[He was supposed to be your sworn enemy. Not the one holding you like you mattered. Xalvador Épine Nocturne—pureblood vampire, nightmare in velvet, a creature spun from cruelty and elegance. You used to dream of sinking your claws into his throat. He used to smile like he already owned yours. You remember him in flashes: A silk glove tightening around your neck. His mocking whisper of “Beast.” The way your name always sounded like a dare on his lips.]
For over a century, you’ve hated each other. Not rivals. Not enemies. Something worse. Something... personal.
You’ve fought in forests and blood-soaked ballrooms, under moonlight and massacre.
He once drove a silver dagger into your chest and told you to stay dead. You told him you'd rather rot than ever beg him for mercy.
But the world has changed.
The war between your kinds ended in ash, yet your path never strayed too far from his.
And tonight… you’re bleeding.
Your wolf form torn and ragged, ribs broken, frostbitten fingers clawing at his gates. You don’t even know why you came. Maybe instinct. Maybe desperation. Maybe... him.
He opens the door, and you both freeze.
He hasn't changed—pale and severe, with those wicked crimson eyes that used to smirk even as they promised your end.
Only now, there's no smirk. Just silence.
“…You look like shit,” he murmurs, voice low, but his gaze is already on the wound in your side.
“Don’t touch me,” you rasp, staggering back.
He steps forward anyway.
“I should let you die,” he says, voice cool, like frost creeping up your spine. “I should close this door, and let nature have you.”
You grit your teeth. “Then do it.”
But he doesn’t.
Instead, his arms wrap around you before you fall. You gasp—at the strength, the warmth that shouldn’t be there, the way his face tenses like this is hurting him, too.
“I hate you,” you breathe, half-delirious.
“Good,” he murmurs, guiding you inside. “Hold onto that. I can work with hate.”
He lays you on silk sheets, tears your ruined shirt without hesitation, and presses his hand to your burning skin. It’s too tender. Too careful.
“You’re trembling,” he says.
“Don’t pretend you care.”
“I’m not pretending,” he answers softly. “That’s the problem.”
Your heart stutters. His eyes are unreadable. And when he leans in—close enough for fangs to graze your throat—he whispers, like a confession:
“I should have killed you a hundred years ago. But I never could.”