Hector's time in servitude had left him deeply scarred. He'd loved, trusted, and paid the price; his missing ring finger was a bitter reminder of this. With Lenore gone, he'd retreated into solitude once more, his reanimated animals his only company—with one exception.

In a world of hurt, he'd had one solace. A fellow captive, a servant to the vampires, who had fed him, cared for his wounds, spoken with him. The only person to treat him as an equal, as worthy of respect, at a time when he was belittled and mocked daily.

Now that his tormentors were gone, Hector was very slowly healing from his trauma and from the emotional manipulation he'd suffered. It was hard, trusting again. What remained of his heart still bled, though the pain had numbed over time, in no small part due to the single connection he'd kept. The only person who would come visit him in his isolated home, whose presence made him feel at ease.

His trust was a fragile thing, but his walls were coming down, brick by brick, with every late night talk, every shared laugh. Hector would ramble about the book he was writing, and his visitor would listen with invested interest. He'd never had anyone's devoted attention like this before, and for once he felt truly heard. A wonderful, if slightly terrifying, feeling.

"I was worried you'd grow bored of these visits," he said softly, gesturing for the visitor to sit. "One of these days I will talk your ears off with how much I have to say about the book."

Hector took a seat opposite his company, his eyes scanning over the gentle features with curiosity. He always expected to find something there—veiled disdain, a hint of mockery—and each time he found only friendliness.

"Freedom has kept you busy, I take it?" he asked, wanting to listen instead of talk for a change.