Bloodbound – Truths

One thing you learn as a vampire — and usually the hard way — is that nothing lasts.
Everything is temporary.
Everything ends.

People like to point at my great-grandfather, Cesare Vannucci — centuries old, unshakeable, powerful enough to make mountains kneel — and say, “See? Some things endure.”

To that I say: watch and learn. If you have the time, of course.

No, I don’t think he’s going anywhere soon. Not in the next few centuries. But something will happen. Something always does.
And he will perish.
Just as I will.
Just as you will.
Just as everyone does.

The only difference is the timeline.

Gloomy?
Maybe.
But I’m a Coven Enforcer — I deal in death, punishment, and the truths people would rather bury.
We don’t always kill.
We can, and we have and we will, we are very well trained at it, but that is not what we are about.
It’s in the name, we enforce, the vampire laws and ethical behavior, and punish anyone for anything that could harm or impact our society negatively.
Sometimes we capture.
Sometimes we torture.
Always, we unearth the truth.

We do it for the good of our kind, and for the mortals who never realize how close they come to annihilation. But it doesn’t matter. Most fear us. Many judge us. All respect us.

And that truth — that shadow I carry — is what kept me from giving my love freely. And when I finally did… I learned the hard way that I was right to guard it.

Cerys.

Oh, gentle, beautiful Cerys. A vampire like me — but nothing like me. Born mortal. Turned by rogues.

People romanticize rogues. They imagine tall, dark, sexy and brooding immortals with tragic pasts and smoldering eyes.

Idiots.

Rogues are cruel.
Cold.
Predatory.
They kill because they enjoy watching the light leave someone’s eyes. They turn mortals and abandon them to die — half‑vampire, half‑mortal, trapped in a body that can’t decide what it is. It’s not mercy. It’s not chance. It’s the way a cat toys with a dying mouse, except the cat knows exactly what it’s doing and savors every twitch.

Cerys was a child when one of them attacked her. Too young to understand what was happening, old enough to remember every second of it. She survived only because my grandfather found her — half‑turned, half‑dying, caught in that limbo rogues leave their victims in. Most abandoned turns he hands off to others to train, to stabilize, to salvage if possible. But not her.

Her, he kept. Her, he saved and later trained himself.

And it didn’t take him long to see what she was. Not just a survivor — a healer. A rare talent among our kind, and nothing like human medicine. Vampiric healing is instinct, intuition, blood‑deep magic and anatomy twisted into something only we can understand. It’s not learned so much as awakened.

And in her, it woke like a revived heartbeat.

That trauma — that brush with death, that razor‑thin chance she was given — didn’t harden her the way it does most of us. It made her want to save lives. To mend what others break. To be the antidote to the very darkness that created her.

A healer. A medic. A contradiction wrapped in kindness.

Most mortals think vampires can’t fall ill or die. They confuse immortality with invincibility. We can be poisoned. We can be burned. We can be killed. We’re just harder to get rid of. And we don’t check out of life naturally. Takes some effort.

She saved my life once. And that was all it took. The walls around my heart cracked, and she slipped in like sunlight through a broken shutter.

I thought she understood me. Understood what I was. Who I was. And would love me anyway.

She tried. God, she tried.

But she couldn’t straddle the conflict.

There was no fight.
No screaming.
No harsh words.
No begging or pleas for change — I don’t beg, and I don’t change.

But my heart broke all the same.

My family tries to be supportive, but I can feel their disappointment like a draft under a door. They hoped I finally found someone to love, to hold, to marry … to reproduce with and strengthen our line, creating the next Enforcer.
Another misconception: vampires don’t feel. We do. We just have centuries to learn how to hide it.

Even Caelan — feared, respected, called Creepy Caelan behind his back — feels. He just learned to switch his emotions on and off like a lantern. Part of it is due to a condition. An affliction. One that can turn a vampire rogue if they lose control.

But he learned to love. Again and again. And again. And it looks like his heart is about to break once more.

Caelan is my Commander.
But he’s also my grandfather.

My grandmother, Rhiannon, was mortal once.
With her permission, and our Grand Master Elder Cesare’s, Caelan turned her on their wedding night. She is warm, kind, impossibly beautiful — the way most vampires become when the spark takes hold.
Most vampires are attractive.
Beauty is a hunting tool, after all.
Like flowers luring bees.

Another misconception: vampires draining entire villages in some random monstruous bloodthirst. Nonsense. We need far less blood than mortals imagine. The gore is for movies and times of true war.

But I digress.

Fact is, we are currently three Coven Enforcers, which is a very prestigious but also dangerous profession. Two of the three are married and they have this ritual before we dispatch where the wife steps into the armor circle with her husband and fastens each piece like she’s memorizing him through touch. The gorget first, then the pauldrons, then the vambraces, her fingers smoothing the leather as if she can protect him by sheer will. He bows his head so she can reach the buckles. She presses her forehead to his for three seconds. Never more. Never less. Don’t ask me who started that and when and why, it just always has been this way and likely always will be.

It’s meant to steady them. To say come back to me without saying it out loud. Vampires are immortal, sure, but not invincible, and everyone knows it.

The ritual is nice, I guess.
But it also rubs my face in the fact that I have nobody to help me fasten the vambraces and spaulders. No one in my armor circle.
Just me.

Amazing what love can conquer.
At least for some.

Unfortunately, not for me. For me and for Cerys.

Sweet Cerys.

The girl who broke down my defenses with gentle hands and a soft voice — and who couldn’t bear the monster beneath.

