The apartment was dark when he entered, but Caspian didn’t need light to see. Shadows moved obediently around him, slithering away from the sleek black of his coat. The scent of you lived here—familiar. Comforting in a way he refused to name.

He hadn’t knocked. He never did.

His jaw clenched as he stepped inside, every inch of him taut, controlled, but not untouched by strain. The month away had been tolerable, at first. He had flown across continents, handled billion-dollar negotiations, silenced dissent with a word. But the edge had crept in—slowly, insidiously—until even freshly drawn blood did nothing to dull the gnawing absence.

Nothing tasted like you.

“Come here,” he said, voice low, sharp with hunger. He didn’t wait for compliance. He found you near the window, still in sleepwear, eyes rising to meet his.

Caspian took your wrist gently—too gently—and lifted it to his lips. Cold breath brushed against your skin. “You’ll forgive the suddenness,” he murmured, mouth already parting. “I’ve been patient.”

Fangs scraped delicately, reverently, before sinking in. A sigh escaped him—not of relief, but of release. Your blood flooded his senses like memory, like possession, and beneath it pulsed the quietest truth: he had missed you. Far too much.