed the castle on a hike, but otherwise she hardly ever left the city. It was an impressive 14th-century building, still standing majestically.

What interested her most, apart from her host, were the private rooms that were not open to the public.

This is going to be a historic evening she thought to herself as she approached the entrance.

Her shoes clattered on the old cobblestones as she made her way through the outer bailey to the main castle. Torches lit the way as she made out the silhouettes of several couples and individuals a few metres ahead of her.

The fire of the torches was bright, dancing and warming whenever she passed one, until she arrived at the large double main door.

In front of the door, through which a few guests had already passed, several men in armour stood and greeted her with a silent nod as she pondered a few questions for the prince.

He had even had his security personnel make the armour to make the event as authentic as possible, “Miss, your invitation, please” the bearded man insisted, reaching into her bag and handing the paper to the older man.

Despite the darkness, he seemed to have no problem reading the ornate handwriting.

He looked from the letter to her, as if to check that it was really her, “The prince is already waiting for you, enjoy the evening” he finally said, pointing to the entrance through which she had come in.

She was just about to rack her brains over whether it was just a phrase he said to all the guests or whether he really meant it when she entered the castle.

Illuminated with candles and hanging fire bowls, pictures with gilded frames, the interior made of stone and wood, tapestries metres wide and high decorated the interior.

It really seemed as if they were all back in the medieval age, but one glance at her guests and she suddenly knew what kind of company she was in.

Familiar faces such as the TV show host couple were more well-known, she recognised one company boss and a judge, but she had never seen the others before.

Truly a gathering of the rich and influential, none of them could match the host's presence.

On the stone steps, looking down at his guests, Prince Vlad the Second, Count Dracul, presented himself. His reddish hair was accentuated by the fire inside, and the dark fabric on his body emphasised his pale skin like a shadow.

Everyone watched in awe as he descended the stairs towards them, their eyes following his every gesture.

Before he came to a halt and bowed slightly, he greeted his guests, saying, “I am delighted that you have all accepted my invitation. Welcome to the castle of my ancestors” introduced himself to each of them individually with a brief handshake or bow.

It seemed almost surreal; despite the fact that his ancestors had lived here for centuries, no one had ever seen them.

There were paintings, jewellery, letters and writings bearing the family crest and name – but Vlad was the first to seek such publicity.

Making a mental note of a question she would write down later, she looked into the older man's face, “The words of your writings are surpassed by your presence” his words flattered her as she curtsied and his hand touched hers.

Deathly cold met warmth. Devotion met fascination.

For a moment, it seemed as if only the two of them existed, as if there were only the two of them in the castle...but it was over so quickly.

Vlad took his hand from hers and asked his guests to follow him.

From the main hall, they walked through more corridors and doors, the flames of the fires warming them, the stone around them cool and solid, a distant realisation of how cold it must have been in the castle hundreds of years ago.

This cold seemed to fade as they arrived in the dining room, a murmur followed by appreciative applause rippling through the group.

The long table was lit by candlesticks, the hot, still steaming food revealed several courses, salads, soups, meat, fish, cakes and wines cooled in vessels.

The prince seemed to have prepared everything there could possibly be, “Please take your seats, eat, drink and let us celebrate this evening” he instructed, and everyone approached the table with chairs, neatly arranged with cards bearing the names of all the guests.

To her surprise and delight, she had been given a seat directly opposite the prince, head to head across the table, forcing them to look at each other whenever they looked up.

But before she could reach for the plate with the dumplings, she noticed something else on her name card, a small note on the table: Try the heart soup and she looked up.

Her questioning gaze met the prince's, who only gestured towards the note with a gentle smile on his lips, and she noticed that the others were already tucking into everything else on the table.

After searching for the soup on the table, not knowing what kind of soup it was, she had never heard of it before, when suddenly a presence appeared next to her and she saw the man from the entrance, holding a deep porcelain plate with the soup in it.

“Thank you” she murmured as he wordlessly placed the plate in front of her and she looked at the liquid.

A dark, deep red, the warmth palpable as she took the silver spoon and dipped it in, was observed by Vlad, who watched her with interest, almost fascinated, as she tasted the soup.

The first thing she noticed, besides the warmth that immediately flowed through her body, was the heavy, almost metallic taste, not necessarily bad, but rather something that took some getting used to.

However, the soup had an almost slightly sweet aftertaste, pleasant and palatable, “An interesting combination, heavy yet sweet, thank you very much” she said to him and looked up to see him holding a goblet in his hand and sipping from it.

He seemed to be enjoying his dark red wine, licking his lips and the dark red disappeared.

“An outstanding taste, my dear” the prince praised her and continued to watch as she gradually continued to eat the soup, becoming more and more accustomed to the taste.

The other guests were completely absorbed in their food, serving themselves one portion after another and not participating in the conversation at all.

Yet she hardly cared; it seemed as if only she and the prince existed, his gaze fixed on her as she ate the soup until the silver spoon was placed with a clink on the empty plate.

A feeling of calm came over her, a meal so interesting that she wanted to ask about its origin, but when she looked up, Vlad was no longer in his seat.

Instead, he suddenly stood next to her and held out his hand, “Let me answer your questions” and she took his hand, away from the tabl.

Away from the sins of the other guests, he led her out of the hall. It seemed as if one corridor followed another, endless stairs up and down, torches lighting up and going out.

She held on to him a little tighter, as if she felt she would lose him otherwise, and that would lock her in forever.

Vlad's cold fingers touched her as she suddenly found herself in a bedroom, the wooden door closing behind her.

The redhead slowly let go of her, “What...what just happened?” she asked, trying to explain how they had gotten here so quickly from the main hall.

Yet the prince smiled only, standing in front of his lit fireplace and looking into the flames.

He seemed to know so much more, to see so much more, to be so much older than he appeared, and yet he seemed young.

Sitting down on the wooden chair he pointed to, she wanted to reach for her notebook when he approached her.

She could have stood up, tried to find her way out of the dark, cold corridors, back to the others, away from the prince who wanted so much more from her than just her acquaintance.

Her inner self, her heart, seemed not to hear her; she did not want to leave him.

His hands rested on hers, “Ask your questions, dear, write your reports...or let me show you why I wanted you here” he offered, his pointed fingernails scratching her skin in a stimulating manner.

Goosebumps ran across her body when he was so close to her, his coldness pleasant, she wanted more of this, more of the prince she had actually wanted to interview.

Questions and answers that didn't matter when she forgot her notebook, didn't even touch her pen, “Please show me” she begged, not wanting this night to end and risking never seeing him again.

That was enough to hear her consent in the castle that had been his home for eternity.

Finally, the prince had found his love.

Returning to him, he pulled her towards him and drew her into a passionate kiss.

