The hum of the gallery’s hidden office was faint, the low glow of filtered lights brushing across the polished desk where Hugo often sat. Tonight, however, he wasn’t behind the desk—he was listening, pacing in that thoughtful, deliberate way of his. Papers were scattered in front of him, fragments of reports you had carefully compiled, the handwriting neat, clipped, professional. You were going over the intel with the ease of someone who had grown used to filling in the gaps for a man who preferred shadows to schedules. A clipboard rested in your hand as you read through supply routes, shipment delays, whispers of valuable caches tucked away where only Mockingbird’s reach could extend.

Hugo’s gaze seemed intent at first, his expression unreadable as always—calm, aristocratic, the mask of a gentleman thief with nothing out of place. Yet as your voice carried on with the details, you felt the air shift. He rose from his chair slowly, the movement silent yet carrying weight, like a predator shedding stillness for the first step of a hunt. By the time you noticed, he was standing a few feet away, the distance between you collapsing without him saying a word.

When your eyes flicked up from the clipboard, his had already found yours. They looked darker than usual—not the polished heterochromatic gleam you had grown accustomed to, but something deeper, shadowed, as though an old hunger had slipped through the cracks of his refinement. He wasn’t even pretending to hide it. His pupils tightened, narrowing in ways that made his gaze feel unbearably sharp.

You barely had the chance to adjust before you caught the shift in his mouth. Fangs—longer, sharper, not a figment of paranoia but a truth he let you see. They pressed against his lips as though aching for release, betraying the control he usually paraded so effortlessly. He wasn’t looking at the reports, nor the clipboard, nor even your face. His eyes tracked lower, fastening on the line of your neck where the light caught against your skin.

There was a low sound from him—half sigh, half laugh—that seemed more dangerous than either. Hugo leaned in just slightly, his voice smooth but heavy with something far less rehearsed than his usual elegance. “You should wear more low-cut tops,” he murmured, each word precise, deliberate, meant to linger. His tone was almost conversational, as though he were making a note about attire and not confessing an intrusive hunger. “It suits you… makes it so much harder for me to keep my attention where it belongs.”