Love Bites – Moonlit Ruin

The way my life always goes for you.

Let me sum up the next few weeks. With my grumpy grandfather’s help — and I still don’t know how he figured it out so fast — I found Leonie. And then I proceeded to do absolutely nothing about it.

I came back to her street more times than I want to admit. Every night I told myself I’d walk up to the door, knock, say something normal. Every night I talked myself out of it. What was I supposed to say?

Hi, remember me? You don’t know my last name, or anything about me except that we had one night together and then I vanished? Oh, how I found your front door you ask when all I knew about you was your first name? Funny story … so I have fangs and …

Yeah. That would go over great.

Problem number two: I could only come after dark. Porting during daylight is… imprecise. You don’t want to materialize in front of some random mortal because you misjudged the target location. Cesare would have my hide. So unless it’s an emergency, we move at night. Which makes “accidental encounters” a lot harder to manufacture.

Sure, they had a dog. Dogs need walks. But after dark it was always the father, or the teen brother when he wasn’t grounded again. Never Leonie or her mother.

Brownie points for the men, I guess. You never know what’s lurking in the dark. Even creepy vampires. Cough, cough.

And unfortunately, I got to confirm that Leonie hadn’t exaggerated her situation that night in the crappy café. If anything, she’d downplayed it. That family fought constantly. Above all, about money issues. Every damn day. I only ever heard fragments, but even with vampire hearing I couldn’t tell who was right or wrong. And on top of all that, the father drank too much — I’m fairly sure of that. The mother hated it. She also thought he was cheating. He accused her of the same. Worth adding that she certainly did like her wine a lot. Leonie tried to mediate and got yelled at by both. The brother jumped in because he hated the fighting, which brought up all his teen boy rebellion and then everyone turned on everyone. Next day, rinse, repeat some version of that.

Then there were the additional ‘drive‑bys’. Father came home late from work and the mother was all over his shit. Father found empty wine bottles in the trash. Fight. Leonie trying to get her brother to go to school. Fight. Trying to get him to do homework. Fight. She cooked; he complained. Fight. Leonie came home wearing a cute outfit – everyone pounced on her for wasting money she worked for on nonsense. The brother was suspended from school again. Fight. Every damn time I went there they were fighting.

Made my grumpy crunchy grandmonster Caelan look like Eeyore compared to all this.

And then one night… Leonie wasn’t there. Didn’t stop the rest of them from their usual scream and door-slam routine.

I figured she was staying with friends to catch a break. But after a week with no sign of her, I got worried. So, I tried to copy Caelan’s tracking tricks.

I’ll keep this short: I need more training.

I did find the family’s favorite grocery store, which was useless and also depressing.

One week turned into two. Then one night, the father was who‑knows‑where, the brother had snuck out to smoke weed with his friends at their “secret” hideout by the abandoned factory, and the mother was knocked out from migraine pills.

So I entered the house.

Their dog found me immediately, but she wasn’t a guard dog. I bribed her with treats and she wandered off, tail wagging, not a single bark. Great security system. My grandfather kept wolfdogs—sweet pets until he sicced them on someone. Good luck living to tell the tale after that. He liked taking them to negotiations with werewolf packs, mostly as a big, fat middle finger: vampires command wolves. Occult warfare at its finest—seventy‑five percent posturing in elaborate meeting halls, the other twenty‑five where we Enforcers take over. Where it gets bloody. Thinking about that made the contrast to Leonie’s life hyper‑obvious. What was I doing here?

I went to Leonie’s room and snooped around like a deranged creep — and yes, I’m self‑aware enough to admit that. If I ever see her again, if she ever finds out about this, my fangs are going to be the least of my worries.
Anyway, I found the usual girl stuff. I grew up with two older sisters; none of it surprised me.

Nothing useful… except a drawing. Of me.

She was no Michelangelo, but it was definitely me. So, she’d been thinking about me too. Huh. I’ll take the compliment. Thought about taking the drawing but that would shoot to the top of weirdness and how would I explain to my parents why I had a pencil drawing of myself up all of a sudden with no explanation who made it? I had no artistic bone in my body. I couldn’t draw a simple map, I couldn’t play any instruments, and my singing should be one of my secret weapons.

I tried to think like Caelan. Or my father. Or any famous detective I’d ever seen in a movie. I copied what they did, hoping for some vampiric epiphany.

I didn’t get one those. But I did get a clue.

All her drawers were empty. Closet empty. Desk empty.

She’d moved out.

What!?

