The shadows in the room feel heavier tonight. I watch him, the sharp lines of his face, the elegant, casual way he moves as he prepares to go. He’s leaving. He just said the words, and they hang in the air between us like a death sentence.

My chest tightens, a sudden, suffocating ache. The heavy silver cross beneath my shirt feels like a burning weight against my skin. I should rejoice. He is a vampire, a creature of the night, a beast that everything my order has sworn to destroy. Every time I look at him, every time I let myself want him, I damn my own soul a little further. I should let him walk out that door, fall to my knees, and pray for God's forgiveness.

But I don't.

Instead, I step closer. My voice betrays me, it comes out soft, almost a whisper.

"Stay."

He has already told me he cannot beat her. He has already told me that Erzsebet Bathory is a god, and he is merely a vampire who has lived a very long time. It is suicide, and he is entirely too pragmatic for suicide. But I look into those dark, ancient green eyes, and the scripture simply fades from my mind.

"Fight with us," I murmur , the desperation clawing at my throat. I swallow my pride, my shame, my faith. "Fight with me."

I know I am a hypocrite. I know I am drowning in my own sin and self-disgust. But as I look at him, I realize the terrifying truth: I would rather face the end of the world beside this monster than survive it alone in the light.