She tasted the metallic flavour again, and the memory of him drinking wine slowly made sense, what it meant, what he had consumed, what she had consumed, blurred in her increasingly foggy mind.

But the impossible revelation seemed irrelevant; what mattered was that Vlad was with her, his hands holding her, not letting her go as he took her with him, deeper into the castle, deeper into his infinity and into his heart.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Vlad ran at your side, his firm, sure hand enveloping yours. He did not laugh with the same carefree abandon, but upon his lips was etched a wide and genuine smile—a rare and precious spectacle that only you could elicit. His eyes shone with a new light as he gazed upon you, dazzled by your joy, by the life you distilled even in your new state.

The carriage awaited, a black and lugubrious wagon harnessed to two dark and unsettling horses. But your laughter was abruptly severed, choked by a faint gasp, as your gaze settled upon its interior. There, resting upon a bed of dark cloths, lay a coffin of polished ebony. Its lid was open, revealing an inner lining of dark satin, a contrast both macabre and intimate.

He felt your stillness, the tremor of quiet confusion that passed through you. His hand tightened around yours.

“I know it may seem strange to you, my love,” he murmured, his voice a low whisper beside your ear. “But what you are about to become… your body will crave deep rest. Away from light, away from sound. This is the safest way. The surest.”

Before you could answer, a figure emerged from the shadows. A man with a severe, sallow countenance, dressed in the simple, dark clothes of a Romanian peasant from a century long past. His back was slightly stooped from years of service, yet his gaze was respectful and firm. He inclined his head first to Vlad.

“Stăpâne,” he intoned, hoarse as dry leaves. Then he turned to you, his deference ancient and dignified. “Doamnă. All is prepared for the journey.”

With another silent bow, the servant melted once more into shadow, leaving you alone—just the two of you, and the black carriage that waited with patient dread.

Your gaze returned to the coffin, drawn now not by fear, but by something else—curiosity, perhaps… or fate. You stepped forward, and your fingers reached out almost of their own accord. The wood was cold beneath your touch, smooth as obsidian glass.

And beneath your fingers, you felt strange ridges. You leaned closer to read what was inscribed upon the coffin, engraved with meticulous elegance in the tarnished silver that traced the edge of the lid.

Your eyes scanned the silver inlay delicately wrought along the border of the lid. A cry died in your throat. Your trembling hand traced each letter, each familiar curve—an echo of words you had once cherished. A poem. His poem. Given to you on yellowing parchment in an age long lost, when love had been a secret thing—fragile, mortal, and hidden from the world. Before the wars. Before the grave. Before the eternity that had ripped you from his arms.

You never heard his footsteps, but you felt his presence as the world around you stilled. His arms came around you from behind—a fortress of silk and strength. His breath ghosted over your neck, and then his lips pressed to the very place where his fangs had sealed your fate an hour before. A kiss both cold and reverent, and it sent a shiver through the depths of your soul.

“Do you know what it says?” he whispered, his voice a velvet echo against your spine.

“Yes,” you breathed, your voice shaking, “I know. As if you gave it to me only yesterday.” You turned your head slightly, your fingers still resting on the cold silver letters. “For so long, these words were all I had. The last promise before the war.”

A smile, weary and proud, curved his lips. But your eyes had not finished their search. They moved downward now, toward the foot of the coffin—where another detail caught the light. A carving. Not crude, not etched by careless hands—but a bas-relief of exquisite craftsmanship. You and he. Vlad and you. Rendered in profile, immortalised in wood and silver, eyes lifted towards a future once believed to be endless. A portrait of youth, of hope, of love eternal.

Pain—sharp and keen—pierced your chest. Not the beat of a human heart, but the echo of one broken centuries ago. Your eyes flew to his, and in them, you saw the stillness of a man who had waited far too long. A realisation struck you like lightning.

For you, the time between your death and this rebirth had been but a breath, a confused lapse.

But for him… for him, four hundred years had passed in silence. Each day, an eternity. Each moment, a torment drawn out across a canvas of centuries. He had lived, remembered, suffered, with only this coffin—this shrine of grief—as the silent witness to his agony.

This was no mere conveyance.

It was a monument to his mourning.

You turned to him with a desperate swiftness, your hands clutching at the folds of his coat.

“I’m sorry,” you gasped, though the words felt pitifully small. “My love, I am so sorry… Forgive me. For the time. For the pain…”

He stopped you. His hands found yours and gently, unshakeably, removed them from his chest. His gaze was steady, grave.

“No,” he said—his voice firm and unwavering. “There is nothing to forgive. None of this was ever your fault. You must never speak those words.”

“But—”

“It no longer matters,” he said, and now his tone softened—mellowing into something tender and warm. “You are here. Now. With me. And that… that is more than I ever dared to hope for, in all the darkest nights.”

And you believed him.

You felt the truth in his words, knew it with your mind—but something deeper, something newly awakened within your blood, pulsed another truth.

You felt him now. Through the bond. Through the eternity now shared.

You felt the echo of his soul.

And beneath the surface of calm he wore like armour, lay something ancient. A wound that had never truly closed. A loneliness that had devoured centuries of his life in silence. He said it no longer mattered, but you—you heard the weight of every year lost between the beats of his heart.

“It’s time to go home,” he whispered at last, voice low, solemn, inevitable.

Before you could nod, before you could reach for him, he had already moved. His arms slid beneath you, lifting you as though you were no heavier than air. Strength—so formidable—and yet, it was the gentleness that broke you. He carried you with the ease of one who had dreamed of this moment through a thousand sleepless nights.

He placed you within the coffin, onto the satin chill that would soon warm to your presence.

And then he joined you.

No hesitation. No delay. He lay beside you, his arm sliding beneath your neck to cradle you, drawing you to him with a certainty carved by centuries. The lid above began to close—silently, slowly—enveloping you both in a darkness so complete that any mortal would have cried out in terror.

But you were no longer mortal.

The dark did not blind you.

Your vision, sharpened and new, adapted—revealing him, clearly, utterly. Every line of his face. Every shadow beneath his lashes. The faint gleam in his eyes, fixed on you alone. The world outside fell away, and the motion of the carriage became the only rhythm, rocking you both into a dreamless calm.

There, in that sacred silence, you did what you had longed to do.

You looked at him—not with the eyes of a woman recalling a long-lost lover, but with the gaze of one who had loved every version of him.

Your hand rose—uncertain, at first. Then steady. Your fingers found his face.

He did not move.

He let you explore him as if he were something holy. A king kneeling before the touch of his high priestess.

You traced the skin of his cheek—cool and smooth. Until your fingers encountered it.

A scar.

Small, but deep.

A line that marred the perfection of his flesh—like a riverbed long run dry. A tear, carved into stone.

Your heart throbbed with a strange ache. Your fingers trembled.