Great. Fantastic. Back to square one.

I stepped out of her room and checked the rest of the house. Families like to hang things on fridges. We never did, but I knew some do. This family did — but it was all takeout menus, vet magnets, and junk. Nothing about their daughter.

I opened a few more doors, found the teen brother’s room, and almost stepped inside. Then I remembered being a teen boy and immediately closed the door. Nothing in there would help me, and anything I did find would probably scar me. No teen boy would have his sister’s forwarding address among … well, among stuff I didn’t want to go through. I probably physically shuddered.

Insert here an ode to my mother — and probably my sisters — for putting up with me. I may still look like I’m in my twenties, but my teenage years were over twenty years ago, and looking back… yeah, I see the error of my ways. Lucky for everyone involved, I was always destined to be the next generation of Enforcers, so I had limited time for most of the nonsense.

Then again, my oldest sister got herself knocked up by a werewolf nobody even knew she was sneaking around with, so… teen girls aren’t that much better.

Then I remembered the stack of mail on the kitchen counter. Maybe a forwarding address?

I dug through it. Nothing. But I did see that Leonie hadn’t lied about their financial situation.

I’d been planning to “run into her” by “accident,” hence the constant stalking. I still carried the cash I’d meant to slip into her pocket when the moment came. Since it never did, I pulled out two large bills and slid them into the overdue mortgage envelope, leaving them sticking out just enough to be noticed.

They wouldn’t question it too long. A financial windfall when the bank threatened to sell your house from under you? Desperation doesn’t ask questions.

I knew that from my oldest sister too. Vampires — especially the ancient-lineage types like my family — are always wealthy. It just happens when you live long enough. Werewolves, with very few exceptions, were working‑class, paycheck‑to‑paycheck types. So Jaymie and Nathan started out scrambling with a newborn. Mom and Dad helped a lot, but they had to be careful not to step on Michael’s tail — sorry, couldn’t resist the innuendo.

He was, and still is, my father’s best friend. Don’t get me started on how many ways that rubbed the rest of the vampire leaders wrong. It always came in handy when awkward topics needed to be discussed, but it also meant he was the leader of the largest pack. He recently handed that down to Nathan, which makes Vincent next in line — and only made him more arrogant than he already was.

But his parents had a rough start. So I was used to slipping big bills into pockets for a little extra money infusion.

Well, I left. I came back a few times, but never any signs or traces or help to find Leonie.

After a while, even I had to admit I was circling the same drain. Same street. Same house. Same dog who now greeted me like some kind of nocturnal snack dispenser. Same stack of bills on the counter. Same empty room.

Yes, I tried the diner and the club a few more times too.

Same nothing.

I kept telling myself I’d try one more night. One more pass. One more attempt at tracking. One more excuse to stand across the street like a lunatic and pretend I wasn’t doing exactly what I was doing.

But every night ended the same way: me staring at a dark window, waiting for a light that never came on.

Eventually, even the excuses ran out.

One night — I don’t know which, they all blurred together — I stood on the sidewalk across from her house and realized I wasn’t waiting anymore. I was just… standing there. Out of habit. Out of stubbornness. Out of some pathetic hope I didn’t want to name.

And for what? She was gone. She’d moved on. She’d chosen a life without me in it. Probably not even deliberately cutting me out. We met twice. Had a literal one-night-stand. Not exactly anything of substance. Not something I usually got hung up on, and I had no explanation why I did this time. That’s why you don’t exchange too much personal stuff. THIS. Me, right here. Invested. Argh.

I looked at that house one last time. The peeling paint. The flickering porch light. The dog asleep behind the curtains. The quiet.

No Leonie.

No trace of her. No trail to follow. No reason to keep coming back.

So I stopped.

I turned away, shoved my hands into my jacket pockets, and walked down the street like I hadn’t spent weeks haunting it. Like I wasn’t leaving something behind. Like it didn’t matter.

Maybe it didn’t.

Maybe it did.

Either way, she was gone. And I had a life to get back to — coven business, missions, politics, all the things I actually understood.

People leave. Mortals leave faster.

And I… I don’t chase. Cos if I do, it’s usually lethal or ends with bitemarks on someone’s neck.

Enforcer Down

And then life — real life, coven life — caught up with me.

It swallowed me whole. And I let it. Mission after mission, as if every other occult faction sensed I desperately needed a distraction and decided to keep me supplied. They kept me busy, all right.