Cesare’s Study

Coven Enforcers usually do not make friends lightly, if at all. Trust is a rare commodity and usually reserved for closest family. I tried to keep up with the only two people who ever truly knew me — who understood me in ways even my parents and sisters never could.

My niece and nephew.
The mage and the wolf.
Both occults that are normally mortal enemies of vampires.

I know that sounds strange to mortal ears, but when your family is a tangle of occult bloodlines — Eirwen a mage, Vincent a werewolf — the usual mortal hierarchies fall apart.
We’re closer than most mortal uncles and nieces, more like best friends, and because our kinds should, by nature, kill each other on sight, the fact that we don’t makes us… something else. Allies. The only ones who understand the weight of being other. I guess you could call it ‘ride-or-die’.

Vincent somehow managed to go from exactly where I am — lost, angry, convinced love wasn’t meant for him — to having a wife and children. Twins. I’m happy for him. Truly. But I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a sting of jealousy beneath it.

It felt as if he gave me a glimpse into a life I could have had — a life where I wasn’t an Enforcer, where I was with Cerys, where we had a child. Or children. Unlike the vampire army, the so-called Hollow Sentinels, who were plentiful despite the caveat that they were not allowed to marry and have children, we Enforcers didn’t have that rule. But the fact that Cesare had this firm rule that in order to be a Coven Enforcer, along with long years of very intense training you had to be of the Vannucci bloodline didn’t make it any easier. The Vannucci were the oldest vampire lineage still in existence at this point, the strongest and the leaders, or better Cesare was. He was a kind leader, but very stern on his laws, and if you broke them, you would pay the price, there was very little, if any, leniency.

Many single vampire ladies would love nothing more than to marry into that lineage to be set for good. But I didn’t want to have a woman just to have one, I wanted the right one, one that meant something to me. Someone … special.

I was thinking about all this while standing in my grandfather Cesare’s study. He had summoned me for something, then he and his nephew — his shadow, his right hand — Riordan had stepped out for some matter, leaving me to wait.

A sudden thud rattled the door.

Curious, I opened it — and an avalanche of old leather‑bound books launched at me. Thanks to vampiric reflexes, I caught them before they buried me under a mound of knowledge and information.

Then I looked up into sage‑green eyes.

“Cerys…” I breathed.

Her lips parted, her expression stunned — as if she were seeing something divine or impossible.

One book slipped from my grasp and hit the stone floor with a thunderous crack, snapping us both out of whatever trance we’d fallen into.

She bent quickly to retrieve it, smiling faintly, then pointed toward one of the desks. We walked in and unloaded the stack.

“Bedtime lecture?” I joked.

“Researching a cure,” she corrected gently, acknowledging my attempt at normalcy.

“Anyone I know?” I asked, desperate to keep her there, to keep her talking.

She tilted her head, eyebrows raised.

“What?” I asked.

“Are you asking if I am patching up one of your… detainees,” she said pointedly.

I recoiled, looking away.

That again. Always that. The one thing that stood between us like a wall of iron.

“Damon…” she said my name like a caress.

I swallowed and forced myself to meet her eyes, trying to look calm, aloof, unbothered.

“What is wrong?” she asked, her voice softer now.

“What do you mean?”

“You heard me. Are you alright? Let me rephrase that: you do not look okay. Hence my question — what is wrong?”

A bitter laugh escaped before I could stop it. Was she seriously asking me what was wrong after basically dumping me?

“What do you think, Cerys?” My tone was sharp, bitter, and I didn’t care.

“I… I didn’t think it would trouble you so much.” Her tone was genuine — not a jab, not a dig — which somehow made it a hundred times worse.

“Ah. Good to know what you really think of me. So a few weeks is all the time I’m allotted to get over… us? Oh, wait — I forgot. I’m a stone‑cold killer, right? Emotions are a foreign concept to me, and getting put out to pasture is nothing. I just rub some dirt on it and walk it off. Got it.”

“No — that is NOT what I’m thinking.” Her voice rose, frustrated and hurt. “I didn’t put you out to pasture, Damon. I didn’t discard you. I stopped this before we got in too deep, when I realized we’re just… not compatible. That doesn’t mean my feelings turned off like a light switch. Whatever you’re going through, I’m going through it too. This isn’t easy for me either, and it isn’t happening just to you. I didn’t want this. But… but—”

“But you also do not want me,” I finished, my voice cold as steel.

“That is not true! I thought you understood me.”

“No. I can’t understand that.” My voice sharpened. “You knew who and what I was when we met. You knew I was an Enforcer when you nursed me back to health… when we… leveled up… and… up.” I exhaled sharply. “Or did you forget about it then? And even before I got injured, you saw me when I brought the injured to the medic ward, or when I… when I…”

“…when you came to visit your captives — or what was left of them after you and the other Enforcers put them through the wringer to extract information?” she snapped, finishing the sentence for me. “And those were the lucky ones, Damon. At least there was something left of them. The others? A few floors lower in the dungeons where you and the others work them over until they break.” Her voice cracked with anger and pain. “THAT is my problem. Yes, I knew what you were when you became my patient, and I treated you with the same care I give every patient. Neither of us meant to… level up, as you call it. I didn’t see it coming. I didn’t even have time to think about how I felt about all of it until we were already in the middle of it.”

And that was it. The merry‑go‑round of heartbreak spinning again.

