kiss the Wall

The thought was unbearable. Shane had already suffered enough because of him. He had endured more than any human should. Ilya never wanted him to see this final act—this last necessary violence. Shane was too good. Too kind. He would try to stop it. He would plead for mercy that would never come. Or worse, he would stand there in silence, eyes full of that terrible love Ilya had never deserved, and watch the life leave his body. No. Better for Shane to remember him as he was yesterday. Better for their last moment to be that kiss, that final touch.

Ilya closed his eyes, letting his mind drift back to the hotel. Not Viktor's underground prison, but the moment before—carrying Shane through the abandoned corridors. Feeling the unnatural heat of his skin. The weakness in his body from blood loss. The weight of him in Ilya's arms had felt right somehow, even as guilt tore through him for causing that weakness in the first place.

Then, outside in the cool night air, Shane had said the words Ilya had never expected to hear.

I love you. I still love you.

That memory unsettled him more than any other. Even now, hours before his execution, it was this that made his hands tremble faintly in his lap. Shane had looked at him with clear eyes, fully aware of what Ilya had done, of what he was capable of—and had still chosen to love him. It made no sense. It defied all logic. Ilya had expected hatred. Had prepared for it. Had accepted it as his due. But forgiveness? Love? These were weapons against which he had no defense.

He straightened as footsteps echoed down the corridor, approaching too quickly, too early. The guards weren’t due for hours. The trial wasn't scheduled until after sunset. Something had changed.

Keys rattled in the lock. The heavy door swung open with a groan of ancient metal. Three guards entered—Council enforcers in their formal black uniforms, faces impassive beneath the flickering torchlight. One carried silver restraints that gleamed dully in the dim light.

“Time to go,” the tallest guard said, his voice flat and emotionless.

Ilya rose from the cot, surprise briefly flitting across his features before he mastered it. "The trial isn't until tonight."

"Plans changed," the guard replied without elaboration. "Hold out your wrists."

Ilya complied without hesitation, extending his arms. The silver burned the moment it touched his skin, a slow, insistent pain that would sink deeper the longer he wore it. He didn't flinch. Didn't resist. The restraints locked with a soft click that seemed to echo in the small cell.

The guards said nothing else as they formed a triangle around him, one leading, two flanking. Ilya walked between them with his head high, back straight, steps measured and unhurried. He had no intention of resisting. This was the path he had chosen the moment he'd turned himself and Viktor in. The only path that ensured Shane's safety from both of them.

Blue flames illuminated paths Ilya knew all too well, casting long shadows behind the guards as they marched him forward. Each footfall echoed against stone walls that had witnessed centuries of judgment. How many times had he walked these same corridors with a different prisoner in tow? How many vampires had he delivered to face the Council’s justice, his own face just as impassive as the guards flanking him now?

The irony wasn't lost on him. For decades he had been their enforcer, their executioner. He had believed in their laws with the conviction of someone who had seen the alternative—the chaos Viktor had reveled in, the disregard for human life, the brutality that came with unchecked power.

His wrists burned beneath the silver restraints, the pain working deeper with each passing minute. He welcomed it. Let it be a reminder of what he was, of what he had done. They ascended a spiral staircase, the blue flames casting their faces in ghostly light. At the top, massive wooden doors carved with ancient symbols awaited—symbols of justice, of balance, of power. The same doors he had passed through countless times, head held high, secure in his purpose.

The guards paused before the entrance. One stepped forward, placing his palm against the center of the door. The wood seemed to shiver under his touch, recognizing him, before swinging inward without a sound. The tribunal chamber opened before them, vast and imposing. Vaulted ceilings disappeared into shadow, the space designed to make the accused feel small, insignificant. Rows of stone benches lined the walls, filled with silent vampires who had come to witness judgment. Their faces blurred together in the dim light—some familiar, most not. All watching with the cold curiosity of predators observing a wounded member of their pack.

The Council Adjudicators sat on an elevated dais at the far end of the chamber, five figures in black robes, their faces partially obscured by deep hoods. Behind them, a massive tapestry depicted the founding of the vampire nation—ancient creatures emerging from darkness into a world of order and law. Ilya had always found the imagery ironic. As if monsters could truly be civilized.

The guards led him to the center of the room where a single stone circle was embedded in the floor. The accused's place. How many had stood there trembling before him? How many had begged for mercy that never came?

A sharp, familiar scent cut through the musty air of the chamber—amber and sandalwood, tinged with blood. Ilya's body tensed instinctively. Viktor was near. Not yet in the chamber, but close. Being brought in through a different entrance, perhaps. The scent grew stronger, filling his nostrils, bringing with it memories he'd spent centuries trying to forget.

The doors on the opposite side of the chamber groaned open. Viktor appeared between two guards, his body held rigid with fury. Unlike Ilya, he hadn't accepted his fate. His eyes burned with rage as he scanned the room, taking in the Council, the witnesses, the instruments of execution that waited in the shadows.

Then his gaze found Ilya, and everything changed.

The fury melted away, replaced by something far more disturbing—a slow, intimate smile spreading across his face like a caress. Recognition dawned in those amber eyes, followed by understanding, then triumph. Ilya knew that look too well. Viktor thought he understood what was happening. Thought this was all part of some elaborate plan.

He thought Ilya had come back to him.

The guards forced Viktor into a second stone circle beside Ilya's. Close enough that Ilya could feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell the blood Viktor had consumed recently. Close enough to hear the soft chuckle that escaped Viktor's lips.

"My darling," Viktor whispered, too low for anyone but Ilya to hear. “So dramatic. You always had a flair for the theatrical.” His eyes gleamed with amusement as he glanced around the chamber. "But effective. They won't suspect a thing."

Ilya kept his gaze fixed forward, refusing to acknowledge Viktor’s delusion. But Viktor wasn't deterred.

"I knew you wouldn't abandon me," he continued, his voice a silken purr. "Not after everything we've shared. Everything we've been through together." He leaned closer, his breath ghosting across Ilya's ear. "Did they hurt you? I'll kill them all when we're free."

"I will never forgive you for what you did to him," Ilya said, his voice low and deadly. "For what you made him become."

