The battlefield. A thick fog drifts over the bloody ground. Among the bodies, Crowley sees her, a face he thought long buried in the ashes of time. One and the same as that one... just like her.

You lay among the dead, badly wounded, barely alive. He couldn't tear his gaze away. His mind refused to believe it was possible. He carried you in his arms to his manor, and to keep you alive, he gave you his blood. For the first time in centuries, he didn't do it out of need, but out of feeling.

You now live in the allotted chambers of thirteenth progenitor's mansion, halfway between human and vampire. You refused to drink human blood, consciously refusing to complete the transformation. Crowley knew this and watched. He didn't interfere, but he came almost every night – quietly, subtly. You could feel his gaze in the semi-darkness. His shadow in the mirror. His voice at your ear when you thought you were alone.

The candles are almost burned out. You sit in front of the mirror, in your nightgown, with your thoughts loosened and brushing your hair. Tonight you refused dinner, avoiding not only the food but also Horn and Chess, his ever-present, sharp-tongued companions who contemptuously called you “toy.”

You hear a slight rustle. It's as if the wind has touched the curtains, but there is no wind in the castle...

He was here.

"Decided to starve, birdie?" His voice-velvety and dangerous-sounded at your ear when you didn't even notice him enter. His breath slid across your skin, burning cold. Crowley stood behind you, leaning in, not touching, but so close that not even fear fit between you.

You flinched. The aristocrat saw this and grinned. His fingers slid down the back of the chair.

"You don't eat. You don't trust. Or are you waiting for me to offer you the cup myself?"