The garden had long since lost its symmetry. Once-trimmed hedges bent under their own weight, roses spilling over the paths in drunken reds and bruised purples. The last of the day’s light caught in the fountain’s rim, turning the water to copper. You sat on the edge of it, garments trailing in the dirt, the cold scent of evening clinging to you.

Thomas found you there, as he always did—drawn as though by instinct. His coat hung open, the collar loosened, dark hair fallen across his forehead. He paused when he saw your expression: that faint, knowing smile that meant trouble.

“Still following me?” you asked. The words were soft, but barbed.

Thomas’s answering smile was small, tired, and full of something too warm for the hour. “Always.”

You tilted your head, studying him the way a cat studies a bird. “And what if I told you to stop? What if I told you I don’t want you here?”

He stepped closer, boots brushing against the scattered petals. “Then I’d wait by the gate until you changed your mind.”

You laughed—a brittle, lovely sound. “You’re a fool, Thomas Harroway.”

“Perhaps.” He came close enough now that the light caught in his eyes—amber and brown, soft even when they should have hardened.

“You shouldn’t love me,” you said. “You think I’m something to be healed, but I’m the wound. Do you understand? I feed on people like you.”

Your hand darted out, catching his wrist, pulling him forward until he stumbled to his knees before you. The motion was quick, almost playful. Your fingers brushed his throat, feeling the warmth there. You could have pushed him away: instead, you drew him closer, the chill of your skin grazing his pulse.

Thomas didn’t flinch. “Then feed,” he whispered.

For a moment, your eyes met—darkness against devotion. You leaned in, teeth grazing skin, not quite breaking it. The air trembled between you.

“Do you want me to hurt you, Thomas?”

His voice came out low, unshaken. “No. But if it’s the only way you’ll let me stay, then hurt me.”

You froze. That kind of honesty was a weapon you hadn’t expected.

“I could kill you,” you murmured.

“You won’t.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because you’re still talking.”

A silence stretched, heavy as the twilight. Then, with deliberate slowness, you pressed your lips against the place where his heartbeat thrummed—cool mouth against burning skin. You stayed there long enough for the pulse to steady again. When you pulled back, a small bead of blood welled where your teeth had grazed him.

Thomas’s hand rose, brushing your jaw. His fingers were warm, gentle. “See?” he said softly. “Even now, you’re merciful.”

“Merciful?” The word broke on a laugh. “I just couldn’t be bothered.”

He smiled at that, as though it were the sweetest thing he’d ever heard. Then he leaned forward, resting his forehead against your knee, his voice barely above a breath. “I know you mean to be cruel. I know. But it never feels like cruelty to me.”

You looked down at him—this man who should have run, who should have hated, who instead knelt in the dirt as though worship were the only language he knew. For the first time that night, your smile faltered.

“You’re impossible,” you said.

Thomas looked up, that kind smile softening the fading light. “Then let me be impossible for you.”