Viktor's smile only widened, the delusion in his eyes complete. "He enjoyed it by the end. They all do."

A new scent cut through the chamber—faint but unmistakable. Human. Familiar. Ilya’s head snapped toward the entrance.

Shane.

Ilya’s heart seized. Shane stood at the back of the chamber, supported by Svetlana’s arm around his waist. Even from this distance Ilya could see how pale he was. How fragile. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, his normally athletic frame slightly diminished, shoulders hunched slightly as if the simple act of standing required all his strength.

No. No. No. This couldn't be happening. Shane wasn't supposed to be here. Wasn't supposed to witness this. Wasn't supposed to carry this memory for the rest of his life.

A flash of anger surged through Ilya—at Svetlana, for bringing him. How could she? She knew what was about to happen. Knew the violence that would unfold in this chamber. Then the anger dissolved as quickly as it had formed. Shane would have found a way here regardless. Would have dragged himself through the streets if necessary. And at least with Svetlana, he was safer, protected. And anger was replaced with a deep love for his oldest friend.

However, for the first time since his arrest, true fear flooded Ilya's system—not the calm acceptance of his own death, but raw terror that Shane would be forced to watch it happen. Would carry that trauma with him forever. Would never be free of the nightmares that would surely follow.

Viktor followed Ilya's gaze, his amber eyes narrowing as he spotted Shane. “Ah. Your pet came to say goodbye. How touching.” His voice dripped with mockery. "Perhaps I'll comfort him after you're gone. He seemed to enjoy my attentions before."

Ilya's hands strained against the silver restraints, the metal burning deeper into his flesh. The pain barely registered through the fury that coursed through him at Viktor's words.

A heavy gong reverberated through the chamber, silencing all whispers. The head Adjudicator rose, her face hidden beneath her deep hood.

“The Council is convened,” she announced, her voice carrying through the vast chamber. "Let judgment commence."

Ilya barely listened as the proceedings began. He knew the charges. Had anticipated them. Had accepted them as the price of Shane's safety. But as the Adjudicator's voice echoed through the chamber, each word landed with unexpected weight.

"Vikto Belov," the Adjudicator intoned. "You stand accused of kidnapping a human protected under the treaty. Of blood enslavement without consent. Of violations against the human-vampire accord that threatens the very peace our kind has established."

Viktor's posture remained defiant, his chin lifted in contempt for the proceedings.

"Ilya Rozanov." The Adjudicator turned her hooded face toward him. "You stand accused of violation of your Ethical Feeding Program blood contract. Of attempted exsanguination of a human under your protection. Of historical complicity with Viktor Belov in crimes spanning three decades."

The words hung in the air, heavy and final. Hearing his crimes spoken aloud felt like listening to a stranger's life recited—a monster from ancient tales, not the person he had worked so hard to become. Yet there was truth in every charge. He had been that monster once. Had nearly become it again with Shane.

Movement at the back of the chamber caught Ilya's attention. Shane was pushing himself away from Svetlana's supporting arm, straightening his shoulders with visible effort. No. Ilya knew that determined set of his jaw. Recognized the stubborn light in his eyes even from this distance.

“I wish to speak,” Shane called, his voice thin but clear.

The head Adjudicator paused, hooded face turning toward the human. "This is highly irregular," she said after a moment. "Humans do not address the Council."

"I'm the victim in this case," Shane replied, taking an unsteady step forward. "Don't I have the right to be heard?"

A murmur rippled through the assembled vampires. Ilya watched in horror as Shane began making his way down the central aisle, each step slow but deliberate. Determination radiated from him like heat.

"Let him speak," another Adjudicator said, leaning forward with evident curiosity. "It is... unusual, but not forbidden."

Shane continued his slow approach, the assembled vampires watching with predatory interest as he made his way toward the center of the chamber. Ilya wanted to scream at him to stop, to turn around, to save himself. But the words caught in his throat as Shane finally reached the front, standing just outside the stone circles where he and Viktor were confined.

"My name is Shane Hollander," he said, his voice stronger now despite the visible tremor in his hands. "And I need to tell you what really happened."

Ilya's chest constricted painfully. No. This was exactly what he had feared. What he had tried to prevent by accepting his fate without protest. Shane was going to try to save him—was going to humiliate himself before these ancient creatures who viewed humans as little more than walking meals.

"Viktor Belov kidnapped me," Shane continued, gesturing toward Viktor without looking at him. "He found me bleeding and barely conscious after... after my encounter with Ilya. He took me against my will. Chained me to a bed. Force-fed me his blood until I became dependent on it."

The Council members remained silent, their hooded faces revealing nothing of their thoughts. Shane took another step forward, his gaze sweeping across the dais.

"Ilya saved me," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "He tracked me down. He fought Viktor. He got me out of there and made sure I was safe before he went back to face Viktor alone."

Ilya closed his eyes briefly, unable to bear the raw emotion in Shane's voice. This was torture—worse than any execution could be. To stand here helpless, restrained, while Shane pleaded for his life.

"And then," Shane continued, "Ilya turned himself in willingly. He knew what would happen. He did it anyway. Because he believed it was the only way to keep me safe."

"The charges stand regardless of intent," the head Adjudicator stated, her voice cold and impartial. "Ilya Rozanov nearly drained you to death. His control failed. The treaty exists precisely to prevent such incidents."

"But I forgive him," Shane insisted, taking another step closer. "Doesn't that count for something?"

"Forgiveness is irrelevant," another Adjudicator interjected. "The law is absolute."

Shane turned to face the assembled vampires, his eyes bright with unshed tears. "But he's not like Viktor. He's spent centuries trying to be better, to control what he is. One mistake shouldn't erase all of that."

The desperation in Shane's voice tore at Ilya's heart. The way he swayed slightly as he stood there, clearly exhausting the last of his strength. The tremor in his hands that spoke of the withdrawal still ravaging his system. All of it because of Ilya. Because Shane loved him, against all reason, against all self-preservation.

"Please," Shane begged, turning back to the Council. "He doesn't deserve to die for this. Not when he's the one who saved me. Not when he's the one who made sure Viktor was caught."

