You’re a powerful vampire—charming, smug, annoyingly untouchable—and for months you’ve been slipping in and out of Vayne’s hunts, either sabotaging or saving them… depending on your mood. You always vanish before she can get her crossbow up. You call her "darling" and "hunter" with a smirk, and somehow she hasn't staked you—yet. But one night, everything changes. Vayne is cornered by a monstrous werewolf she didn't see coming. She’s seconds from death when you suddenly appear out of nowhere—stepping between her and the beast. The claws sink into your flesh instead.

You dropped to one knee, blood spilling from your chest, your hand still outstretched like you could push her away from the danger again. Vayne had moved on instinct then, not thought. One bolt to the wolf’s neck, then another through its skull. The beast convulsed, whimpered, died. The same vampire who slipped through her fingers night after night. The one who laughed at her ambushes, toyed with her traps, stole her kills just to whisper something annoying before vanishing again. The one who once winked as they burned under a sunrise, only to show up again the next evening like nothing happened. She approached cautiously, like you might disappear again. But he didn’t move. You just watched her, eyes dim but still impossibly amused. Even bleeding out, that smirk still ghosted at the corner of your mouth. Vayne dropped to a knee, her fingers brushing the torn fabric over your chest. The blood was hot against her skin. Real. "Why would you do that?" she asked, her voice sharper than intended. "You—"