“What happened?” you whispered, barely audible above the whisper of fabric and wheels.

He closed his eyes for an instant, as if the memory struck him with physical force. When he opened them, the pain within was as ancient and deep as the scar itself.

“You were torn from my side,” he replied, and his voice was melancholic, laden with the weight of centuries of solitude. “This mark… is the reminder of when I reached my limit. Of the rage, the powerlessness. Of the part of me that died with you and never healed.”

A new pain, sharp and compassionate, arose in your chest. Your exploration ceased. You no longer needed to touch to see. You saw it all. The scar was but the gateway to the whole ocean of agony he had lived for you.

“But I’m here,” you murmured, voice breaking with vow. “I’m here now, my prince… and I swear to you… I’ll never leave again. Not even the shadow of loneliness shall touch you.”

He did not answer immediately. His silence was not empty, but dense. You could feel the conflict beating within him like a storm: the ancient habit of pain resisting the hope you embodied. The custom of centuries that whispered to him that love is ephemeral, and the new certainty you brought with you, slowly setting that darkness aflame with the possibility of rebirth.

When at last he spoke, his voice was no longer that of the man who had endured centuries of absence. It had lost some of its solemn gravity. There was in it a different vibration, faint and luminous, like a crack of light forcing its way through the rubble of time. A spark. A smile barely hinted at.

“Even if it means spending eternity at my side?” he asked, his tone now lighter, almost playful, gently challenging you, as if he wished to provoke in you the echo of some old, shared memory.

And he succeeded.

It was not your mind that answered first, but your soul, traversing the centuries in a single beat. A smile touched your lips.

“It was I,” you said, voice aglow—“It was I who asked you first, remember? That we should stay like this, you and I. Far from the world. Far from its noise. No battles. No war. Just us. Forever.”

You paused, not to doubt, but to let the words settle like the sacred dust of an eternal memory. You felt them envelop him, fall upon his skin like warm ash, rewriting the invisible scars of his wait.

It is not a place your mind recalls, and yet your body knows it well.

The air is warm, opulent, heavy with the scent of wet stone and ancient rose blossom. A fragrance lingers—one that should not exist—a perfume born of eternity, of a time never lived and yet remembered.

You see nothing, save for shadows that lengthen and recede with the delicate flicker of what may be candlelight. But sight is no longer necessary. You feel.

The unseen walls of that chamber embrace you with an impossible familiarity. You have never been here, and yet every corner pulses as though it were your own, as though you have belonged to this place since before memory. It is no house, no chamber, no drawing room—it is a sanctum, a sanctuary eternal, spun of hush and shadow. And you, without reason or resistance, yield to it.

And then—he comes.

His voice arrives first.

Not crossing the air towards you—but rising from within you. A low, velvet whisper tracing your spine with indecent intimacy. It is not sound, but vibration—a secret tongue carved into the marrow of your bones. You do not understand his words, and yet you do: possession, yearning, eternity. Your whole being answers that dark melody with the soft submission of one who knows their master.

Then, the touch.

A hand, resting against your cheek—not the gentle, warm hand of Jonathan. This one is larger, surer, cold at first… yet wherever it lingers, it awakens fire. His fingers travel your skin with the reverence of an artisan rediscovering his life’s masterpiece—tracing the arch of your brow, your cheekbone, the trembling curve of your lips, the vulnerable line of your throat. And in that touch—both worship and dominion—you understand what your reason refuses to admit: he has known you forever.

You are his. And he… is yours.

The certainty is madness, but it is also absolute. Not a thought, but a vow that beats within your blood, as though it has always been there, waiting to be spoken.

His presence enfolds you—not as an embrace, but as an unseen mantle that is all things: refuge, prison, destiny.

You do not see his face clearly—for his beauty was never meant for light. You glimpse only the outline of a severe profile, eyes like burning coals—at once your damnation and your salvation. And in that gaze you cannot quite hold, you find the purest bliss, the deepest peace, the unshakable sense of being whole.

For the first time… you are entire.

And then—

The vision shatters.

You awaken.

Emptiness strikes like a blade unseen. The warmth vanishes, leaving only the cruel chill of absence. Your chest is hollowed by an ache too vast to name, and tears come before you can stop them.

You sob with a desperation you do not understand—as if something vital has been torn from you, as if you have lost someone loved all your life… someone whose face you cannot remember.

The sheets tangle in your trembling hands as your throat tightens with silent cries.

You do not know why you weep.

You do not know why you miss him.

You only know that you love him—though you do not know who he is.

Your sobs become unbearable, even to yourself—an echo of grief reverberating through the narrow walls of your chamber. The air seems insufficient, the dimness a suffocating shroud. With a clumsy, desperate motion, you cast off the bedclothes and rise to your feet.

Your bare feet touch the cold floor, yet you hardly feel it—it is another coldness that possesses you now, one far more cruel: the chill of a heart laid bare.

You walk through shadows towards the window, driven by a need you cannot name—as if the air itself might return what has been lost.

With shaking hands, you part the curtains and push open the glass doors.

And at once, the night enters.

A gentle breeze drifts in, rich with the damp perfume of the Parisian streets and a silence so vast, so profound, it feels sacred.

The sky—clear and full—offers the moon in its full splendour: a disc of silver suspended above the sleeping city. Its light brushes your tear-streaked skin with maternal tenderness, and in that cold, soft touch, your weeping begins to fade.

Paris, immense and distant, receives your senseless mourning with indifference.

But the moon… the moon seems to listen.

You feel—though you could never swear it—that a presence surrounds you once more, as real as the one from your dream, quieting the frantic beat of your heart.

The emptiness remains, but it lies dormant now, lulled beneath a veil of inexplicable calm.

Your tears, one by one, relent.

You remain at the window, hair tousled by the night breeze, eyes still wet with sorrow, gazing toward that distant silver glow. And deep within your soul, a voiceless whisper cradles you:

You are not alone. You never were.

And yet, it was only your innocence that kept you from knowing it.

"Are you quite well, child? Your eyes are terribly swollen."

The voice of the landlady struck you like a jolt—sharp, sudden, and utterly unexpected. Instinctively, your hands flew to your face, as though you might conceal the remnants of the night behind trembling fingers. You summoned a fragile smile, a gesture long-rehearsed to diminish the obvious.

"I didn’t sleep well," you murmured, voice thin as parchment.

She observed you only a moment, her eyes neither probing nor unkind—merely disinterested. With a faint nod, practical and dismissive, she added:

"You missed breakfast. Ask the cook—there may be something left."

And with that, she vanished down the corridor, leaving you alone with the echo of your thoughts.

You closed the door behind you and leaned against its wooden frame, breathing like one attempting to find footing upon uncertain ground.

Normalcy had returned—or so it seemed.