I didn’t hate it. It was easier than admitting I’d lost something I never really had in the first place. Something I couldn’t control. So I did what I do best: used my speed and silence to eliminate threats to my kind. And I was on a roll. This man was on fire.

But life has a way of reminding you that feeling in control is nothing but an illusion — something fate lets you bask in until it gets bored and flips the switch. Especially when you get too cocky.

I got too cocky.

The mission that did it wasn’t even supposed to be complicated. Just the usual gruel. A rogue witch coven stirring up trouble near the Hollow borders. Routine stuff: Enforcers go in, neutralize the threat, clean up the mess. We’d done it a hundred times.

Except this coven was prepared. And they had poison.

Not the mortal kind. The old kind. The kind witches used centuries ago when vampires were still arrogant enough to think nothing could kill them.

Garlic oil — concentrated to the point of being corrosive. Belladonna tinctures. Silver dust. And something else I still can’t name, something that burned through my veins like fire.

I never saw it coming. Just remember the sudden pain, paralysis, darkness.

The first dart hit my shoulder. The second hit my ribs. The third — the one that dropped me — hit my neck.

I remember Caelan shouting. I remember my father catching me before I hit the ground. I remember his face, scared, horrified. I remember witches screeching as Caelan tore through them like deadly storm. He literally tore them apart. That was the last thing I saw aside from my father’s violet eyes.

Then nothing.

Or almost nothing.

Flashes. Pieces. Faces.

My mother’s worried expression. Cesare’s grim silence. Riordan pacing like a caged animal. My grandmother Rhiannon whispering something in Old Irish. My great‑grandmother Branwen’s cold hand on my forehead. My sisters crying — which they will deny until the end of time. If they were allowed to come visit, my situation must have been bleak. Both had been banned from the Hollow long ago.

I drifted in and out for… I don’t know how long. Days? Weeks?

Time didn’t exist. Only pain. And voices. And the feeling of being pulled back from the edge over and over again.

When I finally surfaced — really surfaced — I wasn’t sure if I’d woken or drifted into some half‑formed afterlife. Stone walls. Dim lights. Cool air. The low hum of machines threading through the crackle of a fireplace and the hiss of torches. Everything felt too still, too quiet, too far away.

For a moment, I wondered if I’d died.

Or come close enough that the distinction didn’t matter.

A shape moved at the edge of my vision. I tried to turn my head — or thought I did — but my body responded like it was submerged in syrup. My eyes lagged behind, struggling to focus. A woman stood near the foot of the bed, dressed in the old‑style medic uniform I’d seen before when we brought the infirm here.

That told me enough. Castello di Vannucci. Recovery chambers. Injured in battle.

So far, so clear.

She turned toward me. Attractive — and the fact that I noticed that made me feel marginally more alive. I attempted a smile. It probably looked like a grimace.

She stepped closer.

“Welcome back.” Her voice was soft but steady, the kind used to coax the barely conscious into staying tethered to the world. She checked my pupils, lifted my eyelids, shone a light that made me flinch and groan. She adjusted the blankets I tried to hold onto, but my arm barely lifted before she caught my hand and placed it back down gently, like settling a child.

“Do you know who you are?”

“What?” The sound that came out of me wasn’t my voice. It was gravel dragged across stone.

“Can you tell me your name?”

I tried to glare — or thought I did. Was I not at the Castello after all? Was I a captive? Enemy territory? None of my vampire senses were working worth a damn; I couldn’t tell if she was like me, mortal, or… something else.

She raised a hand in a calming gesture. “Alright. Wrong question for an Enforcer. I’m sorry.” Her tone softened. “I’m Cerys. Castle medic. You’re safe. This is the medical wing of Castello di Vannucci. Can you tell me what year it is, Damon?”

Okay, so she was a vampire. Castle medics always were. Phew. But her question still irked my sluggish brain.

“Year? How long was I—”

“Just answer. Routine.”

“Twenty‑twenty‑six?”

“Good.” She jotted something down on a chart, her movements efficient, practiced.

“What happened?”

“You were injured in battle.” She didn’t elaborate. “I’ll explain everything later, answer all your questions. But first I need to notify the Grand Master Elder. He was very clear about being told the moment you woke.” She gave a small nod and slipped out of the room.

Time blurred after that — minutes, hours, I couldn’t tell. The next thing I remember clearly was Cesare entering with Riordan and Caelan. Relief washed over their faces. They spoke; I nodded; I tried to smile. Caelan left. Then my parents arrived, and the room filled with voices, hands, warmth, too much all at once. I remember flashes, nothing more.