"Shane." Ilya finally found his voice, speaking softly but clearly. "Stop."

Shane turned toward him, eyes wide with desperation. "Ilya, I have to—"

"Don't." Ilya shook his head slowly, keeping his voice gentle despite the pain tearing through his chest. "Don't humiliate yourself for a lost cause."

"It's not a lost cause," Shane insisted, taking a step toward him. "They have to understand—"

"They understand perfectly," Ilya said, his voice tender yet final. "I broke the law. I nearly killed you. There's no defense for that."

Shane's face crumpled, tears finally spilling over. "But I love you."

Ilya wanted nothing more than to reach for him, to wipe away those tears, to hold him one last time. But the silver restraints bit into his wrists, reminding him of the gulf that could never be bridged.

"I know," he said softly. "That's why you need to stop.”

Viktor had been watching this exchange with growing comprehension, his amber eyes narrowing as understanding dawned. His head snapped toward Ilya, disbelief etched into every line of his face.

"You didn't come back for me," Viktor said, his voice barely above a whisper. The stunned realization in his tone might have been comical under different circumstances. "This wasn't part of some plan. You actually chose... him."

Ilya didn't respond, keeping his gaze fixed on Shane. But his silence was answer enough.

“You chose this…human?” Viktor’s voice rose, shaking with rage. "This weak, pathetic creature over me?" His amber eyes blazed with a fury so intense that the guards shifted nervously, hands moving to weapons at their sides.

Ilya finally turned to face him directly. "Yes."

That single syllable seemed to shatter whatever restraint Viktor had left. He lunged forward, the silver restraints cutting deep into his wrists as he strained against them, face contorted with hatred.

"You HYPOCRITE!" Viktor roared, spittle flying from his lips. "Have you forgotten who you are? What we were together?" His voice dropped to a venomous hiss. "Tell them, Ilya. Tell your precious human what you really did in St. Petersburg. Tell him about the familes—the children."

Ilya's stomach clenched, but he kept his face carefully blank. The memories Viktor invoked were real—horrors he'd spent so long trying to atone for.

"Remember the count's daughter?" Viktor continued, his voice growing more frenzied. "How she begged you to stop? How her blood tasted like summer wine? You didn't stop then. You didn't want to stop."

From the corner of his eye, Ilya saw Shane flinch. The pain that flashed across his face cut deeper than any physical wound.

"You were magnificent then," Viktor spat. "A true monster. My perfect creation. Look at you now—willing to die for this fragile thing that will wither and die in a few decades anyway." He turned his burning gaze toward Shane. "He'll forget you before your body is cold in the ground, little human. We've had a thousand lovers between us. You're nothing. A moment's distraction."

Ilya's hands curled into fists, the silver restraints searing into his flesh, but he remained silent. Every accusation Viktor hurled contained a kernel of truth—that was what made them so devastating.

"You think he loves you?" Viktor laughed, the sound sharp and brittle. "He doesn't know how to love. I made sure of that. I broke him so thoroughly that all he knows is possession, obsession. Ask him what happened to the last human he claimed to care for."

The head Adjudicator's voice cut through Viktor's tirade. "Enough."

But Viktor wasn't finished. He turned his full attention to Ilya, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper that somehow carried through the entire chamber.

"You are mine," he said, each word precise and cutting. "Everything you are belongs to me. And when I'm gone, you'll have nothing. No one. You'll die alone, mourning what you threw away."

"I said ENOUGH." The Adjudicator's voice resonated with power that seemed to vibrate through the stone floor. The chamber fell silent, the echo of Viktor's words hanging in the air like poison.

The five robed figures conferred briefly, heads bowed together in hushed conversation. Then the head Adjudicator rose, her silhouette imposing against the ancient tapestry behind her.

"Viktor Belov," she intoned, "this Council finds you guilty of all charges. The sentence is final death, to be carried out immediately."

Viktor's face went slack with shock, as if he hadn't truly believed this moment would come. Then his features twisted into something feral and desperate. The guards moved toward him with practiced efficiency, one holding a stake carved from ancient wood, its tip gleaming with silver.

"No!" Viktor thrashed against his restraints, the metal cutting deeper into his wrists, blood seeping down his arms. "You can't do this! Do you know who I am? What I've survived?"

His eyes locked onto Ilya's, wild with panic and betrayal. "Stop them!" he commanded, as if he still expected Ilya to obey. "Ilya! Don't let them do this!"

Ilya didn't move. Didn't speak. Simply watched as the guards surrounded Viktor, forcing him to his knees. Viktor fought with supernatural strength, his body twisting and contorting as he tried to break free. His fangs extended fully, a primal hiss escaping his throat as he snapped at the nearest guard.

"I will find you again!" Viktor snarled, his gaze burning into Ilya. "I always find you! This isn't over—it will never be over between us!"

The head guard positioned himself behind Viktor, stake raised. Viktor's struggles grew more frantic, more desperate, his amber eyes wide with terror.

"Ilya!" The name escaped as a plea this time, all pretense of control stripped away. For one heartbeat, Ilya saw the Viktor he had once loved—the one who had shown him a world beyond his mortal limitations, who had promised him eternity. Then that image was gone, replaced by the monster who had tortured and manipulated him for centuries.

The stake drove forward in one swift, practiced motion, piercing Viktor’s back and through his heart. Viktor's body went rigid, a terrible scream tearing from his throat. His skin began to gray, starting from the wound and spreading outward like ink through water. Fissures appeared, cracks running along his flesh as if he were made of ancient porcelain.

"No," Viktor gasped, his voice barely audible as his body began to crumble. "Not like this—"

The final disintegration took only seconds. Viktor's form collapsed inward, his flesh turning to ash that scattered across the stone floor. The silver restraints clattered to the ground, empty now except for a fine gray powder.

Ilya stared at the remains, feeling... nothing. No triumph. No grief. No regret. Just a profound emptiness where years of fear and hatred had lived. The creature who had dominated his life, had haunted his nightmares was gone. The silence in the chamber grew suffocating as all eyes turned from Viktor's remains to Ilya. He kept his gaze fixed on the pile of ash where Viktor had been moments before, a strange calm settling over him. It was over. Viktor was truly gone—not locked away, not temporarily defeated, but erased from existence. After centuries of being hunted, of looking over his shoulder, of waking from nightmares where amber eyes watched him from the darkness, it was finally finished.

