panis me iudicat

When it was his turn you had asked for his papers and he handed them over.

“One form is missing,” you didn’t look up.

“I wasn’t told”

You shrugged and instructed him to come back tomorrow.

You were frivolous, the way he had decided most women were. You moved past the beige and khakis of the uniformed men in the office with an infuriating grace, your heels echoing with each step. 

And then the parties. You were always accompanied by an overeager friend who chuckled at every joke officers made but not you. You nursed your drink, gave side looks and said little.

He recognised you from the registry office but never bothered to speak to you.  That changed on the third gathering.

“Herr Lieutenant, you spoke of victory through sacrifice,” you had said. Dieter watched across the room. “Could you clarify which sacrifices will no longer be necessary once victory is achieved?”

It was delivered with such innocence, such womanly ignorance, that no one dared to call it insolence. 

Herr Meier’s face had been red for the rest of the evening. You looked pleased. 

“She ought to be in uniform,” one of them said with a boyish smile that belonged to schoolyards. He rolled his glass between his palms. “Running an office instead of warming a chair behind a desk.”

“Give her a pencil and a roomful of men,” another said, amused, “and she’d have them standing straighter than any filing cabinet.”

The third man —older, with silver at his temples— folded his gloves with slow, deliberate care. When he spoke, the others went quiet. 

“That wasn’t courage. That was a woman who’s never been properly corrected.”

No one laughed.

“Give her a little power and she’d be unbearable,” he went on. “Best keep that sort busy with papers and children — or remind her what she ought to be grateful for.”

There was a pause.

“She is easy on the eye, though,” the first man offered, softer now.

“sharp tongues usually are.”

Dieter looked again and found you staring out the window. 

The next time he went to get  his papers done, he looked for you. It wasn’t hard to find you. Tucked into your office, in a red dress too cheerful for Berlin you were explaining something to a senior clerk.

The older man’s face was fixed, he looked more like a student than a supervisor. Then you dismissed him in a way no employee should. 

Dieter passed you his papers and you took them without a word.

He loomed over you for a good five minutes before you bothered to glance at him. 

“Only one more signature and you’re good to go,” you offered a tight smile before looking back at the papers you stamped.

“Here,” you gave him your pen to sign. It was still warm from your hand. 

“Do you have obligations on Friday evening?” Dieter asked and he could feel the woman behind him listen more closely.

“We close at six,” You said, handing him his papers. “If you come before, I can check on it for you”

For a moment he held your gaze, assessing whether you were truly that oblivious. 

You were.

“Thank you,” he gave you a polite nod.

On Friday as you walked down the steps of the office and fixed your gloves you saw him.

Leaning against a street light he threw his cigarette on the pavement before extinguishing it under his boot. 

He showed up in a coat, not a uniform. No papers in hand.

“Hi”

“Hello,” his voice was measured as always. He took a step forward.

“No uniform today?”

“I thought you said that you finished at six”

You walked down the last two steps of the stairs.

“I am the kind of girl who leaves work early”

He looked at you, taking in your posture and clothes as if deciding where to place you. His gaze stayed on the fur lining of your gloves a little longer before raising to meet your eyes.

“Are you hungry?”

You raised an eyebrow and tried not to laugh. Glancing around the street, you watched as everyone was going to their business, oblivious to this strange encounter. “I could eat.”

“Good.”

In the dim lit restaurant you sat across him in your cream shirt with the bow on the front. The pianist played something slightly off. The waiter moved with exaggerated care. 

You rambled about the friend that dragged you to those parties —Edith— who was determined to get married before her sister. You were bored and he knew.

His gaze flickered to the ashtray which after two courses was now overflowing with ashes of your cigarette. Dieter reassured himself it was a habit he could manage. 

You flicked your cigarette, your hands delicate with an ink stain on your inner wrist.

“You must be very brave.” You said and his eyes snapped at you. You gave him a smile, now that you got his attention.

He leaned back in his seat, straightening his back. 

“I am talking about your profession.”

“Thank you.” He said hesitantly, his face a mix of pride and surprise.

“I don’t think I could wear khakis for the rest of my life.”

His smile dropped and there was a tightness around his eyes. He should have expected that.