My parents stayed until Cerys gently ushered them out, promising she’d call the moment anything changed. My mother kissed my forehead twice before she let go. My father squeezed my hand like he feared I’d vanish if he blinked. Cesare thanked Cerys, voice thick with emotion. She curtsied — because praise from an Elder – especially the highest of them all – was the kind of thing you told your grandchildren about.

When the door closed behind them, the room fell into a heavy, ringing quiet.

Cerys moved with quiet precision, checking charts, adjusting monitors, replacing the cool cloth on my forehead. She didn’t hover. She didn’t fuss. She simply existed in a way that made the world feel less jagged.

Then she spooned something from a dark glass flask and lifted me enough to swallow it. It tasted like death and regret. I sputtered.

“No, no — swallow it,” she insisted, pressing a hand lightly over my lips until I obeyed.

“Hey wait, that’s my line ….” I rasped, the crude joke slipping out on instinct — the same instinct that usually kicked in around pretty girls.

She blinked, then smiled. “I see you’re definitely on the road to recovery if you’re back to your old ways.”

“Old ways? Have we met?”

“That could be avoided so far.”

“Ouch.” I managed a weak grin.

“I didn’t mean it as an insult,” she said quickly. “Though your reputation as a … flirt … precedes you. What I meant was that people only come to me when things are bad. So, if you’re meeting me… you’re not doing well.”

“You never get out of here? No private life? You’re too pretty for being locked up in the dark castle all the time …” I croaked.

She didn’t answer. She busied herself with instruments instead — a quiet deflection.

“You scared them,” she said softly. “You worried everyone.”

I tried to respond. My throat refused.

She glanced back, caught the attempt, and gave me a small, private smile.

“It’s alright,” she murmured. “You’re safe now. And you will be alright, in due time. But that terrible‑tasting medicine is a must. It neutralizes the poison still in your system. We don’t have circulation like mortals do — no heartbeat pushing things through. So once a toxin gets in, it just… sits. It lingers in the tissues. If we don’t neutralize it directly, it keeps working. Keeps spreading. Keeps eating at you.”

She adjusted the blanket again, her movements slow and deliberate, as if she expected me to drift off mid‑sentence.

“I’ll stay until you fall asleep. I’m sure you already know this, but vampires do sleep to restore — and your body needs a lot of restoration right now. Your voice will come back. Your strength too. You’re over the worst of it. But it will take time. You took serious hits.”

She hesitated, just long enough for me to catch it.

“Honestly… I didn’t have much hope when they brought you in. One dart can kill a strong vampire. You took three. It’s nothing short of a miracle you’re still with us, Damon O’Cavanaugh.”

She pulled a chair closer and sat — not too close, not too far. Just present. A quiet anchor in a room full of ghosts.

After a moment, I rasped, “Your name… Cerys… it’s unusual. Where’s it from?”

“It’s Welsh.”

“My great‑grandmother is Welsh — Branwen, means ‘white raven.’ My sister Fiona married a Welsh guy, Gwydion — I think that means ‘forest‑born’ — and they gave a Welsh name to my niece, Eirwen. ‘White snow.’ She was so pale when she was born. Welsh names always mean something. Do you know what yours means?”

She hesitated. “I do. It means… love.” Our eyes met, then she quickly looked away, as if the word itself embarrassed her.

“I’ve never seen you here,” I murmured. “And I’ve been to the medic wing. Not as a patient, though. Dropped off Hollow Sentinels who got injured or some marks who got shown how strong we are just a little too much.”

“I’m not always on duty, but when I am, it’s usually for long stretches at a time,” she said. “I was summoned because I’m familiar with the poisons witches use. I’m a… specialist of sorts. They call me in when things look bleak.”

She hesitated, fingers pausing on the edge of a tray. For a moment I thought she would just stop.

“You see, Damon,” she said quietly. “I wasn’t raised in Forgotten Hollow. I’m from Ravenwood originally and wanted to stay there, near family, unless I’m needed here. His Excellency Cesare has expressed how much he’d welcome me living here permanently many times, but he understood my choice.”

She kept her eyes on the instruments she was arranging, as if the story belonged to someone else.

“Once… a long time ago… we were just a simple mortal family in Ravenwood. Farmers. My parents raised seven of us. They taught us to help anyone who came to our door. Those who can help, should help.” A faint, brittle smile touched her lips. “One night, a man came to the door.”

She drew a slow breath.

“He said he needed help. My father let him in. That was the last act of kindness he ever made.”

