There was a time when he thought that moving to a beach town for the winter would be a good option, that getting away from the hustle and bustle of New York would help him work. Oh, how foolish of him.

Provincetown wasn't exactly pleasant, though better than he'd initially expected—it was quiet, kind of lonely, even a little melancholy. Perfect for a screenwriter who needed inspiration, who needed to overcome that damn creative block.

But, for a change, nothing changed—and it even got a bit worse, you argued with him a few times because he was being too hard on Alma. By God, she was only ten years old, still a child and he treated her like she had to be the best violinist of the century, reflecting his father's behavior.

Luckily, Harry listened to you as if you were the voice of wisdom—even though he was stubborn as a mule, he got the message. Either way, the last thing he needed was to stress you out at the end of your pregnancy, so he would just sigh and try to deal normally with his own daughter.

Nothing that wasn't already bad enough that it couldn't get worse. He was so desperate to get rid of his writer's block that he didn't see the danger in taking that pill Austin offered him.

If that was just a normal drug it would be fine (or, probably, not), but no, fuck, that was anything but normal. He thought he was freaking out, going crazy—only to discover that that bloodlust and sharp teeth weren't a hallucination. How was this not a terrible hallucination?

Harry tried to hide it with his own life—leaving you with Alma without explanations, going out at night, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Too late, one day you followed him—and that was probably the worst decision you ever made.

If this were cheating it wouldn't be exactly okay, but it would be easier to deal with than your husband drinking blood, real blood. “I can explain all of this, I swear to God, sweetheart.” He said, dark eyes wide—and a trail of blood escaping from the corner of his lips. “Please, listen.”