“I occasionally switch to black.”

“Really?” You raised an eyebrow, just enough to look amused. “Is that a thing? Consideration of the washing days or something.”

“No. Not really.”   

“Oh.”

By the third date, you were in his bed. 

“the kind of relationship that allowed a quick fuck”—you’d said, like a rule you were setting instead of a door you were opening. 

You hid behind vulgarity and casualness. He let you believe it worked. 

You never called his office. You never asked him to take you anywhere.never waited for him to make plans. If he didn’t come to you, you simply disappeared back into your life. 

And then there was a kind of brashness in you— somewhere between your coral nail polish, your bows, and the florals of your dresses. You smoked like a soldier, you never stopped at one glass of wine, you argued about Caligari like a film critic. 

Each date ended with him wanting to slap you but he kissed you instead. 

It was absurd, maddening. How could a woman who was so efficient at paperwork be like this? 

One night when you were still getting accustomed to his bed you looked up at him, suddenly serious. 

“Is this what they mean by intrusion in the military?” You asked. 

He froze.

He was inside of you.

He was furious. You were insulting his most private moment. He was more furious at himself for laughing. It took him a week to call you again.

It took a couple of months for the arrangement to start feeling like a problem. 

The gathering was warm, a bit too warm for a Berlin evening so close to curfew. The laughter buzzed under low ceilings and polite toast.

You slipped away to the balcony for air, a cigarette tucked between your fingers.

Dieter remained in the circle recounting old victories and younger regrets.

Moments later when he stepped outside, you were gone.

No farewell. No wave. Just the taste of smoke in the night air.

He found the echo of your absence lingering where your silhouette had been.

Then the announcement came. He was to be posted in France.

You had dinner in the place his secretary always made reservations. You ordered the wine you liked and stole a potato from his plate. He let you complain about your superior and fill the silences he never did.

“I am leaving for France.”

Your fork stopped halfway to your mouth. “When?”

“In two months,” he tapped ash into the tray. “Perhaps sooner.”

You frowned, studying the crease that formed between your brows as if you might smooth the thought away.

“And you’ll take the train? I thought you hated it.”

“Is the train the issue?” His voice sharpened.

“Is there even an issue?”

He looked down at the wine spilled across the white tablecloth. You’d knocked the glass over yourself.

“Where in France?”

“Wherever I am needed.”

“Paris?”

“Perhaps.”

“I should watch out for the französische Huren, then,” you said, pleased with yourself.

His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile.

“And how does it work?” you went on. “Do you stay there forever? Do you come back?”

“Why are you asking?”

“For the macarons, obviously.”

He studied you, slow and deliberate. Once, he might have called it ignorance. Now he knew better.

The waiter appeared. “Would you like dessert? We have an excellent tiramisu tonight.”

“You should marry me,” Dieter said.

You blinked. “No?”

A laugh nearly escaped you. He didn’t move.

“I can come back later,” the waiter offered.

“No,” you both said.

Silence stretched between you.

“Do you have something French?” you asked.

Two crème brûlée later, you walked home.

The wine made you warm. You kept to the street while Dieter stayed on the pavement, hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed ahead.

“Why didn’t you have your driver take us?” you asked.

“I want to see Berlin while I can.”

You didn’t believe him.

You stopped at your building. He didn’t.

“I’d invite you up,” you said, fumbling for your keys, “but my father’s home.”

“I wouldn’t ask that of you.”

“No?” You nudged his arm with your purse. “Too much pasta?”

He smiled — but not at you.

He stepped closer.

You braced for the slap. You were certain of it.

Instead, he took your face in his hands.

“Be good,” he said, and kissed your cheek.

Your fingers tightened around the key in your palm.

“I will try.”

“No, you won’t,” he murmured, brushing his lips against yours. Not a lover’s kiss. Something closer to a benediction. “Goodnight.”

When you reached your window, he was already gone.

You thought that was the end of it.

Which meant you all started drinking earlier, and on empty stomachs.

So when the clock ticked two a.m., the living room was suspiciously empty. Everyone had drifted away, either to sleep or to throw up in some bathroom you didn't care to identify.