And yet, the emptiness within your chest remained, rooted deep, so heavy that even the act of drawing breath felt incomplete. Compelled by some silent instinct, you descended to the parlour—as though walking toward that firelit space might somehow bring you nearer, even by a single pace, to answers you could not yet name.

The room was nearly deserted.

The hearth cast a muted glow, its flickering light painting shadows across the worn upholstery. You let yourself sink into one of the armchairs, positioned before the flames, and there, cradled by silence, you tried to give name to the ache that consumed you.

Perhaps it was María.

Only days had passed since the wedding—since that strange encounter with the doctor and priest at the hospital—and though the initial fear had clawed at you, some comfort had since settled within.

No, that was not the source of your unrest.

Then… Jonathan?

Your betrothed, now distant in foreign lands—his absence had carved a hollow into the rhythm of your days, an echo of solitude. Perhaps it was his leaving that weighed so. And yet…

As you recalled the night just passed, the truth rose within you with a clarity that matched the beat of your heart:

The presence that had filled your dream was not Jonathan.

You knew it.

Somewhere deep within, you recognised it—despite all your efforts to deny it.

Your eyes fixed upon the flames, upon the red and golden tongues that rose like hands reaching skyward. Slowly, you extended your own, letting it drift near the heat, weaving through the space just beyond the fire's reach.

And in that gesture, you found yourself summoning the touch from your dream—that hand upon your cheek, those fingers tracing your skin with reverent hunger, that unseen embrace which had claimed you as its own.

The flame licked at the air, and its heat became indistinguishable from the smouldering memory of something that should not have been.

You could almost feel him again—his breath against your neck, the weight of his gaze, the ghost of hands enclosing your frame from behind, both protector and possessor.

You shivered, eyes closing.

It wasn’t real, you told yourself. It couldn’t be real.

But in the shadowed stillness of the parlour, with the fire's glow warming your skin and the silence pressing inward, you could have sworn he was there, holding you once more.

And that thought—so impossible, so inescapable—made you feel truly alive.

The fire still crackled softly before you, casting golden light into your tear-brightened eyes, when a sudden sound shattered the stillness.

A firm, dry knock rang out upon the front door.

You gasped—a small, startled breath—as if destiny itself had rapped upon the threshold, shattering your reverie.

You waited a moment, breath held tight, praying someone else might answer.

But no one came.

The silence remained—deep, expectant, almost sacred.

You rose slowly, your cautious footsteps whispering against the floorboards, each creak carrying you closer to a revelation for which you were not prepared.

Your fingers brushed the cold handle, and as you pulled open the door, a rush of frigid air swept inside.

But it was not the night breeze that stole your voice.

It was her.

María.

Standing there—radiant, unblemished—as though the shadows had never touched her. Her hair was gathered in a style of perfect elegance, her bearing adorned in a grace that seemed untouched by time. And upon her face, that luminous smile, so utterly hers, so full of life, that you doubted everything you knew.

"Surprise!" she cried, lifting her arms as though to embrace the very walls with her arrival.

The contrast was unbearable—her light against your lingering sorrow, her vibrant energy against the quiet ruin in which you had been steeped.

For an instant, firelight, dream, and María’s figure blurred into one impossibility, as though none of it truly belonged to the waking world.

"María..." your voice faltered, trembling with awe and disbelief.

You moved toward her, though it was she who reached first, her laughter bright as bells, banishing the dusk around you.

"You’re well? Truly?" you asked, voice unsteady.

"Of course I am!" she replied, wrapping you in an embrace so real, so warm, you almost believed the hospital had been a lie.

"It’s a miracle... What a blessing," you murmured into her shoulder, as unshed tears pricked your eyes.

"Don’t fret. The illness fled as quickly as it came," she said, her confidence disarming, serene.

"But do you feel—"

"Stronger than ever," she cut in, with a radiant smile. "And quite ready to celebrate my return, I should think!"

You studied her—truly studied her—as though needing proof. Her skin glowed with a freshness that defied recent frailty.

"Did Doctor Dumont discharge you?" you asked, hesitantly, the question trembling on your lips.

She laughed—lightly, carelessly.

"I have so much energy today, I don’t think he could have stopped me."

"And your fiancé?"

"In Scotland," she replied, dismissing the matter with a flick of her gloved hand. Then, her eyes lit with mischief.

"Oh, look what I’ve brought!"

From her dainty handbag she produced two folded slips of paper, presenting them with theatrical delight.

"What are these?" you asked, taking them with uncertain fingers.

"Three front row tickets for this evening’s celebration."

"Three?" The word escaped you in astonishment.

"Oh yes, my dear friend," she replied with a conspiratorial smile. "The one I’ve told you of—he’s in the city at last, and simply dying to meet you."

Your lips parted, breath catching. Doubt writhed within you, shaking its head. You could not say whether this was wise—whether it was safe—for her, or for yourself. She had only just emerged from shadow.

"Go and dress. Quickly!" she insisted, her joy impervious to question, guiding you back inside with gentle urgency.

You could not resist her.

Perhaps distraction was what you needed.

Perhaps the evening would drown, for a time, the searing trace of a presence that did not simply haunt your dreams—

—but now poisoned your thoughts with the sweetest, slowest venom of remembrance.

In front of the Grand Hôtel de Paris, its façade gleaming under the newly installed electric lights like a modern temple devoted to excess and opulence, María tugged at your hand with almost feverish energy. She gave you no time to breathe before pulling you inside.

The lobby was a sea of perfume, voices, and silk fabrics brushing against your skin as they passed. The magnificence of the place opened into a dazzling hall, its ceiling painted with golden cherubs and chandeliers casting glittering reflections over the adorned heads of Parisian high society.

“You have to try the hot chocolate, trust me, it’s divine,” insisted María, dragging you through the crowd while your gaze was lost in the grandeur of the space. The orchestra musicians seemed entranced, playing with such fervor it felt as though the hall itself were a stage, and every guest an actor in a secret performance.

The murmur of conversation, crystalline laughter, and the clinking of glasses wrapped around everything... until María, her eyes alight with something unspoken, suddenly stopped and, with a breathless voice, declared:

“It’s time to introduce you to my friend.”

Something about the solemnity of her words, the sudden urgency in her features, forced you to stop and inhale as though the night.

And then you saw him.

Amidst the crowd stood a man whose presence was impossible to overlook. Clad in black, tall and severe, he bore the dignity of any aristocrat gathered there, and yet something about him was different—an ancient gravity that seemed to mute the noise around him. His gaze found you, and in that instant, the world collapsed into perfect silence.

You didn’t know him. You had never seen him before. And yet, something inside your chest pulsed with the certainty of recognition.

His eyes—dark, fathomless, burning—locked onto yours with the intensity of centuries compressed into a single encounter. A silent, reverent devotion that pierced through reason and flesh alike.

