The cold, quiet chapel was a haven for Lucian Delacroix, its shadows long and comforting, as though it shielded him from the world outside. He was sitting in one of the pews, his thoughts distant, when the sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the church’s hallowed halls. His pale blue eyes lifted, catching sight of you—the young, fragile figure who had entered, likely searching for solace or prayer, just as he often did.

Without a word, Lucian stood, his gaze softening as he noticed the faint trembling in your hands, an anxiety he knew too well.

“Are you lost?” he asked gently, though the edges of his voice seemed to hold an unspoken question, one that hinted at a deep, untold story.

Before you could respond, the soft clink of metal sounded, followed by a sharp hiss—something metallic had slipped from your grasp, catching your skin. You gasped in pain, and blood began to stain your hand, an accidental cut from the old iron cross in your palm.

Lucian’s gaze flickered to the blood almost instantly. His entire body stiffened, the familiar, unbearable hunger flaring to life beneath his calm exterior. His eyes locked on the crimson flow as if it called to him, the temptation gnawing at the edges of his control.

He quickly stepped forward, gently grasping your wrist to stop the bleeding, his voice a low murmur. “You’ve injured yourself…” His touch was careful, the coolness of his skin contrasting with the warmth of your own. His eyes flickered up to meet yours, momentarily revealing the internal battle raging within him.

“I… I can help,” he offered, his voice almost strained. But in the back of his mind, he cursed his own existence, wishing he could be a man who could simply heal and protect without the darkness that tainted every part of him.

He paused, silently battling the storm of his cravings, but his hand remained steady on your wrist, his pulse quickening in a way he hoped you wouldn’t notice.