And you would have left too, had you not made the fatal mistake of calling the Trojan War a matter of disorganisation.

"And Agamemnon is praising himself," Henry went on.

You sat next to him on the couch, your knee pressed against his leg, not quite realising you were staring at the way his mouth moved.

"He shoots the deer-the aim of a king. He's proud of himself, which is what troubles Artemis."

You took a drag of his cigar. He had given it to you as a kindness for Christmas, he said. You didn't ask why he always watched the hollow of your cheeks whenever you inhaled.

"She hears the delight," he continued. "Not for the hunt, but the joy in killing."

His hands moved as he spoke, too absorbed in the mythical world in his head. Without giving it much thought, you draped one leg over his.

He glanced at your leg locked over his, then at you—the stern look of a professor.

"Are you listening?"

"Were you this lame during high school?" you asked, with surprising seriousness.

His frown deepened.

"I didn't attend high school."

"Well, that explains your inefficient reading abilities."

His lips parted, ready to say something-then he decided against it. He looked so dumbfounded you had to try not to laugh.

"So, as I was saying - Iphigeneia-"

His hand rested on your knee as he resumed.

"Were girls into that nerd façade of yours?" you cut him off.

He sent you a warning glare.

"You're being almost as vulgar as Agamemnon."

"Then again, you skipped high school-"

"I didn't skip-"

He was too easy to mess with.

"You skipped high school, so you wouldn't have enough girls to exercise your nerd charm."

He stared at you with narrowed eyes, letting the idiocy of your thesis sink in.

His brows furrowed so beautifully when he was annoyed. It was like a crack in his perfect façade-one you wanted to smooth over.

"That tendency of yours to make things vulgar when you can't contradict my point is—"

"So you have experience?" you asked.

His hand was warm on your knee.

"I didn't say such a thing-"

"So you don't?"

"That's none of your concern."

"There's no shame in that, Henry."

"Of course not. You just make assumptions."

"Then prove it."

The words left your mouth casually. His frown deepened, as if you had just insulted him. You grinned.

"Come on." You leaned closer, one arm draped over the back of the sofa, your thumb brushing his neck. "I won't tell your mother."

He scoffed.

"In what world do you think talking about my mother would convince me?"

"I don't know what you're into," you shrugged. "I'm simply following Freud's advice."

He nodded, considering how to deal with your caprice.

You glanced down. His hand was slowly rubbing circles into your knee. He seemed to think that if his ministrations were discreet enough, they didn't count.

"Freud?" he said. "I thought I was familiar with his work, but perhaps I missed something.

You tried not to laugh.

"Oh yes. He has a column in Vogue."

"Oh," he said, impressed. He leaned closer, a rare mischievousness in his eyes. "I must confess-I haven't been keeping up with my Vogue studies."

You leaned in too.

"You know," you said softly, "it really shows."

You held his gaze as if it were a challenge. His eyes lingered, drifting from your lashes to your lips. Your smile widened until your cheeks began to burn.

"Are we really going to stay here and discuss the moral failings of Agamemnon?" you whispered.

His lips twitched. He enjoyed your anticipation far too much.

"Of course." His breath was warm against your face. "Until you stop defending him."

Your heart beat hard against your chest. You felt so transparent beneath his pale eyes.

"My father hunts. I just know the drill!"

He hummed, disinterested. His hand moved an inch higher. Your breath caught in your throat, but you didn't make a sound-not under his supervision.

"To prove my point," you said lightly, "we could do some deer-play."

He barked a laugh. The sound was warm, welcoming.

You leaned into him a little. He looked more human when he didn't hide.

He tilted his head, noting the way you had grown more comfortable.

"I think," he murmured, his nose brushing your hair as he leaned toward your ear. You hung on his next words. "I think you've drunk far more than you should have."

You leaned away just enough to see his face.

"So have you."

Above his eye, you caught a glimpse of his scar-faint, half-hidden by his hair, a shade paler than his skin.

"Yes," he said, as if speaking to a misbehaving child.

"But I can behave."

Next to you the fire was slowly dying. None of you bothered to move.

"Okay. I'll leave then."

His hand on your knee held you firmly in place.