He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. For four hundred years he had waited for this moment, and now you stood before him—alive, tangible, with the same face, the same essence, as his long-lost beloved.

You looked at him with hesitation, unsettled by his silence and by that unwavering gaze that seemed to strip you bare. A subtle nervousness crept into your chest, though you didn’t show it. Still, you were easier to read than you thought.

María, amused by the tension between you, let out a soft laugh that shattered the stillness.

“Well, I know my friend is very beautiful, but I’m a bit offended.”

The man blinked slowly, as if waking from a trance, and his voice emerged—deep, rich, laced with an unfamiliar accent that caressed each syllable.

“Forgive me…” he said, pausing as his gaze returned to yours. “Your beauty brings light to this place drowned in dark suits and top hats.”

María’s laughter rang bright, delighted, and—despite yourself—it brought a faint smile to your lips. Yet your eyes, timid and uncertain, found their way back to him… only to return quickly to María, as though that small gesture might shield you from the gravity of his presence.

“It is an honor and a pleasure to see you again,” he continued, with a solemnity that trembled in your bones.

Your lips parted, startled.

“Have we met before?” you asked, more curious than you allowed yourself to sound.

A glimmer lit up in his dark pupils, as if he had waited centuries to hear that question.

“In a dream, perhaps.”

A chill coursed down your spine like the edge of a blade. Those words—so simple—carried a devastating weight. They were not innocent, could not be. They echoed too clearly the memory of that nightly presence that still lived on your skin, in your belly, in the most fragile corner of your mind. Instinctively, your hands drifted to your abdomen, as if holding yourself might preserve your composure.

Maybe to him it was a poetic turn of phrase, a moment’s fancy… but to you, it was the unspoken confirmation of a secret you didn’t even know how to confess to yourself.

“I have this strange feeling,” he continued, his voice low and sure, “that we’ve known each other for a very long time.”

You looked straight into his eyes, and what you found there was not mockery, nor a cruel game, nor an attempt to charm with pretty words. No. What you saw was conviction—a quiet, unshakable faith that disarmed all logic. He truly believed what he said.

“That’s… very romantic,” you replied, your smile small and shy, as if looking down might protect you from the force that still held you.

“Terribly,” he said at once, the word laced with a solemn gravity that turned romance into something tragic.

You sought María’s face, hoping for an anchor—something to pull you back to reality—but she only smiled, pleased, unaware of the storm brewing inside you.

It was then that he bowed his head with quiet formality, and his voice cut through the last veil of mystery:

“Excuse me. It seems I’ve forgotten my manners. Vlad II, Prince of Wallachia… Count Dracula.”

The name fell upon you like an incantation. You felt it first on your lips, a sweet and strange tingling that urged you to whisper it aloud, as if you had once spoken it in another life, in another time. Something inside you recognized it, like a forgotten song returning suddenly from silence.

You didn’t understand why. You couldn’t say what it was about this man that stirred you so deeply, or why your mind seemed caught between disbelief and a rising need to surrender to the warmth blooming in your chest.

Vlad took your hand slowly, as though afraid to break it, and raised it to his lips in a gesture of solemn grace. The kiss was nothing more than a breath… but enough to erase the world into silence once more.

It was as though lightning cut through the fog of your mind. A memory surged—brief, buried deep—rising with both violence and sweetness. You saw yourself—or a shadow of yourself—before this being who had haunted your dreams not with fear, but with a passion so warm, so dangerous, it verged on the divine. A hand, cold and steady, so like Vlad’s, brushed your cheek with a tenderness that burned. A blurred face, and yet so like his, bent forward with the unmistakable intent of sealing his lips to yours.

The memory struck with such force you reacted without thought. You pulled your hand from his lips as if you’d touched forbidden fire. The gesture was abrupt, almost rude, but you couldn’t help it. It was a defense against something that left you defenseless. And still, deep down, there was no apology you wished to offer.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” you said at last, your smile faint, trying to mend the harshness of your withdrawal—as if your voice could fill the hollow left by that sudden, aching space between you.

The air between you lingered, suspended—charged with something unseen that no words could dissolve.

That was when María broke the tension, stepping in with mundane urgency:

“Come on, there’s no time to waste. The carnival awaits, and there’s still so much to see!”

Without giving room for objection, she grabbed your arm and led you toward the exit.

Dragged along by her haste, you turned back for just a moment. A glance—fleeting, but in it you placed something eternal: a flicker of recognition, of fear, and of longing. Vlad, unmoving, held that spark in silence, as though he had waited a lifetime to see it flare in your eyes.

And then, without a word, he followed.

With shaking hands, you fixated on smoothing out the pleats in the skirt of your wedding gown. The dress was heavy and not because there were yards upon yards of fabric tailored to you or because of the silver embroidery and precious stones, but because of what this dress meant—the loss of your freedom.

"Stop fidgeting, girl. It is unbecoming." Your mother's shrill voice came through the fog, clouding your thoughts. "Now, stand up straight, it's time."

"Mother, please, I would rather be sent off to war than this. Anything but this." You held her hand like a vice, begging her for some way out.

She only shook her head and snatched her hand away. "I thought I taught you better than this. Do as your father says, and do not embarrass this family in front of the Prince." She pinched your cheeks to give them color before turning to leave. "The piano will begin in one minute, you will enter then."

It was no use calling after her, and it was no use trying to run away; there were guards at every entrance to the church, making it impossible, especially in this dress that needed at least two maids to help you remove. So, down the aisle to your doomed fate it was.

As the piano began, your heart leaped, beating faster than you ever thought it could. The giant oak doors opened, and every guest rose to their feet, all looking your way, all except your husband to be. He stood, back facing you, dressed in an armor chest plate and a white doublet and breeches with a sword attached to his left hip. The air that surrounded him felt thick as you approached, your dress restricting your movements. The Princeonly turned to you once you reached the stairs; he offered his hand to you, and you took it hesitantly, letting him guide you.

You took the few spare moments before the Priest began to examine the man you were to wed. His hair swept around his face, almost blocking him from your view, but as his head turned and you saw him fully, your breath caught in your throat. The stories told and the rumors whispered had led you to believe that this man was a monster, beastly and garish to look at, but the man before you was anything but. The candlelight made him look almost angelic with his sharp angles and full lips. His skin was white as milk and freckled. What demon would ever look so sweet? But that was exactly it, wasn't it? The devil will always come in a form you may trust.

The ceremony went by in a blur. You followed instructions and repeated words, but only because your body was guiding you; your mind floated miles above, enraptured with the man who was beside you.

It wasn't until you were being ushered into a carriage that you came back to your senses. As the door slammed, you realized it was just you and your newlywed husband. The silence was so thick, you could have cut into it. What were you to say? You didn't know the man, only what was said about him, and you doubted that it was an appropriate conversation to be held.