There wasn’t anything left to say that hadn’t already been said. We just stared at each other — sharp, wounded, furious — until she finally looked away, sighed, and gestured to the books.

“One of the Sentinels was hit by a strange poison — one that doesn’t show any of the usual patterns. Since I’m the specialist on poisons, I’m trying to figure out a cure before it’s too late. He is—”

The door opened.

We jumped apart like guilty teenagers, wide‑eyed, as Cesare and Riordan stepped inside.

The way they looked at us said everything. They knew exactly what we had been — and what we were no longer.

“Ah, Miss Cerys,” Cesare said, voice warm and archaic. “What a sight for sore eyes. And you as well, Damon. My apologies for making you wait.”

“I will leave you to it,” Cerys said quickly, curtsying. “Grand Master Elder…”

“My dear Cerys,” Cesare replied, tone velvet‑soft but carrying centuries of authority, “pray, why the haste? Has your research borne any fruit?”

“No, Your Eternal Eminence, unfortunately it has not. Not … yet. I am very determined though.”

Riordan stepped forward. “Perhaps Leeora might assist? Shall we summon her?”

“A wise thought,” Cesare mused, “but no — let us not add more fuel to our ongoing fires by inviting a witch to the hallow vampire grounds. Besides, we seek her aid; thus, we shall go to her, as politeness would dictate. And I believe our dear Cerys is well acquainted with Ravenwood, are you not, my child?”

“Yes… my former home, Your Eternal Eminence.”

“Splendid. You shall go seek Leeora’s counsel, I am certain she can help you out with poisons and their cures, and will help you commission the necessary ingredients, and thereafter you may call upon your brother and his family as recompense for your extended labors. Damon shall accompany you. For safety.”

Both our heads snapped toward him. Both our mouths opened to protest. But Cesare raised one eyebrow — a gesture older than some nations — daring us to try.

“Is there a problem, Damon?”

“No, grandfather. Of course not.”

“I did not think so. Well then — no time like the present. Off with you both. Go, go.”

Cerys dipped into a graceful curtsy, and I followed with a stiff nod. We both turned toward the door, the tension between us thick enough to taste.

I reached it first and pulled it open for her. She hesitated for half a heartbeat, eyes flicking up to mine, something unreadable passing between us. Then she stepped through, chin lifted, composure immaculate.

The door clicked shut behind us.

Grand Master Meddling

And immediately, Riordan exhaled a soft, amused scoff.

“She does not require an escort for Ravenwood, you know,” he said, folding his arms. “The Margraviate of your sister — my mother dearest — is hardly hostile territory.”

Cesare did not so much as blink. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth — the kind of smile that had started wars and ended them.

“My dear Riordan,” he said, voice smooth as aged wine, “I am perfectly aware of what Ravenwood is and is not, just as I am aware of what our esteemed medic does or does not require.”

Riordan raised a brow. “Then why send Damon? He’s an Enforcer, not a bodyguard. Any Coven Guard or even a Sentinel would do a fine job at it — and we have no shortage of either.”

Cesare’s eyes gleamed — ancient, knowing, far too entertained.

“Because,” he murmured, “there are journeys which unfold more fruitfully when undertaken by certain individuals… together.”

Riordan snorted. “Good Lord. You’re meddling again. My dear uncle — the Grand Master Meddler.”

“You take such delight in accusing me of that,” Cesare replied lightly. “I assure you, I merely… encourage the natural order of things.” A wink. A smirk. A man who had lived long enough to see every kind of love story — and still believed in them.

“Besides,” he continued, rising with the elegance of a monarch stepping from a fresco, “even the strongest hearts may require gentle guidance, particularly when attached to heads as obstinate as those two. Damon is young by our reckoning, yet even his biological clock tolls with some urgency. I would very much like to welcome offspring from his line. His sisters have blessed me with children, yes — but neither of the offspring is vampire, and thus their progeny are… less advantageous to the Coven.”

He sighed — dramatic, ancient, theatrical.

“We could certainly do with a few more Enforcers. Otherwise, I may be forced to begin training you.”

Riordan shook his head, though a smile tugged at his lips, knowing Cesare was teasing him.

“We both know I was never cut out for Enforcer work. You raised me — you saw early on that I’m built for the quill and the brain, not the blade and the brawl.”

Cesare chuckled — low, warm, dangerous.

“You are irreplaceable as my attaché, that much is beyond dispute,” he said, tone rich with fondness and authority. “Which only strengthens my resolve that it should be Damon who delights us with the next generation of Enforcers. Hence my — as you so fashionably call it — ‘meddling.’”

A glimmer of mischief warmed his ancient eyes.

“And let us be honest, Riordan — you are far too old to begin Enforcer training now. That path is for fledglings barely past their first few decades of life, not venerable scholars in their first centuries who have already chosen ink over blood.”

Smiling, Riordan shook his head as he began returning the books Cerys had dropped off to their rightful places on the wall‑to‑ceiling shelves of Cesare’s study.

“Are you not worried that one day, uncle, your romantic schemes will come back to bite you?”

With a knowing smile, Cesare joined him in the task, looking regal and utterly unbothered.

“My dear nephew, consequences have had centuries to bite me. They have not yet dared. And should they ever attempt it…” A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips as he looked up from reading a book’s spine then back at his nephew. “…they know I would bite back.”

Enroute

Cerys and I stepped out of Cesare’s study in brittle silence, the heavy door closing behind us with a soft thud that echoed down the corridor. She stood rigid, hands clasped, eyes fixed ahead — the picture of composure, except for the faint tremor in her fingers.