"I didn't ask you to leave." It was infuriatingly calm.

"No?"

He tugged at your stockings, the material resisted before snapping back.

"You can't leave." His voice was low. "We're having a debate here. Have you forgotten?"

His breath caressed your neck, lips now against your jaw.

"Right," you cleared your throat, trying to stay unbothered "Agamemnon."

He gave your jaw a small bite. "Agamemnon."

Your breath hitched in your throat.

He noticed of course.

Smug asshole.

He kissed you right where he bit.

"Finally you shut up."

"Henry..."

"Almost." He sighed against the pulse of your neck.

“What are you doing?” You asked, carefully, to not startle the wild animal.

He frowned. “I’m doing you what you begged me to do.”

“I don’t beg.” 

“Oh, but you do.” 

You leaned back just enough to take off his glasses. 

“I don’t do nerds with glasses.” 

You set them aside along with your cigar. He watched you, as though deciding whether to be offended.

“That’s patronising.”

“Life is patronising.”

He let out a sharp laugh. Something warm coiled in your lower stomach. 

“Oh my sweet Diogenes.” He muttered to himself, his hand giving a light squeeze to the fat of your hips. “So very cynical.” 

You watched him, without flinching at his touch.

It wasn't anything sinful, only a challenge.

And then you did it. You cupped his cheek and he was the one who went quiet. 

“Fuck you.”  You whispered,

Your lips found his in a rough kiss. He tasted like gin and smoke. Your fingers knotted in his hair, keeping him close.

He didn’t push you away — and that was worse.

When the kiss ended, you didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how shaken you were.

“Homeschooled… I see,” you said, your smile turning into a grin.

He groaned, head rolling back.

“It’s not my fault that you failed to convince me.”

He looked up, insulted. “I failed to convince you?”

“Well of course.”

Your hand moved to his neck, pretending to fix his collar. You waited for him to push you away. That ought to do it.

“Let’s run through it again?” you asked, voice hesitant. You didn’t mind another kiss.

“Aren’t you generous?” he scoffed.

You nodded. “That I am.”

He went quiet. For a moment he considered the implications of your suggestion.

“Bunny?” he muttered.

Bunny was somewhere upstairs, ruining something.

Your brows knitted together in an innocent frown. “Bunny who?”

“Well, fuck you.”

This time he kissed you. It was slower, deeper — like he was finally letting himself melt. His mouth moved over yours, one hand cradling your hip. You opened for him without thinking, and he groaned quietly, tongue sliding against yours.

His hands on your hips guided you back onto the couch.

You didn’t expect that — but you didn’t stop him. The cushions dipped beneath you as he followed, strangely elegant for a drunk man.

“You’re still proving a point?” you murmured against his mouth.

A cold hand slipped beneath your blouse.

“Of course,” he said, like it was obvious.

His touch moved up your ribs, deliberate, patient and when he found your bra he unclipped it with alarming ease.

His mouth traced your throat, open-mouthed, warm. You hummed without meaning to.

“You’re easier like this,” you whispered, a moan begging to escape you. “Please don’t ever sober up.”

“I’ll take it into consideration,” he muttered against your skin. He nibbled at your neck.

You bit your lip to stay quiet. “And why are your hands cold? Do you need gloves?”

“Don’t forget to knit me a pair.”

“Fucking jerk—”

A thud from the hallway. You shoved him off you.

Bunny.

Some loud steps, a curse and then he walked into the living room.

“Hey,” Bunny said lazily.

Henry cleared his throat. You fixed your blouse.

Bunny shuffled in, bleary-eyed, hair disheveled, one sock missing.

“Can’t sleep. Had a nightmare.”

Your hand crept to your neck.

“Could you—?” He gestured vaguely between you both.

“Yeah,” you muttered, sliding aside. He dropped down, sprawling, cornering you into the edge of the couch.

Your bra dangled loose beneath your shirt.

“Dynasty rerun,” Bunny said, grabbing the remote. “Don’t mind if I put it on.”

There was a small buzz as the TV flickered and then the picture settled.

“Who’s your favorite?”

You swallowed. You could still taste Henry.

“Fallon.”