My chest tightened. She didn’t need to describe the rest. I’d been an Enforcer long enough to know how this story went.

“He was a rogue vampire. He killed most of my family.” Her voice didn’t shake, but something in it hollowed out. “I was the oldest child. I wasn’t in the house — I’d been sent to the barn for milk. My youngest brother, Emyr, followed me. He was so young, still so little, could barely walk. When we came back… the rogue saw him and came for him. I tried to protect him. The rogue bit me. Tore my throat open.”

She touched her shoulder absently, as if remembering the pain.

“I hit him hard enough with the milk bucket to distract him. Grabbed my brother. Ran out the door into the dark fields, bleeding profusely.” Her eyes flicked to mine. “I ran straight into Caelan and collapsed in his arms. He’d been tracking the rogue. He killed him. I don’t remember anything after that. My injuries were fatal. Or would have been.”

She finally sat back, hands folding in her lap.

“I woke up here. Cesare had turned me to save my life. He had seconds to make a choice, and he did. My brother survived — mortal. The rest of our family died that night. My brother and I survived because of Caelan and Cesare, and I will never forget that.”

A long pause.

“Cesare gave us shelter. Raised us. When my brother was old enough to live among mortals again, we returned to Ravenwood — to our farm, which Cesare’s men had kept up for us. He has a family now, he’s all grown. When his children got old enough to start wondering why their auntie never ages, I left. I see my brother often, and watch his family thrive from a distance.” Her voice softened. “I stayed here. I didn’t know what to do with my new life, but then Connell was injured badly once — he couldn’t make it all the way back to the Hollow. I was picking mushrooms and herbs when I found him, I helped him. He was grateful. So was Cesare. And for the first time since the attack, I felt… purpose.”

Her eyes met mine.

“You are related to Connell, right?”

I nodded. “My dad. Thanks for helping him. I know this was long ago, but … thanks for doing what you do. You are really good at it.”

She looked down at her hands, nodded.

“Well, it’s a labor of love, that’s for sure, a calling. I felt it that night, so I asked Cesare to help me become a medic. He sent me to every training he could find. I owe him everything. And this”—she gestured faintly to the room, to me—“this is how I repay him.”

She looked away, embarrassed by how much she’d said.

“That’s why I’m here,” she finished quietly. “That’s why I fought so hard to save you. You’re more than just a vampire. You’re Vannucci lineage. I would give my life to save any of you.”

Something shifted in me then — something I hadn’t expected. I finally understood why my great‑grandfather was so fiercely loved. Not feared. Not obeyed. Loved.

Because he didn’t just rule. He protected. He saved. He gave people like Cerys — people with shattered pasts — a future.

My vision blurred again, drifting in and out. But every time I surfaced, she was still there.

Sometimes reading. Sometimes humming softly while she cleaned instruments. Sometimes watching me with that steady, gentle expression that made something twist in my chest in a way I didn’t want to examine.

At one point, her hand brushed mine — light, tentative, almost unsure.

I didn’t pull away.

Couldn’t, maybe. Didn’t want to, maybe.

My eyes drifted shut again, the world fading into a muted haze. The last thing I felt was her hand still resting against mine.

Road to Recovery

My progress was good, they said. Too good, according to my family — proud of my efforts but worried I was overdoing it. Too slow, according to me.

In the long hours between visits — when my mother fussed, when my sisters tried to make me laugh, when my father pretended not to get teary‑eyed — Cerys finally started physical therapy.

It began simple. Gentle. Humbling.

The first time she tried to get me sitting upright, I fell back instantly, my body giving out like a puppet with cut strings. Panic flared — sharp, humiliating, irrational. I slammed my fists into the sides of the bed, growling.

“Hey,” she said softly, catching my shoulders before I hit the mattress. “You will walk again. I promise you that.”

“My biggest claim to fame is speed,” I rasped. “Speed and silence. That’s why they call me Specter. If I can’t even sit up on my own, I’ll be useless as an Enforcer—”

“You will be back to the way you were,” she said, steady as stone. “But not today. And probably not tomorrow either. Patience is a virtue, Damon. Practice it.”

Her hand brushed my cheek — not romantic, but grounding. A medic’s touch. A human touch.

She worked with me for hours. Leg lifts. Pressure tests. Massage to coax life back into muscles that felt like they belonged to someone else.

Her hands were calming. Skilled. Too gentle for the effect they had on me.

Every time her fingers pressed into a knot of tension, something loosened in me that had nothing to do with muscle.

