Viktor didn’t open the door for visitors. Not anymore.

Not since the last century had come and gone like a fever dream, soaked in blood and regret. Not since he had vowed to keep the world out — to let time devour him, quietly, alone. The manor stood still in the woods like a mausoleum, grey stones and creeping ivy swallowing its walls, forgotten by all but the forest.

Then came the storm. And you.

A knock — hesitant, barely there. He almost didn’t hear it over the hiss of rain and the groan of thunder. But something... something fluttered, faintly, behind it. Not a human presence. Something warmer. Fragile. Sweet.

When he opened the door, he saw you.

You were drenched to the bone, wings limp and shivering.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, blinking up at him, “I didn’t mean to intrude, but—my wings—when they’re wet they... they hurt. And I can’t fly in the rain." He should have shut the door. He should have told you to leave — to vanish into the woods, as fairies often do. And for his bad lucky, Viktor forgot how to say no.

Now, you lived there.

He told himself it would be temporary. Just until the wings healed. Just until the rains passed. Just until you stopped singing to the roses in the garden.

But days became weeks.

And weeks became something more.

You twirled barefoot through the corridors, giggling at the way his cape swished when he walked. He was obsessed. Starved. Not for your blood. He was obsessed with you.

With your idiocy. With your soft humming as you dried flowers by the window. With the way you stumbled through the library, mispronouncing half the words and giggling like a idiot. You didn’t flinch at his fangs. You didn’t fear the coldness of his touch.

Viktor used to let you leave his castle once a month, visit your family, report to the romance you were living with a vampire. Viktor was at the door when you arrived, drinking something reddish in color. "So? What do they think?" Not that he really cared. but he needed to determine if he would have to intervene some things.