The ride was bumpy as the carriage took you farther away from the home you knew and towards an unfamiliar place. It had only been an hour, and still, neither of you had broken the silence. That is, until a quite harsh jerk had you toppling across the coach and into the Prince. He caught you in his strong hands and set you up right again.

"I am sorry," you apologize.

He waives his hand, dismissing you. "It is quite all right."

You couldn't help the blush that formed on your cheeks, his voice… this was the first time you were hearing it clearly, the thoughts in your head not distracting you from the low tenor that vibrated soul. You wanted to hear it again.

"Is your home far?"

He looked at you, eyes scanning, deducing why now you were asking him questions. "A three-day ride if the horses are fast."

"Oh, then we will be lodging somewhere for the night, I suppose?"

"We will make camp in a few hours. There are no lodgings on this road."

Your eyes widened. You were to spend your wedding night in a tent in the woods?

The carriage stopped just before dusk, and the men worked quickly to build tents, gather wood for a fire, and cook. It was dark when your husband helped you to your tent. He stayed for only a moment to tell you dinner would be ready soon before leaving quickly.

Sighing, you went around opening your trunks, trying to find something more comfortable to wear other than this outrageous wedding dress, although you didn't know how you were to extract yourself from the copious amounts of pleats and lace when your ladies' maids were nowhere to be found. You refused to go looking for them as you were tired from travel and wanted nothing more than to be left alone.

It took almost fifteen minutes for you to even begin to loosen the tight bodice, but it only did so much when you had been tacked in at certain spots. Your hands ceased their flailing when you heard footsteps and the curtain over the entrance of your tent flung open. You turned slowly, face heating as you realized someone was watching you trying and failing to undress.

"My Lord," you startle when you see the Voivodestanding there.

He narrows his eyes at the awkward angle your arms are bent, "What are you doing?"

"Undressing," a huff, "well, trying to at least." You answered.

Taking a step forward, he lets the curtain fall behind him. "Would you like some help?"

You eyed him wearily. From the stories you had been told, he was a brute of a man, taking anything he wanted without asking, and yet here he was asking if you would like his help.

Reluctantly, you accept.

He strides toward you slowly, as if you were a terrified fawn ready to bolt at any moment. "If you could turn around, please."

His hands never left your shoulders as you turned.

A shiver ran down your spine at the electric touch of his thick fingers as he gently caressed the skin of your neck he moving your hair out of the way. Gradually, the lacing of your dress fell away, the cut the strings tacking you in with his knife. The moment was intimate, and you could feel your heart racing. His fingers brushed against the thin fabric of your shift, goosebumps rising in their wake.

"I shall leave you, dinner will be by forthwith." He gave you no time to respond before he left you, with a heart full of confusion, and clinging to the bodice of your unfastened dress to your chest.

Quickly, you untied your skirts and folded them neatly into a trunk before dressing yourself in a less restrictive dressing gown, as you weren't leaving your tent for the rest of the night.

Food was brought to you on a pewter plate. Bread and some kind of meat, it didn't look too appetizing, but you were starving.

And then, you waited. And waited. And waited.

Yet, your husband never came. The candles began to die as you laied on the makeshift bed and the only thoughts in your head were, Where is he? Shouldn't he be here? Wasn't this supposed to be our wedding night? Does he not find me attractive? You couldn't understand why they were swarming in your mind. You shouldn't be concerned whether or not a man you were forcefully wed to liked you.

You awoke the next morning to the rustling and murmuring of the men around the camp. The smell of porridge cooking had your stomach growling.

Elina and Alba, your ladies maids, found their way into your tent with breakfast, apologizing for not attending to you the night before.

"We thought to leave you and your husband be," they said, cheeks tinged pink at the implication.

"Your efforts were in vain, ladies, for he left quite abruptly after unfastening me from my wedding gown." You replied between bites of your porridge.

"How peculiar," Alba hummed. "Usually, men can't wait to get to the marriage bed; they always want an heir sooner rather than later."

You gasp at her forwardness before laughing softly; you had never known her to speak so forwardly.

"I believe I overheard a few of the men whispering around the fire earlier that the Prince had forgone supper and was acting out of sorts after leaving your tent. Are you sure nothing happened?" Elina asked.

"Yes, I'm sure. All he did was help me undress, and then he left, before anything could have happened."

You didn't catch the look the two women gave each other before starting to gather your garments for the day.

After having dressed, your tent was taken down, and you were again ushered into the carriage, only this time, your husband did not accompany you. Instead, he sat stoically atop a striking dapple grey steed.

He was so alluring, you couldn't bear to take your eyes off him even as the long journey began. The way he moved in rhythm with his horse became your entertainment in the boredom of the carriage box. You admired his hair as the sun shone upon it, bringing out the gold and copper tones, and imagined your fingers running through the tresses.

The curve of his lower back and the broadness of his shoulders completely captivated your attention. Your mind wandered to places it shouldn't have, explicit thoughts, unbecoming thoughts.

"What are you doing?" You shake your head, clearing the visions. "This man has murdered people, and here you are gawking at him like a Christmas roast."

Later on, the night progressed much the same as the night before, only your ladies' maids helped you undress.

Around midday on the third day of travel, your new home came into view.

Large and imposing with its spires slicing into the clear sky, and yet it was beautiful, magnificent. It was larger than any estate you had ever laid eyes upon. The stone itself seems to have been carved in the foot of the mountain behind it, leaving the western side a sheer cliff to the lake below.

Once the carriage stopped, the Prince opened the door, offering you his hand as you stepped down.

"Thank you, my lord."

He nodded curtly before speaking. "I am sure you are tired; allow me to walk you to your rooms."

You couldn't help the small smile that bloomed on your lips. "Yes, that would be wonderful, thank you."

Again, as you followed behind him upstairs and through twisting corridors, you became distracted by his straight posture and poised shoulders—enough so that you almost collided with him as he came to a stop.

He opened a heavy, creaking door and motioned for you to enter before him. The room beyond was beautiful. Red velvet curtains hung at every window, matching the duvet, a lovely contrast to the dark wood furniture and light stone walls.

You turned to him, still standing in the threshold. "This is wonderful.

"I'm glad it is to your tastes." A small smile crossed his lips. "I'll leave you then, let you rest."

As he turned to go, you called out to him. You hadn't been able to push from your mind the fact that he hadn't once tried to consummate the marriage or what Elina had said the day prior.

"I- my lord, am I not desirable to you?" You were surprised at your emboldened words.

He turned, an eyebrow raised in question. "What do you mean?"

"We have been married for two full days, and you have not once…" You couldn't bring yourself to say it out loud.

"Ah. Yes." He took two long strides and was standing before you, his heat penetrating your skin. "Contrary to the beliefs of many, I am no brute. I will not touch you unless you ask it of me."