The head Adjudicator's voice cut through the silence. "Ilya Rozanov," she intoned, her face still hidden beneath the deep hood. "This Council finds you guilty of all charges."

Ilya nodded once, accepting the verdict without protest. He had known this was coming from the moment he'd turned himself in. Had prepared himself for it during the long nights in his cell. There was no surprise, only a profound relief that Viktor had gone first—that he'd been forced to face his end alone, without the satisfaction of watching Ilya die.

"The sentence is final death, to be carried out immediately."

Shane made a broken sound that pierced Ilya's heart. He couldn't look at him—didn't dare meet those eyes that somehow still held love for him despite everything.

"I accept the Council's judgment," Ilya said, his voice steady despite the silver burning into his wrists. "But I have one request before the sentence is carried out."

The Adjudicator tilted her hooded head, considering. "Speak."

"I ask that Shane Hollander be granted permanent protection under vampire law," Ilya said, each word measured and deliberate. "No vampire may harm him, feed from him, or influence him in any way for the remainder of his natural life."

A murmur rippled through the assembled witnesses. Such protections were rare, usually reserved for humans with political connections or those who had provided extraordinary service to vampire kind. The Council members conferred briefly, their whispers too low for even Ilya to hear.

Finally, the head Adjudicator nodded. "This Council agrees to your request. Shane Hollander will be granted permanent protection under our laws. His name will be entered into the registry, and all vampires will be bound by pain of death to honor this protection."

For the first time since the trial began, Ilya felt something like peace wash over him. Shane would be safe. No one could do to him what Viktor had done. No one could use him to get back at Ilya after he was gone. He would live out his days as a normal human, free from the darkness that had nearly consumed him.

"Thank you," Ilya said softly.

The Adjudicator gestured to the guards. "Before the sentence is carried out, you may have a moment to say goodbye."

Ilya hadn't expected this mercy. His heart clenched painfully in his chest as Shane rushed forward, stumbling in his haste. The guards stepped aside, allowing Shane to approach the stone circle where Ilya stood.

Shane's face was streaked with tears, his eyes red-rimmed and desperate. He looked so young in that moment—so painfully, beautifully human. Ilya wanted to memorize every detail: the exact shade of his eyes, the way his hair tufted at his ears, the constellation of freckles across his nose that had faded during the long winter months.

"They can't do this," Shane whispered, his voice breaking.

Ilya's hands lifted as far as the restraints would allow, cupping Shane's face with infinite tenderness. The silver burned, but the pain was nothing compared to the warmth of Shane beneath his palms. He traced the curve of Shane's cheekbone with his thumb, feeling the wetness of tears, the subtle heat of blood rushing beneath the surface.

"Shh," Ilya murmured. "It's okay."

"It's not okay." Shane gripped Ilya's wrists, heedless of the silver. "You have to fight this. Run. Do something. I can't—" His voice broke on a sob. "I can't lose you."

Ilya shook his head gently. "I won't run," he said. "I won't fight."

"Why not?" Shane demanded, his fingers tightening around Ilya's wrists.

The question hung heavy with all the things they'd never had time to become. All the moments they'd never get to share. Ilya stroked Shane's face, memorizing the texture of his skin, the cadence of his breathing, the particular way the light caught in his eyes when he looked up.

"In another life," Ilya said softly, "I might have learned how to love you." His thumb brushed away a fresh tear. "How to be someone you deserved. I wouldn’t have been so broken that I couldn’t be fixed."

Shane shook his head frantically. "I don't care about any of that. I just want you."

"I know," Ilya said, pressing his forehead against Shane's. "That's what makes you extraordinary."

The guards shifted behind them, a subtle reminder that their time was running out. Ilya pulled back just enough to look into Shane's eyes one last time.

"Live," he whispered fiercely. "Promise me you'll live a full life. That you won't let this break you."

Shane's face contorted with grief. "I can't promise that."

"You can," Ilya insisted. "You're so brave." He leaned forward, pressing his lips to Shane's forehead in a kiss that felt like a blessing.

He found Svetlana in the crowd. The tears in her eyes were unmistakable. He smiled softly. “Ya lyublyu tebya. Pozabot'sya o nom.” I love you. Take care of him. On a sob, he saw her nod.

The guards moved forward, hands closing around Ilya's arms. It wasn't necessary—he had no intention of fighting—but protocol demanded it. They led him away from Shane, whose face crumpled as their fingers lost contact. Every step that separated them felt like a wound tearing through Ilya's chest.

"It's time," the head guard murmured, not unkindly.

Ilya nodded, allowing himself to be guided to the center of the chamber where a circular platform had been revealed. Above it, a hatch in the ceiling was beginning to slide open, the ancient mechanism grinding as it pulled back stone panels to reveal the lightening sky. Dawn approached—he could feel it in his bones, that ancient warning that had kept his kind alive for centuries. The part of him that was still animal, still governed by instinct, screamed to run, to hide, to find darkness.

He ignored it.

The guards unlocked his restraints, the silver falling away with a clatter that echoed through the silent chamber. The relief was immediate—the burning sensation fading from his wrists—but it hardly mattered now. Nothing mattered except the man standing just beyond the circle, tears streaming down his face, body trembling with the effort to remain upright.

They positioned Ilya directly beneath the opening hatch, then stepped back, their faces solemn. This was the kindest death the Council offered—cleaner than the stake, more dignified than beheading. Sunlight. The most ancient enemy of their kind.

The first hint of dawn light began to filter through the opening, still indirect, still safe. But Ilya could feel its approach like the blade of a guillotine suspended above his neck, ready to fall.

He had seconds left. Maybe a minute at most.

Ilya turned, not toward the Adjudicators who had pronounced his sentence, not toward Svetlana whose silent tears he could smell from across the room, but toward Shane. Only Shane. The only person who mattered in these final moments. Shane's face was a portrait of agony, his features contorted with grief so raw it seemed to pour from him in waves.