“She’s a bitch!”

“Right,” Henry murmured.

Bunny turned the volume up, the theme music slicing through the quiet.

“Such a bitch,” he muttered, already absorbed.

Henry still wouldn’t look at you.

The unclipped bra itched at your back.

“I think I’ll head upstairs.”

“I’ll come help you,” Henry said too quickly.

“No, don’t go.” Bunny grabbed your hand, then Henry’s. “Fine — I’ll tell you.”

He muted the TV.

“I’ve been having this nightmare lately—”

“Have you now?” Henry’s voice was clipped.

“I mean it! I can’t stay alone tonight. I need you.”

You glanced at Henry. He stared at his shoes, resigned.

“Both of you.”

“Right,” you said quietly.

“Bunny, no. Stay with Fallon.”

“No!”

“Bunny, yes. Let’s go.” Henry waved you forward.

Walking up the stairs, you had to fight the urge to reach back and fix your bra.

Henry kept his eyes on the steps, careful even drunk.

“When he was a child and had nightmares,” Henry said lightly, “he’d sneak into his parents’ bedroom.”

“Really?” You tried not to laugh. “Until what age?”

such a beautiful sight, naked in his bathroom searching for solace in his touch. He rolled up his sleeves and tested the water with his wrist before nodding. “Too hot?” He asked. He already knew it was perfect.

You shook their head, shoulders sagging as they lowered themselves into the tub. The tension didn’t leave all at once, but it softened.He took the washcloth dipping it in the water before carefully working on your body from your neck down your legs, pausing when you tensed and resuming when you relaxed again. Each movement was slow and deliberate like you were a fragile artefact of his collection.

You didn’t complain. Only kept talking about how horrible your day was.

Everything was disappointing outside of this house, away from him. you didn’t say it out loud but Hannibal knew.

“Tell me if I’m too rough.”

he smiled when you laughed.

“I don’t think you could be even if you tried.” His hands moved to your hair, washing it with your favourite shampoo—something faint since you’ve come to adjust to his sensitive senses. He rinsed them clean, running his fingers through it and you closed your eyes. 

The water was warm and he could feel you felting under his touch.

so malleable, his sweet thing

“I don’t think I ever want to leave the house.” You murmured as he messaged your scalp.

Every guest was gone, even the lousy neighbour. Still, Dieter’s uncle lingered—refilling his glass, talking as if the room were full.

Dieter nodded, like it was a reflex he’d been born with. “We tried not to rush.”

“Oh, you did rush,”  Wilhelm said cheerfully. “But that’s all right. Most mistakes are made young.”

You twirled your wedding ring, trying to soothe the irritated skin.

Family heirloom. Daisy-shaped, glittering shamefully—too bright, too heavy, too small

Dieter was to be stationed in France. You were fine with it, if you ignored the small gap in your routine.

Dieter wasn’t. Not when it meant leaving you behind. 

He had proposed, in his own sterile way—at dinner, after the waiter asked if you wanted tiramisu. 

“You should marry me.” Dieter had said.

You laughed and then refused. He only smiled calmly.

Two days later you returned home just to find him with your father in the living room, drinking schnapps. He looked comfortable, at home. 

They shook hands. The marriage was set. 

Two and a half weeks later you were dressed in your good ecru dress.

His pick. As everything else.

No one got married in three weeks.

You had a friend whose marriage was delayed for almost a year because of the RuSHA.

The paperwork, the racial background investigation—the presents that came along with marrying a Major—all conducted in a matter of days.And so you knew. The groundwork was laid long before you had refused. 

“And now a Major. Imagine that.” The uncle smacked his thigh. 

You stared at the parquet. The wood wax was drying your throat.

“You see this one,” he pointed his fat finger at Dieter. “He was never one to make demands. If he wanted a second slice of cake, one of his brothers would ask for him.”

“That was a long time ago, uncle.” Dieter shifted on the couch.

Wilhelm’s gaze fell on you. From instinct you forced a smile. 

“His mother used to say he was ‘particular’. I used to think you’d always need someone to speak up on your behalf.”

You uncrossed your legs and then crossed them to the other side. 

Dieter shot you a warning glance. 