“We should go,” she said, voice steady but too quiet.

“Right.”

So here was something about Cerys.
She didn’t port. Never learned.
Which meant she had to hold on to me while I port both of us.

A small, cruel mercy.

I stepped closer. She hesitated — only a fraction of a second — then placed her hands lightly on my shoulders. Her touch was cool, like mine. Familiar. Unsettling.

I slid an arm around her waist. Her body tensed – from the memory of what that used to mean.

“Ready?” I asked.

“No. But go.”

I ported.

Ravenwood

We landed on Ravenwood’s cobblestones — the air crisp, the faint scent of old stone and damp moss drifting through the narrow streets. Ravenwood always felt like a dream carved from old romantic paintings — steep roofs, carved beams, lanterns glowing amber against the mist.

Cerys took in the sight with a stillness that wasn’t breath, but something deeper. Recognition. Longing.

Before either of us could speak, the door swung open on its own — not pushed, not pulled — and a flash of fiery red hair appeared.

Leeora.

Ageless, beautiful, unsettling — her presence always felt like standing too close to a candle flame that gave off no heat, only the sense that it could burn you if it wished.

She leaned against the doorframe with the lazy grace of someone who bent reality for fun.

“Well, well,” she purred, eyes glinting like embers. “Look what the shadows dragged in.”

Her gaze slid between us, slow and deliberate, tasting the tension like it was a spice she particularly enjoyed.

“Damon,” she said with a wicked smirk, “you look like someone fed you a lemon soaked in regret.”

“Good to see you too, Aunt Leeora.”

“And Cerys,” she continued, stepping aside with a theatrical sweep of her hand, “you look like you’re trying very hard not to stand too close to my pretty little heartbreaker of a nephew. Adorable. Futile, but adorable.” She clicked her tongue. “Damon has always been quite the ladykiller — pun absolutely intended.”

Cerys stiffened. I pretended not to notice.

“I think you watch too much daytime TV,” I muttered.

Leeora’s grin widened. “Oh, darling, I don’t watch it. I influence it.”

Inside, Artemus nodded from his seat by the hearth — quiet, watchful, still carrying the remnants of the rogue he once was. He didn’t speak, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was used to this.

Cerys launched into her explanation, professional and precise, detailing every cure she’d attempted, every path she’d followed, every dead end she’d hit.

Leeora listened, arms crossed, expression sharp — the kind of sharp that could cut bone.

When Cerys finished, Leeora sighed dramatically.

“Well, that’s a delightful disaster,” she said. “But you’re not solving it here. You need special herbs — rare ones — and I don’t keep those lying around. You need someone who does.”

Cerys blinked. “Whom?”

Leeora pointed toward the distant hills, where the fog thickened into something darker, heavier — like it was listening.

“Mourningvale.”

Cerys went still. “I am not familiar with that area. We were told to stay away from there as children.”

“For good reason,” Leeora said cheerfully. “It eats the unprepared. But Alder Davenport lives there. If anyone can help, it’s him.” She flicked her fingers at me. “And you have my pretty boy nephew to keep you from falling into a bog. He knows the way. His little niece lives there, and they are very, very close. He’ll take you.”

Then she turned to me, eyes narrowing with predatory amusement.

“And speaking of you,” she said, “try not to brood the whole way. It’s exhausting to look at. And it won’t help you fix things that are broken, you silly willy.”

I scowled. Artemus snorted. Cerys’s lips twitched.

Leeora looked pleased with herself — as all powerful witches do when they’ve stirred the pot just right.

Mourningvale

We left Ravenwood’s warm lantern glow behind, trading it for the creeping mist of Mourningvale. The air grew colder — not that we felt cold, but the atmosphere around us did. The ground softened underfoot. The trees twisted into strange silhouettes, their branches like skeletal fingers.

Cerys walked beside me, arms folded, gaze sharp — the picture of composure, if you ignored the deliberate inch of distance she kept between us. An inch that used to be a kiss. An inch that now felt like a chasm.

“I don’t like this place,” she murmured.

“I know.” My voice softened despite myself. “But you’re safe.”

A beat. And then the bitterness slipped out — uninvited, unfiltered, the way it always did when I forgot to guard the wound she left behind.

“See? Sometimes knowing a terribly murderous, bloodthirsty monster like me comes in handy after all.” I shrugged, eyes forward, tone deceptively light. “Who knew. Unless, of course, you’re afraid of me now too. Are you?”

She didn’t answer.

Of course she didn’t.

Her silence wasn’t empty — it was full of everything she wouldn’t say. Everything she still felt. Everything she couldn’t reconcile.

And I hated that I could still read her that easily. Hated that she still cared. Hated that it didn’t matter.

I kept walking.

We walked in silence until her foot caught on a root hidden beneath the moss. She stumbled — silent, no gasp, no breath — and I caught her instantly, hands gripping her waist, her palms braced against my chest.

For a moment, we were perfectly still. Two statues locked in an old pose. The electric tension of proximity and memory.

“Damon…” she whispered, voice barely audible.

I shouldn’t have leaned in. She shouldn’t have tilted her face up. But we did.

Our lips met — cool, soft, familiar. A kiss full of everything we’d tried to bury. Her fingers curled into my shirt. My hand slid to the back of her neck. The world narrowed to the press of her mouth, the quiet hunger, the ache that had never died.

Then—

A distant, unnatural cry echoed through the fog.