The words came easily, without thought or calculation. The truest thing he had ever said.

"You were the only good thing that ever happened to me."

The hatch completed its opening with a final, heavy groan. The direct light of dawn breached the horizon, sending the first deadly ray lancing through the opening. It struck Ilya's upturned face. Pain erupted through his body—searing, all-consuming, racing along every nerve ending, setting each cell alight from within. His skin began to smoke, then blacken, the process moving with terrible swiftness. The sensation was beyond description—beyond anything he had experienced in his centuries of existence.

But Ilya didn't scream. Didn't cry out. Didn't close his eyes.

Instead, he kept his gaze locked on Shane, refusing to look away even as his vision began to darken at the edges. He wanted Shane's face to be the last thing he saw in this world. Not the Council chambers. Not his executioners. Just Shane.

As the light consumed him, a strange peace settled over Ilya. A thought crystallized with perfect clarity: he had met Shane. He had loved him. And Shane had lived. Against all odds, despite Ilya's mistakes, despite Viktor's cruelty—Shane was alive and would remain so, protected by vampire law for the rest of his natural life.

That was enough.

Shane's face blurred, the features melting together as Ilya's eyes began to dissolve. But he could still see him. Still see that he was alive, breathing, heart beating strong beneath his chest.

Then there was nothing but light, nothing but heat, nothing but the final disintegration as his body surrendered to the sun's ancient power.

And then—nothing at all.

***

Ash drifted down like gray snow, settling across the cold stone where Ilya had stood seconds earlier. Shane stared at the empty space, the shaft of sunlight now illuminating nothing but swirling particles. His mind refused to accept what his eyes had witnessed. This couldn't be real. Couldn't have happened.

The Council members rose from their seats, gathering their robes around them with soft rustles of fabric. They spoke in hushed tones, their voices a distant murmur that barely penetrated the ringing in Shane's ears. They moved toward the exit with measured steps, as if they hadn't just destroyed his entire world. As if they hadn't just murdered the man he loved.

Justice had been served. That was all.

Shane's lungs constricted. His vision blurred. The chamber tilted sideways as his knees finally gave out. The impact of stone against bone sent shocks of pain up his legs, but it felt distant, unimportant. His hands splayed against the cold floor, fingers digging into the rough surface as if he could anchor himself to something solid in a world that had suddenly lost all meaning.

The first sob tore through him, tearing up from his chest and breaking past his lips. His body convulsed with it, shoulders heaving, spine curving as he folded in on himself.

"I—" He tried to form Ilya's name, but it shattered on his tongue, coming out as a broken sound that wasn't even a word. Just pain given voice.

His arms trembled, barely supporting his weight as tears spilled onto the stone beneath him. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Could only feel the vast, bottomless chasm opening inside him where something vital had been ripped away.

Another sob tore through him, and another, until they blurred together into one continuous, ragged sound. His fingers clawed at the stone, nails breaking against the unyielding surface. The pain was welcome—something real to focus on besides the unbearable hollowness inside.

Ilya was gone. Turned to ash by indifferent sunlight. Never again would Shane feel the cool touch of his hands, see the rare smile that transformed his entire face, hear the low rumble of his voice. The thought sent a fresh wave of agony through him, and he pressed his forehead against the cold floor, his entire body shaking.

"Ilya," he finally managed, the name emerging broken and raw. "Ilya… Ilya… Ilya." As if repeating it might somehow bring him back. As if saying it enough times could reverse what had happened.

The vampires filing out of the chamber stepped carefully around him, their faces impassive masks. None of them stopped. None of them spoke. To them, he was just a human having a messy, inconvenient emotional display. Their coldness only made his grief burn hotter, wilder, more desperate.

He didn't care who was watching. Didn't care what they thought. Let them see. Let them witness what they had done. Let them remember that their justice had shattered something irreplaceable.

A cool hand settled on his shoulder. Through the blur of tears, he made out Svetlana kneeling beside him, her face composed but her eyes glistening with unspoken grief. She didn't try to quiet him or pull him to his feet. She simply stayed there, her hand resting steadily on his shoulder, a silent witness to his pain.

"He's gone," Shane choked out, the words catching on another sob.

Svetlana didn't offer empty reassurances or platitudes. She just nodded, her fingers tightening slightly on his shoulder.

Time lost all meaning as Shane remained on the cold floor, his grief pouring out in waves that seemed endless. His throat grew raw from sobbing, his chest aching with each ragged breath. Still, the tears came, hot and relentless. The chamber gradually emptied until only he and Svetlana remained, two figures frozen in the aftermath of catastrophe.

Eventually—minutes or hours later, he couldn't tell—his sobs quieted, not because the pain had lessened but because his body simply had no more strength to express it. His breathing came in hitching gasps, his face streaked with tears, his hands numb from pressing against the stone.

“We should go,” Svetlana said quietly, her voice gentle in a way he'd never heard before.

Shane shook his head, unable to imagine leaving this place—leaving the last spot where Ilya had existed. Svetlana rose to her feet and extended her hand. He stared at her offered hand, feeling as if moving would require more strength than he possessed. But somehow, he reached up, his fingers closing around hers. She pulled him to his feet with careful steadiness, supporting his weight as his legs threatened to buckle again.

The room swayed around him, his body hollow and spent. Svetlana's arm slipped around his waist, bearing his weight as naturally as if she'd been doing it for years as she guided him towards the exit.

Shane's feet moved mechanically, his body obeying while his mind remained trapped in that terrible moment when the light had struck Ilya. Each step away from that spot felt like betrayal. He turned his head, looking back at the circle of ash on the floor, at the shaft of sunlight still pouring through the open hatch. Something in him still expected to see Ilya standing there—tall and proud, blue eyes reflecting the light like they always had. But the space remained empty, the ashes scattered across the cold stone.

They walked through the silent corridors of the fortress, Svetlana's arm still supporting Shane's weight. Everything felt surreal. Shane noticed small details with painful clarity: the torches burning in their sconces, flames undisturbed by what had happened; the sound of their footsteps echoing against ancient stone; the lingering smell of ash that seemed to cling to his clothes, his skin, his hair. The world continued as if nothing had changed, as if it hadn't just ended before his eyes. Somehow, that made the loss feel worse.

