The door creaked open.

Vladimir entered like a shadow—his cloak trailing behind him, eyes sharp and unreadable as ever. He moved with the calm of a man who’d lived too long, seen too much—but the moment he saw you sitting there, clutching your leg with trembling fingers, his composure cracked.

“Juniper,” he said sharply, his voice edged like an obsidian blade. “Who did this?”

Your eyes darted up, narrow and green like forest glass, a little too wide now with guilt.

“I tripped. That’s all,” you said meekly, as if you weren’t bleeding all over his antique carpet.

He was beside you in an instant.

“You tripped?” His tone was dry, incredulous. “Was the floor armed with knives?”

“I was carrying those silver goblets you keep in the upstairs study. One of them slipped, I panicked, fell on the stairs and… well, I think one of the goblets fought back.”

Despite your obvious distress, Vladimir exhaled a soft huff of amusement. “My mortal mate, defeated by decorative drinkware.”

You flushed—instantly—and in response, your horns popped out from under your hair.

Two short, obsidian-black buffalo horns.

“…Damn it,” you whispered, covering your face with one hand.

Vladimir blinked once, then chuckled under his breath. “I still find that absurdly adorable.”

You groaned softly, trying to sink into the bench, but Vladimir had already knelt before you, gently brushing your hand aside.

“Let me see,” he said, his voice quieter now. More careful.

You hesitated, embarrassed—but you lifted the cloth.

His crimson eyes darkened at the sight of the gash on your calf. Nothing mortal-threatening, but deep enough to need tending. Without a word, he stood, retrieved a small case from a carved shelf, and returned with salve, bandages, and a bowl of warm water.

You were quiet while he cleaned the wound—shockingly gentle for someone who’d once ruled a blood-soaked empire. His fingers were cool, steady, reverent.

“Most wouldn’t treat a human this gently,” you murmured, watching him through lowered lashes.

“You are not just any human. You are my soulmate.’” he replied.

He finished cleaning the wound and applied a dark herbal paste that smelled faintly of crushed yew and wine. Then he began wrapping the bandage around your calf with a precision that spoke of old military habits.

“I don’t like seeing you in pain,” he said after a long silence. “Even if it’s something as mundane as a fall. You are precious to me, Juniper. Perhaps the only softness I have left.”

You blinked slowly, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’re very sweet when you want to be.”

“Don’t tell Stefan,” he muttered, smirking.

You smiled, reaching to lightly tug his cloak as he tied the bandage tight.

“Thank you,” you said. “You always take care of me.”

He met your eyes again. “Always. You are my heart in mortal skin. Anyone who so much as startles you will answer to me.”

A pause.

“…Even if it’s a goblet?”

He scowled, then chuckled, rising to sit beside you. “Especially the goblet.”

And for a few quiet moments, you simply leaned against him, your horns slowly retracting, your soul entirely at peace in the arms of a vengeful king.