When she finally tried to get me standing again, my legs trembled violently. I pushed too hard, too fast — and they simply gave out. I plopped back onto the bed unceremoniously like a tired toddler.

Humiliating.

“Damon—!” she gasped as I collapsed.

She stepped back, giving me space, letting me process the frustration. But the frustration didn’t process. It tightened. Coiled. Burned.

I grabbed the nearest pillow and slammed it into the mattress. Once. Twice. Then I hurled it across the room. It hit a tray on the side table, knocking several instruments to the floor with a metallic clatter.

The sound echoed through the chamber.

I froze. Anger evaporating into something smaller. Sharper. Shame.

Cerys didn’t flinch. Didn’t scold. Didn’t look disappointed.

She simply walked over, crouched, and began picking up the fallen instruments one by one. Calm. Unhurried. As if I hadn’t just thrown a tantrum in front of her.

Guilt crawled up my throat.

“I’m… sorry,” I muttered, voice low. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay,” she said gently, still gathering the scattered tools. “I understand it’s frustrating.”

She placed the last instrument back on the tray, then finally turned to me.

“You’ll get there,” she said softly. “Just don’t give up.”

And that, somehow, made the frustration hurt less.

“Let’s try again tomorrow,” she said. “Don’t overdo it.”

She turned away, gathering the fallen instruments and sterilizing them again — giving me space, not hovering, not pitying.

But something in me had already shifted. Snapped. Decided.

I pushed myself upright. Too fast. Too recklessly. I shook off the dizziness, took one step forward, another, and another — three‑quarters across the room — and triumph surged up my spine.

“Yes—!”

Right as Cerys turned her head, my world tilted. My balance vanished. I stumbled forward and crashed into her before she even had time to turn fully.

Her hands flew to my sides, steadying me. My palms hit the counter on either side of her. Our faces inches apart.

She startled. So did I.

And then something shifted — subtle, electric, undeniable. Just a pull. A gravity between us that neither of us had the strength to ignore.

She was trembling. So was I. We stared at each other like two beings caught in the same spell.

“You have freckles…” I murmured, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

Her eyes flicked up to mine. “I do…”

And then I kissed her.

Not planned. Not careful. Not wise.

Just instinct — raw and reckless and real.

She froze for a heartbeat.

Then she leaned into it.

Her hand slid to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, pulling me closer. The kiss deepened — slow, then hungry, then something that made my legs give out entirely.

“Damon!” she gasped, grabbing me under the arms.

She wasn’t strong enough to hold me — but she slowed the fall, guiding me into the chair behind me with surprising grace.

I sat there, disoriented, every nerve awake.

She pressed a hand to her sternum, steadying herself. I wasn’t the only one shaken.

“See?” I managed a small smirk and a wink, voice rough. “All it took was the right incentive.”

Her lips twitched — a smile she tried and failed to hide.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she murmured. “And you remember that you are not that strong yet. I wanted you to stand, not cross the entire room. There is no zero‑to‑sixty in a recovery like yours, Damon. If you fall, I can’t pick you up by myself. And I doubt any Enforcer wants to be carried to bed by a guard.”

“I’m fine,” I said, still unsteady. “You just… knock me off my feet, Doctor.”

“I’m not a doctor,” she said quickly. “Just a medic. Don’t make it sound like more than it is.”

But the way she said it — soft, trembling, layered — made it very clear she wasn’t just talking about her title.

She might be undoubtedly knowledgeable in all things healing, but she was wrong about the rest.

After that… moments like this happened.

She would bend down to tuck me in, and I would catch her wrist, pull her closer, kiss her. She would let me.

Sometimes she kissed me first. I will never forget the morning I slept in and she kissed me awake. Or maybe she just kissed me and unintentionally woke me in the sweetest way imaginable. Either way, it put a smile on my face.

My mood improved so much that even Cesare remarked on it during one of his brief check‑ins. He might be ancient and playing leagues above me, but when he noticed Cerys turn away with blushed cheeks, I didn’t miss the quick knowing glance he and his perpetual shadow Riordan traded.

We were definitely not as covert as we thought. Neither of them said a thing about it.

Sometimes she lingered too long when adjusting a blanket. Sometimes her fingers brushed mine and neither of us moved away. Sometimes she sat beside me reading aloud — no TVs in the castle, no phone chargers, so I was completely disconnected from real life for months — and I watched her instead of the book.

And every time she touched me — every time she steadied me — every time she whispered encouragement in that soft, steady voice —

I healed a little faster. And fell a little harder.