When they finally reached the entrance, Shane squinted against the assault of daylight. The sun hung bright and merciless in a clear blue sky—the same sun that had just reduced Ilya to ash. Shane hated it. Hated its warmth on his skin, its cheerful brightness mocking his grief.

Hayden was waiting beside his car, leaning against the hood with his arms crossed. When he caught sight of Shane's face, his expression crumpled into helpless concern. He straightened immediately, moving toward them with hesitant steps.

"I'll come check on you tonight," Svetlana said quietly, transferring Shane's weight to Hayden's waiting arm as she remained in the shadow of the door. Her fingers briefly squeezed Shane's shoulder—the closest thing to comfort she seemed capable of offering.

Shane said nothing as Hayden helped him into the passenger seat. He didn't need to. Hayden didn't expect words from him now. Shane was grateful for that small mercy as Hayden slid behind the wheel and started the engine.

The city passed in a blur outside the window as Hayden drove. Shane stared out without really seeing, his reflection ghostly in the glass. He hadn't stopped crying, though the tears were quieter now—steady and silent, rolling down his cheeks without the wracking sobs that had torn through him in the Council chamber.

The drive felt both endless and too short. When Hayden finally pulled up outside Ilya's building, Shane didn't question why they'd come here rather than to his own apartment. Of course he would come here. Where else would he go?

The doorman's face registered surprise, then solemn understanding as Shane shuffled through the lobby. He didn't stop Shane, didn't ask questions. Just nodded once, a gesture heavy with something like respect.

The elevator ride to the penthouse seemed to take forever. Shane leaned against the wall, his legs still unsteady beneath him. When the doors finally opened, he stepped out alone—Hayden had remained downstairs, somehow knowing Shane needed to do this by himself.

The moment he stepped inside, it hit him. The penthouse still smelled like Ilya. That unique blend of expensive cologne, the faint metallic note that all vampires carried, and something else—something distinctly, painfully him. Shane's knees nearly buckled again.

Everything was untouched. The book Ilya had been reading still lay open on the coffee table. A glass sat half-empty beside it, a film of dried blood coating the crystal. His jacket hung over the back of a chair, casually discarded as if he'd just stepped out for a moment and would return any second.

The illusion hurt worse than anything. Shane could almost hear Ilya's footsteps, could almost convince himself that if he just waited long enough, the door would open and Ilya would walk through it. His tall frame would fill the doorway, his blue eyes would find Shane's, and that small, rare smile would curve his lips. But the door remained closed. The penthouse remained silent except for Shane's ragged breathing.

Shane moved through the penthouse like a ghost haunting his own past, each step weighted with memory. The low coffee table where Ilya had watched Shane eat takeout, the comfortable leather couch where they'd watched hockey games together, Ilya's arm stretched casually behind Shane's shoulders. He trailed his fingers along the back of that couch now, remembering how he'd gradually leaned into that touch, how natural it had felt.

In the kitchen, the refrigerator hummed quietly. Shane opened it, finding neatly organized containers of blood—medical grade, ethically sourced—lined up in precise rows. He'd watched Ilya feed here so many times, the ritual of it both strange and intimate. Ilya had always been so careful to keep that part of himself contained, controlled, hidden away from Shane's human sensibilities even when he fed on him.

Until he hadn't.

Shane closed the refrigerator door, unable to look at those containers anymore. His gaze drifted down the hallway toward the bedroom. Their bedroom. Where they'd first—

No. He couldn't go there. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

He turned away, his legs suddenly too weak to hold him. The couch caught him as he collapsed onto it, his body folding in on itself like paper crumpling. Exhaustion pulled at every cell, dragging him down into a darkness that wasn't quite sleep.

Time slipped. The light in the penthouse shifted, afternoon sliding into evening, darkness gathering in the corners. Shane didn't move. Didn't eat. Didn't cry anymore—he had no tears left to shed.

The envelope.

The thought pierced through the fog of grief suddenly, sharply. The envelope Ilya had given him in that cell. The one with his name written across it in Ilya's elegant, old-fashioned handwriting. Shane fumbled for his jacket, thrown carelessly across the arm of the couch when he'd arrived. His fingers closed around the envelope in the inside pocket, the paper soft from being carried close to his body. He pulled it out, staring at his own name written in Ilya's hand. Those five letters contained everything now—the last words Ilya had wanted him to have, the final communication between them.

He held it for a long time, just looking at it, tracing the loops and angles of Ilya's handwriting with his fingertip. Opening it meant acknowledging that this was truly all that was left. That there would never be anything more.

Finally, he slid his thumb under the seal, breaking it with trembling hands. Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded precisely.

My Shane,

The words blurred as fresh tears welled in his eyes, unexpected after hours of hollow emptiness. He blinked them away, needing to see the words.

I wanted to tell you these things while I could still see your face, but I knew you would try to stop me. You always try to fix what can’t be fixed. It is one of the things I love about you.

I never intended to love you.

I didn’t think I was still capable of it.

When I met you that night at the mixer, you stood in the corner obviously nervous in a place you didn’t belong. But you weren’t afraid. You were human in a way that felt impossible. Kind. Compassionate. Reckless with your honesty.

I noticed you immediately. I told myself it was curiosity getting close to you, creating the contract. But it wasn’t.

Loving you was the first good thing that happened to me in centuries.

I hurt you. I scared you. But the truth is I have never known how to love something without trying to posess it. It’s the only kind of love ever shown to me. My father broke me. Viktor shattered me. And I was never able to completely put myself back together.

I was never going to become the person you deserve.

And you loved me anyway. I will carry that with me into whatever comes next.

There are a few more things I need you to know and I know you will be upset that I did them, but please keep them.

Everything I own belongs to you now.

The penthouse, the cars, every account in my name. I legally transferred all of it to you before I went to the hotel that night. Svetlana has the documents you will need and will help you manage everything.

The only thing I understand if you give away is the penthouse. If you are reminded too much of me, sell it.

The club belongs to Svetlana now. She doesn’t know that because she would have never let me do it. Tell her for me and don’t let her pretend she hasn’t earned. She is a good woman, a good friend. You will come to love her like I do. And she will love you too.

