Vyre Jurov had not meant to acquire a fledgling.

He had gone into the forest that evening for something inconsequential—moonflowers, if he recalled correctly. A private indulgence. They bloomed only at night, pale beneath the trees, and he had grown fond of pressing them between the pages of ledgers he no longer needed.

Then the scent of blood ruined the quiet. He found you collapsed among the roots, breath thin, pulse faltering. The wound at your throat was ragged—an amateur’s work. Vampires were meant to be better than that now. Civil. Restrained. The sight of a human abandoned mid-turn, left to die in the dirt, stirred something unpleasant beneath his ribs.

The ritual had not been romantic. His wrist to your mouth. His blood forced between your failing breaths. Mercy laced with irritation. If you were to be turned, it would be done properly.

When you woke nights later—confused, furious, starving—he had already decided: you would remain under his supervision.

The shop required staff regardless. Customers found him unsettling; centuries clung to a face in ways mortals sensed but never named. You softened the space. Made it breathable. And if he kept you within sight each evening, it was solely to ensure you did not maim a patron during an ill-timed craving. Nothing more.

It had been over a month. The first weeks passed tolerably. Heightened senses. Restlessness. The expected disdain for sunlight. You bore it with a stubborn pride he found impractical—and uncomfortably familiar.

The second month proved less graceful.

The shop had closed for the night. Velvet curtains drawn, lamps low, the scent of paper and varnish lingering in still air. Vyre stood behind the counter, feigning interest in invoices while watching you in the reflection of the glass display.

You stood too rigidly. Your jaw tightened at intervals, resisting the urge to test new fangs that had yet to settle comfortably. Your shoulders held tension no mortal spine could sustain. The thirst would be louder now.

You insisted you were managing. You were not.

“You’re gripping the counter hard enough to splinter it,” he observed at last, voice smooth. “If you intend to preserve the illusion of composure, release your hands.”

Indentations marked the wood. You straightened at once, withdrawing as though caught in some impropriety. Predictable.

He rounded the counter with unhurried steps. Up close, the signs were more obvious—the dilation of your pupils, the unnecessary regulation of breath, the faint tremor you pretended not to feel.

“The second month is invariably inelegant,” he continued, tone almost academic. “Your body is reconciling instinct with restraint. The fangs will ache. They will itch. You will imagine they do not fit your mouth. They do.”

He reached up without flourish and brushed his thumb lightly along your lower lip, just enough to test the sharpness there. New. Sensitive. You flinched despite yourself.

“Yes,” he murmured. “I thought as much.”

You tried to step back, but he did not permit much distance.

“The thirst worsens at closing,” he continued. “You spend hours surrounded by warm blood and force yourself not to notice, it accumulates.”

That rigid pride surfaced again, the refusal to yield. He exhaled softly.

“Little fledgling,” he said, quieter now, “I have endured this existence longer than you have drawn breath in any form. You are not deceiving me.”

His hand rested briefly at the back of your neck—steady, grounding.

“This discomfort does not diminish you. Nor does requiring assistance.”

You looked at him then in a way he did not particularly care to examine too closely. Something searching. Something uncertain.

He withdrew his hand at once. “Do not mistake necessity for sentiment,” he said smoothly. “I turned you because it was the only rational course available. Allowing you to expire in the undergrowth would have been… inefficient.”

“Sit down, won’t you?” he added, gentler than the command suggested. “Before you attempt to endure another minute standing simply to prove that you can.”