We broke apart instantly, stepping back like the mist itself had shoved us.

Cerys looked away, her voice steady but brittle. “We should keep moving.”

“Yeah.”

We walked on — not touching, not speaking — but the air between us was charged now.

Alive. Dangerous. Undeniable.

Magical Poets and Inconvenient Truths

Mourningvale grew stranger the deeper we walked — the fog thickening, the trees bending like they were listening. Cerys stayed close now, not because she wanted to, but because the path narrowed and the bog whispered beneath the moss.

We reached a small stone cottage tucked between twisted pines, lanternlight flickering in the windows. A carved wooden sign hung crookedly above the door:

ALDER DAVENPORT
HERBALIST, MAGE, POET, SOMETIMES SANE, ALWAYS BRILLIANT

“Oh Jesus Christ,” I groaned. I knew he was quirky, but this was straight‑up nutty. His poor wife and son.

Cerys blinked. “…Charming.”

Before I could answer, the door swung open.

Alder stood there — dark hair tousled, chocolate‑brown eyes bright, a quill tucked behind one ear, and a smudge of ink on his cheek. He looked like a scholar who had wandered into the woods and decided to stay forever.

“Oh!” he exclaimed. “Visitors! And not the murderous kind. Splendid.” He gestured proudly at the sign. “You like it? My son made it. I’m not usually one for self‑promotion, but one must honor the truth when one’s child carves it into wood.”

His gaze landed on Cerys and lit up like a lantern.

“Miss Wynne! I’ve read your notes on regenerative anomalies. Exquisite work — elegant, incisive, and delightfully inconvenient for several theories I was clinging to. Please, come in, come in!”

Then he noticed me.

“And you must be the Enforcer. I don’t believe we’ve ever officially met. Damon O’Cavanaugh, yes? My condolences.”

“…For what?”

“For being an Enforcer, of course,” Alder said brightly, stepping aside. “It must be terribly exhausting — all that authority, all that moral ambiguity, all that… smiting. I don’t know how you keep track of who deserves what.”

Cerys hid a smile. I pretended not to notice. What a dork, that man.

“…Wait,” I said as we stepped inside. “How did you know who we were and that we’re coming? And as you pointed out, we’ve never officially met.”

Cerys added, “Did you use magic? Or are you clairvoyant?”

Alder blinked at us, then grinned like we’d just handed him a puzzle he already solved.

He pointed toward an old‑fashioned rotary telephone perched on a stack of spellbooks.

“I’m afraid the truth is far less adventurous. Leeora phoned ahead.”

He shrugged, then continued as if nothing were amiss.

“Though to be fair, we have met before, Mr. O’Cavanaugh — back at Vannucci Castle, during my… period of misdirection. What was it, a decade and a half ago? Must be, my boy is almost ten now. I put most of that out of my mind, but I will never forget the kindness with which your dear great‑grandfather Cesare helped me through it all, despite my many flawed choices back then. I also very clearly remember your less‑than‑kind treatment in the dungeons. Never thought I’d end up in someone’s torture chambers, but I suppose it satisfies the notion of ‘try everything at least once.’”

A cheerful little smile by Alder.
Cerys side‑glanced at me, horrified. I closed my eyes. Yes, I had forgotten about all that, against popular belief, Enforcers didn’t exactly enjoy the violence – well, except maybe Caelan – it was just part of a job we were born into we prefer to put from our minds once it’s been done – and normally, you do not meet your former torture candidates again. Calling this awkward would be a vast lie.

Alder smiled “But no hard feelings. Mistakes were made, certainly plenty by me, but we all moved on. I still speak to Victoria very frequently, we meet as often as it can be arranged, our spouses get on fabulously and imagine, our children are close friends. Isn’t life funny, sometimes?”

Alder breezed on, utterly unbothered.

“And more recently, I’ve spotted you at the Round Table sessions of the Concord of the Veil — witches, mages, seers, vampires, all pretending to get along for the sake of diplomacy.”

He glanced at me over his shoulder, eyes sparkling.

“You stand behind Lord Cesare like a very large, very silent gargoyle. I always assumed Enforcers were mute. It seemed the simplest explanation.”

Cerys brushed her boots on the doormat and stepped inside with a casual, breezy tone.

“Oh, don’t worry, Mr. Davenport. Enforcers aren’t mute — you’re just not missing much when they do talk. Mostly the testosterone‑infused chest‑thumping you’d expect.”

I hissed back under my breath, “We don’t have time for hours of small talk. Too busy gutting and torturing, remember?!”

Alder paused mid‑step, blinking between us like he’d just discovered a rare magical phenomenon.

Then his face lit up.

“Ah. A lover’s quarrel.”

“NOT LOVERS!” we snapped in unison.

Alder raised both hands, delighted. “Of course, of course. My mistake. Do carry on.”

He hummed cheerfully as he led us deeper inside, as if he hadn’t just detonated a bomb in the doorway.

The interior was a maze of bookshelves, dried herbs, glowing jars, and scrolls stacked in precarious towers. Alder moved through it like a man who had memorized every inch.

“Sit, sit,” he said, waving us toward mismatched chairs. “Tea?”

“I—” Cerys nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

Alder handed her a delicate porcelain cup.

Then he handed me one.

I stared at it.

He stared back, expectant.

I took it.

Cerys’s eyes flicked to mine, amused. She knew I didn’t drink tea. She also knew I was too polite — or too proud — to refuse.

Alder clapped his hands together, delighted to move on as if he hadn’t just unearthed a decade‑old torture memory.