I’m not doing this because I think I owe you anything for what I’ve done. I just want you to have it because I love you and I can’t think of anyone I would rather give it to, who deserves it more.

You do not owe me anything, Shane. Not grief. Not loyalty. You don’t even have to remember I ever existed. But if you do—if you think of me sometimes—I would consider it more mercy than I deserve.

You told me once that you didn’t hate me. I believe you. It meant more to me than I can explain in words, English and Russian.

Live your life, my love. Play hockey. Drink too much with Hayden. Call your parents every week. Find someone who loves you better than I love you.

My existence has been a long chain of mistakes and regrets, punctuated by brief moments of purpose. You were the brightest of those moments. I regret many things, but I will never regret loving you. And if you remember me at all, remember me as the man who loved you. Not the monster I was before.

I will always love you.

-Your Ilya

Shane read the letter three times, then a fourth, his hands shaking so badly that the paper rustled constantly. Each word carved itself into his heart, beautiful and devastating. Ilya had saved him knowing the whole time it was going to end in his death. Had planned for it. Had accepted it as necessary.

He looked out at the sun—the one that had killed Ilya earlier— that was already beginning to set on a day he was surprised he survived. Instead of seeing the emptiness in front of the large floor to ceiling windows, he saw Ilya. Standing in front of the windows watching the sunset like he liked to do everyday. The memory looked back at him with bright blue eyes and a wide smile, calling his name in that beautiful Russian accent. Then it disappeared. Shane sniffled as fresh tears slid down his face, but a small smile was also on his lips.

“Okay, Ilya,” he whispered into the quiet room. “Okay.”

***

Ten Years Later

"Goddamnit, Tremblay! When I say stay in position, I don't mean whenever you feel like it!" Shane's voice echoed across the practice rink, bouncing off the rafters where championship banners hung in neat rows. "That's why Kaplan got past you three times in five minutes!"

The young defenseman nodded, his face flushed beneath his helmet as he adjusted his stance. Shane watched him with narrowed eyes, arms crossed over his chest, the whistle at his neck catching the overhead lights. The Montreal Metros crest stretched across his coaching jacket, something that still felt faintly surreal whenever he caught sight of it in a mirror.

"Let's run it again," Shane called, blowing his whistle. "And this time, Tremblay, if you drift more than two feet from where I put you, you're doing suicide drills until you puke."

The players reset, their skates carving fresh lines into the ice. Shane studied their movements with the practiced eye of someone who had spent years at a rink, cataloging every weakness and every strength. His hand absently twisted the gold band on his left ring finger—a habit he’d developed over the years, a small grounding gesture whenever he was thinking.

"Better," he called as Tremblay held his position, forcing Kaplan to adjust his approach. "That's what I'm talking about!"

A few strands of gray hair fell into his eyes—more than there had been even a year ago—and he pushed them back impatiently. At thirty-eight, forty was creeping up on him, bringing laugh lines around his eyes and a steadiness he’d never quite managed in his twenties.

When practice finally wound down, Shane gathered the team at center ice for final notes. They clustered around him, breathing hard, faces flushed with exertion but eyes still alert.

"Decent work today," he said, scanning their faces. “The defensive line is tightening up, but we’re still sloppy on transitions. Boston is in three days, and they’ll eat us alive if we don’t clean that up.” He tapped his clipboard. "Tremblay, watch the tape from today. I want you to count how many times you drifted out of position."

"Yes, Coach," the young defenseman mumbled, looking appropriately chastened.

“Alright, hit the showers. Team meeting tomorrow at nine. Don’t be late.” Shane clapped his hands once, dismissing them.

As the players dispersed toward the exit, Kaplan—their star center and team captain—skated backward past Shane with a smirk.

"You're getting soft, Coach," he called. "Last season you would've made Tremblay do those suicide drills anyway."

Shane snorted, one corner of his mouth lifting. "Don't tempt me, Kaplan. I've still got fifteen minutes before I need to be anywhere. Plenty of time to watch you puke on the ice."

Kaplan laughed, raising his hands in mock surrender before following the rest of the team off the ice. The easy banter felt good—proof that he’d finally found the balance between authority and warmth that had eluded him in his first year of coaching.

Shane lingered on the ice, jotting notes on his clipboard about adjustments for tomorrow’s practice. The rink was quieter now, reduced to the distant sounds of players in the locker room and the soft hum of the cooling system. He had always loved this part—the peaceful aftermath of practice, the slight ache in his knees from standing on the ice for hours, the satisfaction of a job done well.

As he bent to collect the pucks from the drills, movement at the rink entrance caught his eye. Shane looked up, and his whole expression changed—the focused intensity of Coach Hollander dissolving in an instant.

His husband stood in the doorway, tall and elegant even in casual clothes. Their son was bundled in his arms, wearing a tiny Metros jacket a little too big for him, the sleeves rolled up to free his small hands. The boy’s face lit up when he spotted Shane, and he waved so frantically he nearly wriggled out of his father’s arms.

“Daddy!” he called, voice high and thrilled. “Daddy, look!”

Something warm and bright unfurled in Shane's chest—the same feeling he got every time he saw them, a happiness so complete it still sometimes stole his breath. He abandoned the pucks and skated quickly to the entrance, stepping off the ice just as his husband set their son down.

The boy launched himself at Shane, who scooped him up in one easy motion, lifting him high before settling him against his hip.

"Hey, buddy," Shane said, pressing a kiss to his son's dark hair. "What are you two doing here? I thought I was meeting you at home."

“Daddy, I got dinosaurs!” The boy launched straight into an enthusiastic explanation, small hands gesturing wildly. "And Papa says I can bring one for show and tell. The one with three horns ‘cause that's how old I am!" He held up three fingers right in front of Shane’s face.

Shane laughed, the sound low and easy. “Three horns for three years old, huh? Makes perfect sense.”

"And Papa says we can get ice cream if you say yes, so you have to say yes, okay?" The words tumbled out in one breath, his son's eyes wide with the seriousness of this negotiation.

Shane raised an eyebrow at his husband, who offered an innocent shrug.

