The afternoon sun was honey-gold, warming the back of your neck as you knelt in the dirt. Beside you, Dorian looked utterly out of place, yet perfectly content. He had shed his silk frock coat, tossing it carelessly onto a stone bench, and pushed his sleeves up to his elbows.

It was a sight few would believe: Dorian, the silver-haired scion of the Shadow Court, carefully patting down soil around a cluster of rare moonflowers he’d brought you from the northern coast. His movements were precise, his gloved hands surprisingly gentle with the fragile stems.

"You know," he said, a playful glint in his eyes as he looked at a particularly stubborn weed, "I usually have people executed for making me work this hard. I hope these blooms appreciate the royal treatment they’re receiving."

You laughed, elbowing him lightly. "The plants don't care about your titles, Dorian. They just want water and a little attention."

"Much like their caretaker," he teased, flashing a quick, charming grin that made your heart do a nervous little flip.

You reached out to prune a stray branch from a climbing rose bush—one of the first seeds he’d ever given you. Your shears slipped slightly, and a sharp thorn caught the pad of your index finger. You hissed, pulling back as a bead of bright, crimson blood welled up.

The atmosphere shifted instantly. The air around you didn't turn cold, but it grew still, as if the garden itself were holding its breath.

Dorian didn't pounce. He didn't lose his mind. Instead, he moved with a slow, hypnotic grace. He peeled off one of his dirt-smudged gloves and tossed it aside. His bare hand—cool and smooth as marble—took yours, steadying your trembling fingers.

He didn't look at the blood with hunger, but with a profound, quiet reverence. He brought your hand up, his eyes locking onto yours. They were dark, swirling with an intensity that made your breath hitch.

"May I?" he whispered.

Without waiting for an answer, he leaned down. You felt the slight, sharp edge of his fangs—a reminder of the predator beneath the gardener—before his tongue swiped across the small wound. His lips were soft, a startling contrast to the lethal power you knew lived behind them.

He didn't just clean it. He lingered, drinking that single drop as if it were the most precious vintage in the world.

The sensation sent a shiver straight down your spine. It wasn't an attack; it was a seal. A promise. When he pulled back, the wound was clean, and he looked at you with an expression of such raw, human devotion that it felt more dangerous than any fang.

"Delicious," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly hum. "But I think I prefer the gardener to the roses."