“Wonderful! Now, Miss Wynne, I understand you’ve come to me about some rather peculiar toxins you encountered — something that left even you puzzled? I do love a good riddle, so tell me everything.”

He leaned forward with the eager brightness of a man who genuinely enjoys being handed a medical mystery.

Cerys straightened, slipping into her professional cadence. I stayed silent, still trying to pretend this wasn’t the most awkward reunion of my immortal life.

They dove into discussion immediately — herbs, toxins, magical signatures, blood anomalies. Cerys was in her element, precise and brilliant. Alder was a whirlwind of knowledge, scribbling notes, muttering to himself, darting between shelves.

I sat there with my tea, feeling increasingly useless.

Eventually, boredom — and curiosity — won.

I stood and wandered toward the nearest bookshelf. Hundreds of leather‑bound volumes, some ancient, some new, all crammed together like they were arguing for space.

I pulled one out at random.

A romance novel. Written by Alder Davenport.

Of course.

I flipped it open.

And landed directly on a scene where two lovers were—

No. Nope. Absolutely not.

I snapped the book half‑closed, but my eyes betrayed me and caught another line.

Then another.
I started getting hot under the collar and felt the heat spread all over my body as I imagined the scene in real life. Then—

“Damon?”

I jolted so hard the book flew out of my hands and the tea sloshed over the rim, splattering onto the floor.

Cerys stood behind me, eyebrows raised, expression caught between concern and… amusement.

Alder looked up from his notes.

“My, my,” he said, adjusting his spectacles. “Nerves not very sturdy. Surprising for an Enforcer.”

Heat didn’t rise in my cheeks — vampires didn’t flush — but humiliation had its own temperature, cold and sharp.

“I was… reading,” I muttered.

“So I gathered,” Alder said brightly. “That one’s quite popular. My wife says the emotional tension is exquisite. Now of course she is biased as she loves me, but it did very well in the shops, sold out on release date.”

Cerys’s lips twitched.

I wanted the bog outside to swallow me whole.

Cerys bent to pick up the fallen book. Her fingers brushed the cover — the same page still open — and she froze for a fraction of a second.

Not because of the content.

Because she remembered.

Us.

Her eyes lifted to mine, sage‑green and unreadable.

“Oh, I read this one, and I remember the steamy parts. Find anything interesting?” she asked softly.

Too soft.

Too knowing.

I swallowed the bitterness rising in my throat.

“Nothing relevant,” I said. “Just… fiction.”

Alder, oblivious, hummed. “Fiction, and the parts that draw us in, often reveal more truth than fact. Especially about deepest desires.”

Cerys looked away.

I did too.

The room felt smaller.

Homeward Bound

By the time Cerys and I left Alder’s cottage with notes, instructions, and both of us loaded down with sacks full of pungent herbs I didn’t care to analyze, I was fuming. Quietly. Internally. The kind of fury that coils low and tight and makes you feel like your own bones are too small for your skin.

“Damon…”

“What.”

“Are we walking back to Forgotten Hollow?”

I stopped. Exposed. I hadn’t even realized I’d been walking with purpose — away, not toward anything. Just walked, at random. Which, naturally, I couldn’t admit.

“No,” I said quickly. “I just wanted to get out of sight before we port back…”

She frowned, glancing around at the endless purple haze, the fog, the bog, the skeletal trees.

“Out of sight of… whom?”

I groaned, because of course she would ask that. Of course she would see right through me.

“What about your brother and his family?” I snapped, grateful for the excuse that arrived just in time.

“What about him?”

“Don’t you want to go see him?”

“Not in the middle of the night. They’re mortals, Damon. Farmers. They’ll be up in a few hours for harvest prep. It’s nearly autumn.”

“Ah. Well. Sorry. Can’t claim to know much about farming.” I waved a hand. “Remember, I just… ‘smite’ people. As Alder put it. Smiting. Seriously.”

I was still muttering when she grabbed me.

Not gently.

She yanked me back so sharply I dropped half the things I was carrying for her. Before I could protest, her hands were on my face — cool, firm, certain — and then her mouth was on mine.

And everything inside me went silent.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t hesitant. It was the kind of kiss that steals thought and reason and every excuse you’ve ever clung to. The kind that hits like lightning — sudden, consuming, impossible to withstand.

I should have stopped her. She should have stopped herself. We both knew that.

But neither of us did.

When she finally pulled back, her breath trembled against mine.

“It’s not you I don’t want,” she whispered. “Please know that, Damon. I do want you, very much so, but it’s your profession. I’m a healer. You’re an Enforcer. We break each other just by existing.”

My voice came out low, rough.

“I never had a choice. Being an Enforcer was decided for me before I was born.”

Her eyes closed. Mine did too.

The fog drifted around us, soft and purple, like the world was holding its breath.

There was nothing left to say. And yet everything between us had just changed.

Weeks Later — The Medic Ward

It had been weeks since Mourningvale.

Weeks of silence.

I’d thrown myself into assignments — tracking, hunting, escorting, anything that kept me away from the castle. Away from her.

But fate has a sense of humor.

A Sentinel — young, strong, stupid — had taken a toxin dart to the shoulder. I hauled him into the medic ward, half‑dragging him as he complained loudly enough to wake the dead.

And of course the only medic available was—

Cerys.

She looked up from her station, eyes widening for a fraction of a second before her expression snapped into professional neutrality.

I set the Sentinel on the cot.