“Funny thing, authority,” the uncle went on. “Put the right title on a man, and suddenly people hear him perfectly well. Don’t need intermediaries anymore. Don’t need to ask twice.” He nodded, satisfied with the thought. 

“And your little Frau?”

You put out your cigarette on the ashtray with force.

“A shame you’ll have to leave so soon. But it’s alright,” the uncle said, smoothing his trousers as if he might stand, then didn’t. “You’ll find dear, that a house like this keeps you busy.”

“It does take looking after.”

Dieter put your cigarette case in his pocket before you could take it. 

The metal case clicked shut.

“Oh, constantly,” Wilhelm said. “Meals don’t plan themselves. Rooms don’t stay straight. People notice those things.” He looked at you, kindly, as if offering a tip. 

An insult was at the tip of your tongue. You made a fist, nails digging into the skin.  

“It’s — as my Frau likes to call it—the burden and honour of being the lady of the house.” 

Dieter took your hand into his. The uncle smiled in secret approval.

“I remember your mother, Dieter. Oh, Irma knew how to keep the house in order.”

“I like things in order,” Dieter squeezed your hand. “It makes life easier.”

Wilhelm shook his head, gaze fixed on you.  

“But don’t worry. Once you’re here most days, it comes naturally.”

You turned at Dieter. “Most days?”

There was a pause. Somewhere in the house, a door closed.

“You’ll find your rhythm,” his hand was heavy on yours. “Mornings go quickly. Afternoons slower. Then suddenly it’s evening.”

Wilhelm smiled, pleased, as if nothing of importance had been said. “That’s how it happens.”

Your eyes bore into Dieter. 

He reached for his cup, found it empty, and set it back with a small, precise motion.

“It's not a burden if you settle into it. Mother did.” He offered. “Routine can be… reassuring.”

“For whom?”

“For everyone, I think.”

Wilhelm leaned back, satisfied. “You see? He understands.”

“And my job?”

Dieter finally looked at you.

“I don’t think uncle Wilhelm came all the way here to hear about—”

Your nails dug into your palm.

 “It is late, uncle.” You said.

“Yes, yes I know. Parties end early.” He let out a sigh before draining his glass“Your mother would’ve stayed. She hated leaving things unfinished.”

He looked between you two before standing. In union you stood with him.

“Well, you've done well for yourself. Both of you have.

No sense dragging things out once the course is clear.” He lingered a moment longer, as if expecting agreement, then reached for his hat. 

"Guten nacht." 

He kissed your hand. His lips were chapped and wet at the same time.

“Goodnight. It was a pleasure meeting you.” 

“Let us walk you outside—“

Dieter’s hand pressed on the small of your back, guiding you toward the door.

You stood still—stiff like a statue. 

“Oh don’t worry. I’m old but I remember where the door is!” He chuckled 

“Make us proud in France, Dieter.” 

Wilhelm patted Dieter on the back, making your husband’s polite smile falter a little. You relished that moment. 

The uncle left and the whole apartment was swallowed in silence.

“I thought he’d never leave.”

Dieter let out a sigh. 

You looked out the window. Berlin’s streets were empty by now.

Dieter paused for a second.

“Once he drank so much he spent the night on the couch.” 

The ring shone brightly on your swollen finger. 

“You’re tired.” He said it almost kindly. 

You glared at him over your shoulder. 

“Indeed.” 

 “You smoked quite a lot too. Frau Kübler said so.”  

“Really?” You scoffed. “I’m surprised she could see anything underneath that atrocious hat.” 

“You didn’t have to tell her that ‘Italian’ doesn’t mean kitsch.” 

You hummed, pleased with yourself. 

You twisted and tugged the ring, hoping it would slip over the knuckle. 

“It doesn’t fit?” 

He stepped closer and took your hand into his. 

There was an odd gentleness. “I was certain it would.” 

“A slip-up?” You asked. “ How did you allow it?”  

He examined the ring as if he hadn’t heard.

“I really like it on your finger. Don’t take it off.” 

You pulled your hand away.

“It’s stuck and it hurts.”

He opened his mouth to say something.

“Soap might help.”  You cut him off. 

