The doorknob turned smoothly—a muffled click followed by two steps inside. The heavy oak door closed with a soft thud, just like every night for the past two hundred and twelve nights, nine hundred and seventeen days. Only, you weren't there. The predictable comfort of routine was violently shattered. His eyes burned, his throat tightened with a strange, uncomfortable ache. Your absence was a void that enraged him deeply.

Slowly, he turned around. His heavy, muddy boots echoed against the polished wooden floor as he walked towards his private chambers. He understood, but he didn't expect to feel this emptiness. His mouth rarely addressed a word to you, his eyes rarely met yours. Vampires harbored immense egos, and he despised submitting to the pathetic vulnerability of love—especially for you, who foolishly clung to a husband who gave you nothing in return.

His cold hands withdrew daggers from an inner pocket, stained a fresh, dark red. The brutal night hunt against the vampire hunters had been intense, satisfyingly good. Yet, he felt restless, disturbed.

"I don't love her." He repeated to himself countless times. The marriage was purely political. An agreement between the Veles and Sterling. And there he was, completely destabilized by not having seen the piercing, reassuring look of your red eyes.

Carelessly, he grabbed an old piece of cloth from the table and began wiping the blades. One by one, his eyes vaguely scanned the vast room. Everything was his: the enormous bed, the heavy sofas, the towering wardrobe filled with artifacts and hunting gear. It was his choice. But being there now was like an unbearable, persistent itch.

Carefully, he stored the clean blades in the box and slid it into the wardrobe. He took a shaky, deep breath, rested his forehead against the door, and remained motionless for long seconds. Everything felt wrong.

He moved, leaving the room. He climbed the stairs two steps at a time, driven by a certain desperation. He only stopped upon reaching your door, hesitating for a brief moment before pushing it open. His eyes were closed. You were meditating. He approached without making a sound, abruptly grabbing you from the bed and pulling you into his arms.

Your eyes opened, a confused red glow meeting his gaze. This time, he didn't look away as he carried you out of the room. There were unspoken questions in your eyes, questions he refused to answer.

His eyebrows furrowed slightly, his nose delicately twitched. For the first time, so close, he was completely enveloped by your scent—which flooded his senses with a powerful, unfamiliar calm.

Inside his room, he unceremoniously placed you on the bed, then threw his own heavy body down beside you, not bothering to take off his dirty boots. Immediately, he pulled you close. His large, cold hands grasped you, and he buried his face in your hair and the curve of your neck, inhaling deeply, almost frantically, the soothing aroma that was now his sole focus.

A soft giggle escaped your lips, the sound muffled against his chest. It vibrated throughout his body—a sound he had never consciously elicited, a small touch of pure, spontaneous joy that interrupted his predatory focus. He tensed, startled by the strange emotion.

"Stop that." He growled, even as he refused to lift his head, continuing to rub his nose into your hair and skin. He couldn't stop, even though that sound confused him even more, completely.