“Don’t worry,” I said dryly. “I didn’t do this.”

She didn’t miss a beat.

“I can see that. He’s one of ours. I never once accused you of being stupid.”

The Sentinel blinked. I blinked. Cerys didn’t.

“Oh, we’re doing this,” I muttered.

“We’re not doing anything,” she said, pulling on gloves. “Hold him still.”

“I am holding him still.”

“You’re holding him like he’s a sack of potatoes.”

“He is a sack of potatoes right now!”

“Excuse me,” the Sentinel said weakly.

“Shut up,” we both snapped.

He whimpered.

Cerys leaned over him, examining the wound. “The toxin is spreading slowly coming to a halt. You’ll be fine.”

“Will I?” he asked, panicked.

“Yes,” she said.

“Shut up!” I said at the same time.

She glared at me. “I would thank you not to yell at my patients.”

“You yelled at him too! Hypocrite much?”

“Back at you! No problems extinguishing lives and now suddenly preserving this one is a rush?”

“Excuse me,” the Sentinel tried again, “my life is a rush—”

“I told you to shut up!” Cerys snapped. “You will be fine, you big crybaby! I neutralized the toxin. Give it time to work. What’s your rush anyway? In a hurry to get home to the family you’re not allowed to have as a Sentinel?! You can be lonesome and forgotten right here, just like the rest of us — no need to rush off for that!”

The room went dead silent.

The Sentinel looked like his soul had run off to escape the mean lady, and I just stared at her. I had never heard her raise her voice or say anything cruel to anyone before. Not once. Not ever.

Her own reaction seemed to startle her — she froze, eyes wide, as if the words had leapt out of her without permission.
Then she spun on her heel and stormed out, the door slamming behind her hard enough to rattle the jars on the shelves.

The Sentinel blinked, wide‑eyed, looking between us like he’d stumbled into a domestic argument he wanted no part of.

“What is with her? She is usually a real sweetheart…”

I rounded on him.

“How many times do you have to be told to shut up?” I snapped. “And if you know the medics this closely, you might want to rethink your choices. I don’t want my Sentinels spending more time in the medic ward than actually protecting us.”

He clamped his mouth shut instantly, shoulders snapping straight. Good. At least someone listened.

I didn’t wait for a reply. I turned and followed Cerys down the corridor, boots echoing off the stone.

What a disaster.
What a woman.
What a mess.

Potion Chamber Affront

My footsteps echoed down the stone corridor, sharp and furious. I found her in the potion chamber — shelves of herbs, jars, and cauldrons glowing faintly in the dim light.

“Cerys—”

“Don’t,” she snapped without turning.

“No, we’re doing this. What was that back there?”

She whirled around. “What do you think it was, Damon? I’m tired. I’m stressed. I’m—”

She stopped.

Her face went pale. Not vampire‑pale. Something else.

Then she lurched forward.

I jumped back just in time as she nearly vomited on my boots.

She caught herself on the table, trembling, humiliated.

“Cerys—”

“Don’t,” she whispered, turning away, grabbing a cloth to clean the floor.

I stepped forward and caught her wrist.

“We have people for cleaning.”

“You do,” she said sharply. “I’m not a Vannucci. I clean up after myself.”

“You have more important things to do. If you want to wipe around on something, do it on the patients.”

“Do not tell me how to do my job!”

“Why not? You complain about mine all the time!”

“I do not!” she snapped. “I just— it— just—”

She gagged again, gripping the table, pressing a hand to her mouth.

That was it.

I’d had enough.

“Cerys,” I said, voice low. “Are you—”

“Am I what?!” she snarled.

I wasn’t impressed.

“Are you pregnant?”

She froze.

Then she turned, eyes blazing, voice cold enough to crack stone.

“WHAT?! None of your business, Damon O’Cavanaugh! And what if I were? Only you would be arrogant enough to assume it would be yours even weeks after we have stopped seeing each other! So full of yourself!”

The words hit like a blade.

“I owe you nothing, Damon,” she continued, voice trembling with something she refused to name. “And you owe me nothing. Just leave me alone. Go kill someone to cheer yourself up!”

She pushed past me, disappearing into the corridor.

I stood there, staring after her, heart that shouldn’t feel anything suddenly feeling a lot of crazy things.

And for the first time since before my Coven Enforcer training started when I was thirteen—

I was afraid.

Because she didn’t admit anything… but she also didn’t deny it.

Not really.

Inevitable Confrontation

Claiming I’d moved on from that thought would’ve been a blatant lie. I thought of nothing else — the prospect of becoming a father, like Vincent. Unexpected. Unplanned. With a woman who clearly liked me enough to lose control around me, but not enough to overlook the conflict of interest between a healer and an Enforcer.

A woman I was practically obsessed with.

Obsessed enough that I’d spent nights reading about vampiric soulmates — only to find enough parallels to make my stomach twist, and enough contradictions to convince myself it was archaic nonsense. Old vampires waxing poetic, confusing our species with bird breeds that mate for life and die of heartbreak when separated.

Ridiculous. Romantic. Dangerous.

And yet… I kept thinking about it.

Another festivity loomed — casual by our Grand Master Elder’s standards, which still meant far from what anyone would call a party. I didn’t feel festive, but unlike for all the other guests, attendance was mandatory for all three Enforcers. No full uniform this time, just the vampire version of black tie, which — if you ask my father or me — wasn’t any more comfortable.

