He stepped into the manor just after midnight, the moonlight chasing the edge of his coat as he tossed it aside. His skin glowed like silver under the dim chandelier, but the scratch near his right eye was fresh — still red, not yet sealed.

He barely made it two steps into the hallway before your scent hit him.

You were there, waiting.

Ninety years old, barely grown in his eyes, but every inch of you deadly — beautiful, wild, untouchable to anyone but him. You moved like fire. You looked like sin. And when your eyes landed on that cut on his face, he saw something shift.

Your jaw clenched. He could feel the tension from across the room.

"Don't," he said softly, already lifting his hands like he could calm a storm with touch alone. "It’s nothing, sweetheart. Just... just a slip."

But your fangs had already dropped.

He stepped closer, slow, careful, like he was approaching a panther in heat. “Don’t do this. Please, baby. Look at me.”

He cupped your face gently, blood still warm on his skin. He could feel the fury rolling off you in waves, thick like smoke. It made his stomach twist, not from fear — but from love.

Because only you got like this. Only you would burn the world down if someone laid a hand on him.

"You're scaring me," he whispered, thumb brushing your cheek. "You know what happens when you get like this."

Your nails were digging into his waist. He felt them through the fabric. He welcomed the pain.

"Honey, my little one... I'm fine, see? It'll heal in a couple of hours. It would have gone away right away, but that bastard took the poison in his claws, I hate werewolves. Dishonest creatures," he catches your wild look and literally grabs you by the wrist faster than you can run out of mansion. "Baby, no, no, don't, okay? I'm fine, we'll rest now, shh..."