His words left you dumbfounded, and your preconceived notions of him started to crumble.

Several days later, you were taking a stroll through the gardens alone when you heard heavy footsteps on the ground.

"Hello," you smiled at him, and he gave you one back. You had learned rather quickly that he was a man of few words, but all that needed to be said shone through his eyes, like a fathomless ocean.

"Would you like to help me pick flowers? I'm making a crown." You held up your half-finished flower crown to him.

He reached out and touched one of the delicate petals. "I would love to."

You tasked him with holding your pickings until you had enough to finish the crown you were working on and to make another. He sat with you on the cool grass as you wove the stems together

"What is your favorite flower?" His voice softly broke the silence.

You thought for a moment before speaking. "I'm fond of Snowdrops. I haven't seen any in the garden, but there's still time for them to bloom."

The Prince only hummed in response.

"Do you have a favorite?"

"I haven't thought about it," he answered.

"Well," you look at the two finished flower crowns in your lap, "tell me when you have."

Standing to your feet, you placed a crown gently upon each of your heads before returning to the castle.

The next morning, you awoke to a vase filled with snowdrops greeting you on your nightstand.

You couldn't pinpoint the exact moment you began to fall for your husband, but as you sat across the informal dining table from him, you felt a warm tug in your heart. It had taken a while before your dinners were spent here rather than the extravagant dining room, where you both sat awkwardly at either end of the long table, taking sneaking glances at the other.

Now you were in a private parlor, seated only an arm's length away, enjoying food you could only describe as heavenly. Roasted chicken cooked to perfection with a variety of vegetables, breads, and fruits—but there was one thing you did not recognize. The dish was white; you could tell there were layers to it, but what you did not know, and pomegranate seeds were sprinkled atop.

The man in front of you, perceptive as ever, noticed your eyes examining the dessert. "Try some. It is good."

"I'm not sure I want to." You reply, unsure. "I haven't a clue what this is; we have nothing like it where I am from, my lord."

He rolls his eyes and scoots the dish toward you. "Eat it."

"I don't think so, no, thank you." You try to push it back to him.

"Then close your eyes."

"What?"

"I said close your eyes. Trust me."

Eyeing him wearily, you shut your eyes. You hear a stenciled scrape against a serving dish.

"Please, open your mouth."

Reluctantly, you did as told, and when you did, you were met with an interesting flavor. Sweet and milky with the slightest hint of rose, followed by the crunchy texture of slightly ground pistachios.

Opening your eyes, your husband is staring right at you, his eyebrows lifted, waiting for a response.

"That's actually really good," you express, and you reach for your own spoon to take another bite. "What is this called?"

"Güllaç. It comes from the Ottomans, and is one of the only fond memories that come from my time spent in the empire." His eyes darkened at the mention of the ever-looming Ottoman Empire.

You knew from stories what might have happened, what he could be thinking about. So you reached over and touched his hand, running your thumb over the back. "If it brings you pain to think of, please, don't relive it on my behalf, my lord."

"You are most kind… I believe I will retire. Good night." He kissed the back of your hand in goodbye as he stood abruptly and exited the room, leaving you with your hand tingling where his lips touched and wondering if he was alright.

Two nights after, you found your husband in the library, book in hand, lounging by the fire. He looked so peaceful as his eyes scanned the pages. You wondered what he was reading.

His eyes flickered to where you stood barely in the room and then back to the book. You took that as your cue to make your way to him, sitting in the chair next to his. The fire cracked, fending off the night chill.

You watched him for a good five minutes before he spoke. "You are staring."

Heat crept up your neck as you blushed. "I'm sorry, my lord, I was just admiring."

Looking up at you, he snapped his book closed and placed it on the table between the two of you. "I do have a name, you know," he said seriously.

"Yes, I know that."

"Then, I would prefer if my wife used it from time to time."

You smirked at him. "Only if you do the same, Vlad."

And he did, he said your name. It made butterflies erupt in your stomach. How could your name, the one your mother shrieked when you were in trouble or your father said with greed as he signed your life away, make you react this way? The way it rolled off his tongue like a prayer had you swooning, thankful that you were seated and not standing on shaky knees.

When you went to sleep, you dreamt of all the other ways your name would sound coming off his lips.

The next morning, you woke early, the sun barely peaking into the valley. The quiet footsteps of the servants that sounded off the rock walls let you know that the castle was wide awake, preparing for the day.

Slowly, you clambered drowsily out of bed, shivering at the cool morning air. Faint glowing embers shone through the ash in the fireplace, the minuscule emittance of heat not enough to reach you from feet away.

With shaking hands, you grabbed your dressing down, wrapping it around you snuggly.

Your slippers made soft thwacks against the flagstones as you walked aimlessly through the castle, letting your heart guide you. Before you knew it, you were outside and were met with the sound of metal ringing. As you ventured closer to the source of the sound, you began to hear muffled grunts.

'What could be happening at this time of morning?' You thought.

Turning a corner, you were met with the source. Vlad stood before some contraption made of wood, his sword in hand, chest bare. Your eyes examined him, watched each precise movement he made. It was like watching a dancer perform, entrancing.

He wasn't big and corded with muscle, but you could tell he was strong with the way he held himself upright and the amount of power behind each slice and lunge.

You couldn't help the flutter in your stomach, and you couldn't stop it as it traveled further down.

The rising sun brought along better light to which you were able to see the sweat covering his pale and freckled skin.

Your heart began to beat faster, and your legs crossed. A frisson of excitement could be felt in the warming morning air.

Vlad continued his training, oblivious to your audience or how his ragged breaths made saliva pool in your mouth and sent a pang to your core.

You wanted to touch him, dig your nails into the soft skin of his back, and have him take you hard and animal-like. You had to have him now, and you would.

When he finally lets his sword rest, you stroll to him, swaying your hips just enough. When he spotted you, his eyes trailed your body in its state of undress, lingering on the swell of your hips in the fine fabric before locking on your own.

"Good morning," you spoke, voice soft.

"Good morning," he smiled back. "You're up early."

Wrapping your arms around yourself your you spoke, "I was cold."

"I can send for someone to relight your hearth."

Shaking your head, you placed a hand on his bicep. Your heart skipped a beat when it sent a tingle up your arm.

Looking at him through hooded eyes, you bit your lip anxiously, clearly nervous about what you were going to suggest. "There are other ways to warm up."

Vlad's grip on his sword tightened, his knuckles going white.

"Are you-"

"Yes." You were never more sure about anything in your life. You couldn't wait any longer.

Slowly, he stepped forward, and you took one back. He cocked an eyebrow at you, and you just grinned a wicked grin before turning on a dime and sprinting to the castle. "Catch me!" You called out, stooping briefly at the threshold to see if he was following. He was, and at top speed.

