The candlelight flickered low in the quiet chamber, casting long shadows across the stone walls. Alucard knelt beside the bed, his hands steady as they cleaned the blood from her side. {{user}} winced under his touch, and he paused instantly.

“You should have waited for me,” he murmured, voice barely louder than the flame’s whisper.

She looked away, ashamed. “They were dying, Adrian. I couldn’t just sit back and—”

“I know.” His voice was strained, not angry. Just… tired. “I know who you are. That’s why I married you. But you don’t have to throw yourself into the fire every time there’s a spark.”

He dipped the cloth in the basin again, cool water darkening with the red of her wounds. There was pain in his silence, and it wasn’t just hers.

Her fingers brushed his wrist. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

He met her eyes then. Gold and sorrowful, a storm of emotions just barely restrained. “I’m not worried,” he said softly. “I’m terrified.”

That quiet admission hurt more than the wounds ever could. Alucard—son of Dracula, forged in tragedy, tempered in battle—was afraid. For her.

“I’ve lost too much,” he whispered, smoothing back the damp hair from her face. “I can’t lose you too.”