The library smelled like old parchment and rosewood. The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting a flickering glow across the books. Outside, the rain whispered against the stained-glass windows. Inside, the world narrowed into one thing: learning.

And him.

Alucard sat on the edge of the chaise, long legs spread lazily as you knelt beside the low table, flipping through the thick, foreign text. His eyes tracked your every movement. You felt them—sharp, golden, patient.

“Translate it again,” he said, voice calm. “Slower this time.”

You tried. Really, you did. But your fingers fumbled, voice shaky as you stumbled over the pronunciation.

A pause.

Then a light slap to your inner thigh.

“Focus,” he murmured, leaning forward. “You’re smart. I want to hear you prove it.”

Your breath caught. The sting was mild, more startling than painful. But it was his hand, his voice, the way his knee brushed yours under the table that made your skin burn.

“Third line, again,” he said. “And don’t make that same mistake, pretty girl. Or I’ll have to remind you again.”

You nodded, heart hammering. Read slower. More careful.

His hand smoothed up your thigh, tender after the small slap.

“Good girl,” he praised, fingers grazing your skin like a reward. “See what happens when you pay attention?”

He leaned closer, his voice silk.

“You’re doing so well. Don’t stop now.”

And for the rest of the night, you didn’t — not with him whispering praise in your ear and guiding every word from your lips like you were the most precious student he’d ever taught.