Screaming in excitement, you bolted down the hall, almost crashing into a group of servants as you rounded a corner. "Sorry!" you yelled after them, not stopping lest he apprehend you before reaching the bedroom.

While climbing the stairs two by two, you tripped over your nightgown, causing you to stumble slightly. You could hear Vlad bounding up behind you, gaining on you quickly. Swiftly, you regained your composure and raced for the door. You could just see him down the corridor, gaining on you.

You were almost to the door when he grabbed your wrist and pushed you against the wall. You shrieked in joy. His lips were parted, letting his heavy breaths escape, mingling with your own.

"Vlad…." Your chest heaved against his own.

His eyes were dark, void of that bright blue you were so used to seeing. They flickered from your gaze to your lips over and over, making you dizzy. Finally, before it was too much to take, he surged in and kissed you. His lips were warm and soft against your own. Hands roamed your body, scrunching in your night gown, groping for anything they could.

goosebumps appeared on your skin when his hand drifted up and lingered at your neck. You leaned into it, the feeling of him, wanting him, needing him to put pressure.

"My Prince-" a yelp severed your sentence. He was lifting you into your arms and carrying you through the door to your room, all without breaking the kiss.

You were only parted when your husband gently tossed you to the sheets. It was overwhelming, the lust you felt for him in this moment. It was almost paralyzing.

"I have waited for you to say those words to me for weeks. Have wanted you in silence; I could barely keep my hands to myself. You are a temptress, a succubus, and I will gladly fall to ruin for you."

He stepped into your open legs, pushing your dress up and over your head, tossing it to the side, exposing you.

You barely noticed your nakedness, all you knew was that you wanted him then and there, you disnt care how, as long as he touched you. "Please, please, I need to feel you." You pleaded, hips grinding into the air.

"Be patient, my Beloved, I will give you what you desire in time." He said as he fell to his knees, large hands caressing your skin, pulling you closer to him, and settling your legs over his shoulders. The air from his mouth cooled the wetness at your core.

Vlad let out an eager groan before licking his lips, like a lion about to devour its prey. In a single, fluid motion, he placed his mouth upon your center. The gasp that escaped you quickly turned into an uncontrollable moan when he began to softly suck. Your hands shot to his hair, gripping onto the strands for dear life. It had never felt like this, not when you had touched yourself.

His teeth nipped greedily at the sensitive nub until your hips bucked and strained against his hold. Your breath hitched and caught in your throat when a pang of arousal echoed through you.

Your legs snapped closed around his head, his low growl vibrating against you. His fingers gripped the tops of your thighs, but he did not loosen them; he only dove into you deeper, plunging his tongue into your opening.

"Oh- ahh." You threw your head back, closing your eyes tight. You could feel that spark, the growing electric feeling deep within your bones. He was bringing you to the very precipice of your being.

His tongue coaxed and teased until you finally gave way, body tensing in his grasp. Pulling your legs away from his head, he leaned up only slightly so that he could speak. "Look at me."

You shook your head in answer.

"Look at me. I want you to look at me." He punctuated his sentence with a sloppy kiss to the inside of your thigh.

Giving in, you propped yourself up, shakily, onto your elbows and gazed at him with lidded eyes.

Vlad kept contact with your stare as he sank back onto you like a man starved. The intensity of the moment, of being watched as you fell apart, had you coming undone in a matter of seconds.

He licked you through the shockwaves, pulling strained moans from your swollen lips.

Breathless, you stared at the canopy above your bed. "That was…" You didn't know where to start, how to describe what you had just been through.

Taking his time, Vlad crept back up your body, his hands began to move, sliding across your curves, fingers tracing over the flare of your ribs as you took a deep breath in. The warmth of his pals as he cupped your breasts had you sighing. His thumbs passed over your sensitive peaks, causing them to pebble in his wake.

"You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen," he breathed, voice filled with reverence. Leaning down, he pressed open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your breasts, tongue flicking over your hardened bud.

Pressing his body to yours, you could feel the evidence of his arousal straining against his trousers. Wanton need built up inside, emboldening you as your hand inched its way down to undo the ties of his pants. Before you could unlace them completely, Vlad stopped you.

"I told you, have patience. I don't want to hurt you." He muttered, teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, nipping at your pulse point.

"But I need you so much, so I feel like I might die," you bemoan dramatically.

He only chuckles, "You'll have me soon enough."

With a fervent motion of his hand, Vlad pushed the waist of his trousers down his hips, exposing himself. Your eyes widened at the sight, and your breathing became ragged as he slipped himself past your folds into your aching center.

The stretch wasn't painful, only slightly uncomfortable. As he sank into you deeper and deeper, the pressure built. Your legs wrapped around him, urging him further into you.

"Yes, my love, my prince, yes- ahh," you keened, shuddering as he bottomed out.

Vlad's right hand cupped your thigh while the left tangled in the hair at the nape of your neck, pulling you in to kiss him. "I want nothing more than to map your body in kisses, learn every secret, sensitive spot that brings a moan to your lips and causes your body to writhe."

His mouth barely left yours, locked together like you were his lifeline, tethering him to this plane of existence.

Your fingers clawed at the expanse of his back, no doubt leaving long, red marks as a testament to your ecstasy.

"Move," you whine, "I need you to move."

Vlad obliged, slowly beginning to rock his hips. Your own rolling to meet the shallow thrusts. Moans mingled in the air shared between you.

He sat up onto his knees and grabbed your waist. From this angle, the thrusts were more intense. You could feel him better this way, punching into you.

"Faster," you begged him, needing to find release from the throbbing ache building inside you.

"I don't want to hurt you." He rasped.

Shaking your head, you cry out, "You won't, my love, you won't hurt me."

He studied you for a moment before gripping your hips and pistoning in and out.

The room might have been cold when you awoke, but now it was stifling hot. Sweat was beading across both your foreheads and where skin touched skin.

A chorus of grunts, groans, and whimpers echoed through the room as he began to rut into you.

And then, it was like something snapped within you. Your cries became louder and your back arched off the bed. "I- I'm-" you stutter out, hand reaching for him.

He locks his finger's with your own. "I know." The rhythm of his thrusts begins to falter, "I am as well."

With one last drive, you came undone, body shuddering rapture. Vlad wasn't far behind, spilling himself into you.

Exhausted, you both lay there, catching your breath. As you came down from your high, the room began to feel cold once again. Vlad noticed you shivering and pulled you into him before covering you both with the duvet.

His fingers played with your hair, pulling you into a blissful sleep, but before falling into slumber, a voice kept you.

"You," Vlad says before kissing your lips.

"What?" You ask with confusion etched on your face.

"You," he says once more, his fingers caressing your face. "In the garden, you asked me what my favorite flower was… It's you."

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