He didn’t follow you. He didn’t have to.

You heard the clink of ice in his glass as you walked away.

You went to the bedroom.

Long after you were out of your wedding dress, Dieter still hadn’t come. You wondered if he was feeling guilty, if he was ashamed of being alone with you.

But you knew how men like him were.

In front of the mirror your reflection sickened you. Silk negligee, long and pale pink— meant to show purity. 

Dieter walked in with a drink in hand. He didn’t glance at you once. 

Somehow that felt better than if he had.

“I trust you enjoyed yourself today?” 

You didn’t answer. It wasn’t a question but a statement like the one he made in his reports. 

With quiet precision you took the pins out of your hair.

It felt oddly domestic. 

“I only mean to ensure you’re taken care of before I leave,” he said.

With one hand he undid his tie. The movement was mechanical and smooth. 

“I presume you understand that.” 

Your hand stilled. 

“I do.” 

His reflection tried to suppress a smile. He stepped closer, unable to resist the indulgence. 

“I knew you would.”  He hovered behind you. The scent of something bitter and wooden flooded your senses. 

You had almost missed that.

His gaze fell on your robe. Examining, not touching.

“This is for your own good, you know,”  he murmured.

“It’s not distrust.”

It was.

“War just doesn’t favour loyalty.” 

His chest was against your back, firm and unmovable. 

Your body caved in. 

“I didn’t know we had promised each other loyalty.”  

He didn’t bother answering.

“I didn’t know you even wanted my loyalty.”

“I changed my mind.” He spoke the words as if they weighed nothing. 

His hand slid smoothly down the satin fabric— from your ribcage to your waist. There was a slight frown on his face, a quiet determination.

He had touched you countless times before yet this time was different. Tonight was something worth remembering. 

“Will you take this off for me?” His voice dripped with mock politeness. His hand tugged gently at the fabric. “There is no need to hide yourself from me.” 

“I’m not hiding.”

He tolerated your lie the way one tolerates a child’s caprice.

The robe draped on the floor with no protest.The cold was piercing like needles.   

He shunted it aside with his foot, then wrapped his hand around your waist like a viper.

You felt his lips on the nape of your neck, where he knew you liked it. 

You shivered, body reacting before the mind could. 

“Dieter—”

A kiss on your shoulder hushed you.

He pressed his cheek against your face, nose nuzzling your hair, smelling—consuming you whole. 

“Don't fight me.” 

It was spoken kindly. 

His breath was warm on your skin. 

His gaze met yours through the mirror. 

“Don’t fight me— not now or ever.” 

The strap of your nightdress fell off your shoulder. For a second you thought he’d pull it up, allow you the slightest dignity. 

He cupped your breast, his palm spread flat against your sternum, intruding under the slippery fabric.

“Selbst hundert französische Huren können mit dir nicht mithalten.” 

He murmured against your skin. 

He bit down on your neck. Your lips parted a moan threatening to betray you. He squeezed your breast to get the sound out of you. 

You refused.

“Don’t-“ 

He pressed you closer— not to harm but to remind.

You stood still, eyes never leaving his reflection. Your jaw tightened. 

“Don’t.” His lips brushed against your skin. His hand left your breast and he pushed off your nightgown altogether. 

A whimper. Your chest heaved up and down with each ragged breath. 

His body was warm against you. Never inviting but always familiar.

“This will be good to you.”  

You closed your eyes too tired to pretend you were stronger. 

You walked down the cobblestone streets, your boots clicking in a rhythm of their own. The air was thick with burnt chestnuts and chimney smoke. It was almost welcoming.

That night, however, it was quiet.

The streets were empty. No singing poets, no eager harlots, no drunks playing three card monte.

The fog wrapped around you like a heavy cloak. The weak yellow light of the lamps refused to help your vision. 

It didn’t matter anyway. 

You hadn’t known where you were going for some time. Your legs carried you on their own, and that seemed enough. 

You didn’t question it—not even when the echo from the St. Vitus Cathedral sounded as though it were rising from Hades.

A reckless girl, your father called you. 

Fear was meant to keep people alive.

The mouth of a narrow alley opened ahead of you, dark and unmarked, and you stepped toward it without thinking.

