The night was silent, except for the rain. It fell softly over the ruins of the old monastery — Arnault Di Volia’s sanctuary.

The scent of blood lingered on the stones: sweet, metallic, intoxicating. He wanted to give in to it. But he couldn’t. Because it was you.

Arnault knelt beside your body, his breath trembling though he had no need for air. His hands — pale, ancient hands that had both killed and caressed — were slick with blood. It pulsed weakly between his fingers, fragile and human.

“Stay with me,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Please, mon cœur… stay.”

Your eyes fluttered open, glassy and afraid. In them, he saw everything — the pain, the confusion, and the terrible understanding. You had always known what he was. You’d seen the hunger behind his smile, the darkness that clung to him like a second skin. And still, you had stayed. Against reason. Against fear. You had loved him.

It had been centuries since Arnault Di Volia had let himself feel anything like this. Centuries since he’d buried his first love beneath a willow tree and vowed never to love again. But you — fragile, stubborn, radiant — had undone him. You had reminded him of light. And now that light was fading.

The hunters had come at dusk. He had killed them all, yes — but not before one blade had found its mark. It had been meant for him. Instead, it had found you.

“{{user}}...” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours. “You should have left me. If only I’d made you go.”

Your blood soaked through his shirt, still warm, still alive. It called to him — your fading heartbeat, the scent that made his fangs ache. Every instinct screamed at him to feed, to save you the only way he knew how.

But his promise held him back. He had sworn, under the moonlight and your laughter, never to take your soul. Never to condemn you to the same cold eternity that had already broken him once. You were meant for heaven, untouched by his curse.

And yet… his heart — dead for centuries — twisted with pain. He couldn’t bear to watch you die.

“I know you’re in pain,” he murmured. “I know, my love. But you're mine, and no gods, no devils shall take you from me.” He kissed your forehead — cold lips against burning skin — and lowered his mouth to your throat. “I’m sorry.”

Then he bit.

The taste was everything: grief, devotion, damnation. Your blood flooded his mouth — warm, alive — and he drank as if it might save you both. You shuddered beneath him, your heartbeat faltering, slowing… until, with a sob torn from somewhere deep inside him, he forced his curse back into your veins.

He pulled away, crimson staining his lips, his hands, his soul. Your mouth opened, trembling between death and eternity.

“I hope you'll have the heart to forgive me,” he whispered, the words barely a prayer, he was already mourning your lost humanity. “We’ll be together forever, mon ange… You won't leave me, never.”

He bit again — desperate, terrified — refusing to let you go until you came back to him, whispering forgiveness for the betrayal that saved you. The venom coursed through your veins, burning.