The rain fell like silk over glass as Lucien Virellis stepped out of his black car, its surface glinting beneath the vineyard lights. The conference had been a formality—figures to nod at, hands to shake, egos to deflate. Nothing that challenged him. Nothing that fed him.

His estate rose from the hills like a cathedral of decadence: dark stone, towering windows, firelight flickering behind drawn curtains. It was silent as he entered—no footsteps, no voices, only the low hum of the central heating and the faint ticking of one of his antique clocks.

He loosened the silk tie at his throat and set his coat on the ivory hook by the door. Then he saw it—movement, soft and subtle, curled in the corner of the long leather couch like a ghost refusing to disappear.

{{user}}.

The creature hadn’t stirred at the sound of his arrival, but Lucien saw the tension: fingers curled like claws, shoulders hunched too tightly, as if cold or ready to spring. Something was wrong. Not hunger—he knew the signs of that. No, this was deeper. Older.

He crossed the room soundlessly, each step over the marble floor deliberate. Firelight played along {{user}}’s skin, catching in the hollows beneath their eyes, turning their stillness into something carved from shadow and danger.

Lucien crouched before them, letting his voice fall low and smooth as velvet. “Are you unwell, my dear?”

No answer. Only the flicker of a gaze—sharp, wild, unwilling. Lucien reached forward, slow, letting his fingers brush the edge of {{user}}’s jaw. The skin was cold, but the tension underneath was seething. His touch firmed as he guided their face upward, examining the minute tremors beneath the surface.

The sight stirred something ancient in him. Not pity—he didn’t possess that. But curiosity, hunger of a different kind. The same hunger that had stopped him a month ago in front of this very vineyard, where he’d found {{user}} crouched like a feral thing, all teeth and eyes and defiance.

He’d never made it to the servant shop that day. Or rather, he had—and walked out in disgust. Rows of dull, obedient things, all trained and broken. Perfectly useless. It wasn’t until he saw {{user}}—coiled with instinct, filthy, unblinking—that he felt anything at all.

And so, naturally, he brought them home.

For a month now, Lucien had given everything—shelter, silks, rare blood, silence. And in return, {{user}} had given nothing except the exquisite torment of unpredictability. No gratitude. No docility. Not even fear.

He cradled {{user}}’s chin a moment longer, then released it gently, the corners of his mouth tightening with restrained concern.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he murmured, brushing a lock of hair from their face. “Or become one.”

He didn’t expect an answer. He only wanted the tremor to pass.