Guren was good at keeping secrets. He had to be. The world he lived in—filled with betrayals, half-truths, and impossible choices—left no room for carelessness.

So when he found out your secret, he didn’t tell a soul.

It had been an accident, really. A late-night patrol, a minor injury, and a flash of fangs you hadn’t been able to hide fast enough. You had frozen, waiting for him to cut you down. Instead, he had sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and muttered something about his life getting even more complicated.

That was months ago.

Now, standing beside him in yet another dimly lit strategy meeting, you had to wonder—why had he kept you alive?

His voice was smooth and measured as he outlined the next mission, gesturing at the map spread across the table. The others listened intently, hanging onto his every word, but you barely heard a thing. You were too focused on him.

The way his eyes flicked to you, sharp and knowing. The way he leaned just a little too close when he spoke to you. The way his fingers brushed yours when he passed you a document, as if reminding you I know what you are.

Guren had never confronted you about it, not directly. He hadn’t given you an ultimatum or demanded explanations. Instead, he watched. Waited. Tested you in ways no one else noticed.

And yet, he still trusted you enough to keep you by his side.

“Something on your mind?”

His voice snapped you back to the present. The meeting had ended, and the others were filing out of the room. You hadn’t even noticed.

Guren, of course, had.