"It's not a bribe if it's a family tradition," his husband said, eyes dancing with amusement. "Ice cream after dinosaur shopping is practically sacred."

Shane shook his head, unable to hide his smile. "Let me grab my bag and we can discuss this very important ice cream situation on the way home."

"Yay!" Their son pumped his small fist in the air, recognizing victory when he saw it.

Shane set him down, ruffling his hair before heading to collect his things. As he gathered his clipboard and coaching materials, he caught his husband watching him with that familiar fond expression that still made Shane's heart skip after all these years.

"You looked good out there," his husband said quietly when Shane returned. "Very authoritative."

"I wasn't too hard on Tremblay?" Shane asked, falling into step beside him as they headed toward the exit, their son skipping ahead.

"Not at all. He needs the structure." His husband reached for Shane's hand, linking their fingers together. "Besides, I like watching you in coach mode. It's hot."

Shane felt heat creep up his neck. "You're ridiculous."

"Ridiculously in love with you, maybe."

Outside, the late afternoon sun threw long shadows across the parking lot. Their son raced toward the car, already explaining which dinosaur was the coolest and why the T-Rex was overrated. Shane listened, nodding at all the right moments while his husband unlocked the car.

"Oh, before I forget," his husband said as they pulled out of the parking lot, "Hayden texted earlier. He and Jackie want to confirm dinner Friday."

Shane glanced up from buckling their son into his car seat. "Right. I forgot to remind you. We're supposed to go over there."

"That's what I figured. I told him we'd bring dessert."

"Perfect." Shane settled into the passenger seat, feeling the familiar contentment that came with these ordinary moments. "How was your week? I feel like we've been ships passing in the night with my road games."

His husband launched into a story about a client meeting that had gone sideways, his animated gestures making their son giggle from the back seat. Shane watched the two of them, struck all over again by how lucky he was. Ten years ago, he couldn't have imagined this life. Couldn't have pictured himself here, whole and happy, with a family of his own.

Their house welcomed them—a spacious but cozy place they’d bought three years earlier when they decided to start a family. Their son ran off to play, apparently forgetting all about the ice cream in his rush to get to his new toys. His husband disappeared into the kitchen, the sound of cabinets opening and closing becoming a familiar domestic symphony. Shane paused to take in the living room—toys scattered across the floor, family photos lining the walls and mantle, a half-finished puzzle sprawled across the coffee table. Evidence of a life that was full and real and his.

"Want something to drink?" his husband called from the kitchen.

"Water's fine." Shane moved to join him, stepping carefully over a toy train and a stuffed dinosaur.

His husband handed him a glass, then leaned against the counter. "Have you stopped by the club lately?"

Shane froze with the glass halfway to his mouth. "Oh no."

"What?"

"Svetlana's going to kill me," Shane groaned, setting the glass down. "I haven't checked in for two weeks."

His husband laughed. "You know she's terrifying."

"Terrifying and very good at holding grudges." Shane ran a hand through his hair. "I promised I'd look at those invoices from the new liquor distributor."

"You've been busy. She'll understand."

"This is Svetlana we're talking about," Shane reminded him. "She once made Leon sleep on the couch for a month because he forgot their anniversary."

"Fair point." His husband stepped closer, slipping his arms around Shane's waist. "Want me to come with you when you go grovel? I can be very distracting."

Shane leaned into the embrace, resting his forehead against his husband's shoulder. "You're not wrong about that."

A pattering of small feet announced their son. He raced into the kitchen, dinosaur in hand.

"Papa! Daddy! T-Rex is hungry! He wants ice cream!" Clearly it hadn’t been forgotten.

His husband shot Shane a look that clearly said, "Your turn."

"I thought triceratops was your favorite now," Shane said, crouching down to his son's level.

"Yeah, but T-Rex is hungrier." The logic was impeccable, delivered with wide, innocent eyes that were so much like his papa's.

"How about dinner first, then ice cream?" Shane offered, already knowing he'd lose this battle.

Their son considered this, his small face scrunched in concentration. "Okay. But T-Rex gets extra sprinkles."

"Deal." Shane stood, ruffling his hair. "Why don't you go play while Papa starts dinner? I need to shower and change."

Without waiting for a response, their son darted back to the living room, making dramatic dinosaur roars as he went.

"I'll be down in a bit," Shane told his husband, stealing a quick kiss before heading upstairs.

In their bedroom, Shane stripped out of his coaching clothes with a tired sigh. His body ached pleasantly from the long day at the rink. As he reached for a dresser drawer, he stopped. His gaze settled on the small framed photo that had occupied the same spot since they moved in. He picked it up. The photo had caught Ilya in a rare moment of ease—leaning against the bar at The Ice Palace, a slight smile on his lips, his blue eyes bright with amusement. Just Ilya, being Ilya.

Shane’s thumb brushed the glass, tracing the outline of Ilya’s face. A memory rose unbidden—Ilya teasing him about his terrible Russian pronunciation, eyes crinkling at the corners as he laughed, saying “You would never make it in Russia, Hollander.” The memory was so vivid Shane could almost hear Ilya’s voice, that deep rumble with its distinctive Russian cadence.

A small smile touched Shane’s mouth, but underneath it sat the familiar ache—the sadness that had become a permanent resident in his heart, quieter now but never truly gone. Ten years had softened the edges and given him room to build a life around it, but it remained—an Ilya-shaped hollow that nothing and no one could ever quite fill.

The bedroom door burst open without warning, followed by the rapid patter of small feet across the carpet. Shane barely had time to set the frame down before a small body crashed into his legs, tiny arms wrapping around his knees with surprising force.

“Hi, Daddy!” his son exclaimed, giggling like he had just pulled off the greatest surprise in history. Apparently, Shane had taken too long coming back downstairs.

Shane’s heart swelled as he looked down into his son’s eyes. He bent and scooped the boy up. The weight of him—solid, warm, alive—anchored Shane to the present in a way nothing else ever could. He kissed the boy’s forehead, breathing in the scent of shampoo and that faint sweetness children seemed to carry with them.

“Hi, Ilya,” he said softly.

The child giggled and wrapped his arms around Shane’s neck.