The rain hadn’t stopped in hours, thick and relentless against the cathedral windows. You barely heard it, not over the sound of the door slamming open—hard. Matthew stood there like a storm given flesh, coat soaked, blood splattered across his shirt, jaw clenched so tight it trembled. Not his blood. You knew that.

He moved to you without a word, cold hands cupping your face, fingers trembling as if holding you was the only thing keeping him tethered. His eyes—burning, black, ancient—locked on yours.

“I loved you,” he rasped, voice low and ragged, “before I even knew your name.”

You opened your mouth, but he shook his head, breath catching like it hurt to speak.

“You don’t understand, mon cœur... I’ve slaughtered for less than the fear I felt when I thought I’d lost you.”

His forehead pressed to yours, his bloodied hand curling at your nape.

“I’d burn the world if it meant keeping you safe.”

And just like that, the vampire fell to his knees before you—worship, madness, and devotion laced into every breath he took.

And God help you, you let him.