It wasn’t on your map—and you knew these districts better than anyone.

You halted. The place looked familiar and foreign at the same time.

You should have walked away, come tomorrow, when the sun would be bright enough to drive away anything sinister. 

Your frozen breath rose in the cold night air. The air seemed to shift, tightening as you stood there. 

Suddenly your heartbeat felt out of sync. You didn’t know with what—only that it was misplaced. 

“Hello?”

A faint scrape answered you.

Leather against stone.

You turned, the fog parting just enough to reveal the silhouette of a man—or something wearing the shape of one. 

The gaslight behind him flickered, as though shrinking from the task of illuminating his features.

“Pardon,” you managed, your voice a brittle thread in the silence. “Sir, it appears I’m lost.”

“Lost?” He stepped forward. “I wouldn’t say so.”

It was almost taunting. His accent wasn’t Bohemian. It wound through the vowels, something older than the city itself.

He stepped closer, and your knees weakened.

You forced a polite smile.

The sculptured putto on the baroque facade now seemed to pity you.

“Would you be so kind as to give me directions?” You laughed at your own foolishness. The sound was cacophonous. “Somehow the alley is not in my map.” 

“No map will chart the places I walk.”

Your grip tightened around the leather strap of your map. 

A pale hand rose, gloved in shadow rather than cloth. He reached toward your face, not touching, merely hovering, as if feeling the heat the skin carried.

The fog thickened.  “You should not have come here,” he whispered.

You swallowed. “I didn’t intend—”

“You were called.”

He was close enough now that you could see his eyes: not red, not glowing, worse. They were empty of reflection, blank as though light was scared to be caught in them.

A sudden gust shoved through the alley, extinguishing the nearest lamp. The world dimmed.

And then—

A cold pressure against your shoulder. His grip was iron—elegant, inescapable. He tugged you close.

Your breath hitched, 

He leaned in, his breath cold against your face.

“Forgive me,” he said, “but I am so very thirsty.”

His lips brushed the pulse that hammered helplessly beneath your skin. 

And then you felt it—

Sharp teeth pierced your neck, tearing delicate flesh as if it were a thin fabric. A bite.

 It was nothing like the tavern stories. It wasn’t animalistic. It wasn’t a tearing but a claiming, deliberate and dreadfully precise.

A shiver ran through your body: down your arm, across your shoulder, into the chambers of your heart.

Then a sudden wince. It wasn't yours. He pushed you back with a force your body could barely withstand.

You stumbled, hand instinctively palming your neck. Warm, sticky blood coated your hand. In horror you watched.

Under the dim moonlight, he jerked back, coughing, gagging. His chin was streaked with blood—your blood.

Dizziness clouded your mind. You stepped back without realizing it. Your heels clicked softly against the cobblestones.

His gaze snapped to you—shock, fury, something else. 

Shame coiled in your chest like a serpent, sudden and unearned.

“What have you done—?” His voice rasped. Coughing, breath ragged, he trembled in a way that should have been impossible for something undead.

Your heart drummed like a caged bird. You started running without even realising. 

You just had to make it out of the alley.

Your throat was hoarse. You wanted to scream for help but he had sucked any liveliness out of you. Clumsily, you ran ahead.

You would survive. You had to.

You saw the dim lamp at the alley’s end. A return to a world not ruled by shadows.

A hand clamped around your waist before you could step out of the alley.

He dragged you back into the darkness. His hand covered your mouth, muffling any sound. 

A scent of old earth clouded your senses.

His breath caught — sharp, uneven — as though he had not meant to make a sound at all.

His hold was startlingly gentle. 

You tried pulling away but now every movement felt heavy. Your limbs were like stone, knees buckled. His hand tightened around your waist —not to harm, but to anchor. 

Warm blood dripped down your neck. He inhaled sharply, the scent not lost in him.

The hunger, insatiable for centuries, twisted, recoiling from something so human, so achingly familiar.

You stared at the lamp across the road. The light was dim, burning away. 

Each breath was a struggle. The world narrowed— shadows closing, darkness pressing in— and you leaned into him to keep from falling. 

Still he didn’t bite.