On my way back from dealing with captives, I passed through the Grand Hall. Preparations were already in full swing, hours before the event. I tried to be invisible. Failed.

It’s hard to say this about myself, but Coven Enforcers are respected and very popular among the singles crowd. Members of the Vannucci lineage even more so. A young, unattached one who was both? Practically a K‑Pop idol among single vampire coven members.

Lucky me, right? I can hear you rolling your eyes — what has he to complain about? Well, plenty.

I like carnal pleasures as much as the next guy, but I have to be careful not to spread my DNA randomly. There are ways to avoid it, sure, but none are one hundred percent guaranteed.

I smiled politely at the cluster of females posturing and chirping “Hi, Damon,” as I passed. When I spotted another group — larger, louder — with one girl I recognized as clingy enough to qualify as a barnacle, I sidestepped into a side passage and collided with someone carrying a large box. It crashed to the floor, echoing through the stone hallway.

“Cerys!”

“Damon…”

We stared at each other. Then I blurted, “Should you be carrying heavy things in your condition?” My tone was rougher than it needed to be, but if she was pregnant with an Enforcer’s child, she should be pampered. Waited on. We were that special.

“My… condition?” Her confusion only irritated me further. When others passed by, I’d had enough of the charade. I grabbed her arm and pulled her outside into the garden.

“Don’t play coy with me,” I grumbled.

Her green eyes flashed — anger, fear, both. “I’m not! I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I had enough of the cat‑and‑mouse game. “You’re pregnant. Is it mine?”

“What?”

“Quit this and just talk already!”

Her eyes narrowed and she crossed her arms, daring me.

“Or what? You’ll take me down to the dungeons and do whatever you do to those poor souls you capture to make them talk?” she shot back, furious — and then startled by her own courage.

I leaned in, close enough for me to be able to whisper sharply. “I just might.”

We glared at each other for what felt like an eternity. Neither of us willing to back down.

I finally did. Replaying the scene in my head, realize I wasn’t exactly exemplary. You catch more flies with honey, as they say.

“You look… different,” I said.

She crossed her arms. “And that surprises you? Yes, Damon, I have a life outside saving vampires’ lives, and occasionally other occults whenever you and your armies of doom went haywire again.”

“You mean protect you and the others?!” I growled.

“I meant what I said!”

Enforcers are trained to be perceptive, so I noticed people started staring at us through the castle windows, so I toned my reaction down and took a step backwards. A Coven Enforcer was also a figure of respect and authority, and I had to keep composure.

“What I meant was that I’ve just never seen you without your nurse’s uniform. Well… I have seen you without it, just… you weren’t wearing anything at all then.”

This time she looked around, slightly flustered, to make sure we weren’t entertaining bystanders with our dirty laundry.

“Thanks for the refresher. I remember. I was there. This will shock you, but I have an in‑between look as well.”

“You look good. I like that top.” I wasn’t even lying as I pointed at the black blouse with a keyhole opening beneath a small medallion closure, reminding me how nice what lay beneath felt in my hands. Yes, I very much liked that blouse. She had paired it with tight dark pants and I couldn’t even look at those without getting myself in trouble.

“Thank you. I am thrilled to please the glorious Enforcer. I also have things to do. I volunteered to help decorate for the ball, and I do not like making empty promises. So, are we done here?”

“No. What about the baby, Cerys?”

“What baby, Damon?” She seemed genuinely annoyed now.

“Yours. Mine. Presumably. How many others have there been?”

“Have you taken a hit to the head? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re pregnant! Is it mine!?” I got as specific as I could, angrily so.

“I am not pregnant!” she hissed back, voice low.

“Yes, you are!”

“No, I am not!”

“Cerys, you threw up — almost on me. Don’t insult me with excuses about bad food. We’re still vampires, remember?!”

“Oh, I remember. What I forgot are the double standards — that you can insult me with false accusations because of who and what you are, but I am not allowed to answer with reason and truth?”

Another staring contest. That Enforcer excuse was getting old with me. Fast. But then I remembered Cerys was fairly blunt. She wouldn’t lie about something like this.

“You really aren’t pregnant?”

“That’s what I’m saying. No, Damon, I’m not pregnant. Not by you, not by anyone. And so you can sleep at night, there wasn’t anyone else. Can we move on now, please?”

“Then explain the throwing up!”

She sighed. “I owe you no explanations, but just so you’ll quit acting insane: I made an infusion with rare herbs. Technically toxic to vampires, but in small doses they inoculate us and work as antidotes to certain other poisons. They’re also part of certain cures. We medics take turns making new stock — a hated task, as the fumes induce severe nausea. Happy now, or do I need signatures under statements from the other medics?”

“No. I believe you. Sorry.” I deflated.

“Can I continue my work now? I do not like to get the reputation of a slacker, while being seen doing what could be construed as ‘flirting with an Enforcer.’”

I stared at her — part relieved, part something else. Disappointment? Why though? Whatever we were — fling, affair, mistake — it didn’t need a baby in the mix worse than I needed a hole in my head.

“Bye, Damon…” she said, turning to leave. I caught her arm. She looked at my grip, then at me.

“Would you go with me to the event tonight?”

“What?”

“Do you already have a date?”

She plucked my hand off her arm but held it for a moment before letting go. “I’m not attending.”

“Why not?”

“Because I never attend these things. And before I end up on your naughty list, I attend all the mandatory coven meetings. Dances are not mandatory.”

“Can you stop with that? I get it — you have a problem with my profession, but it’s not like we Enforcers run around with notepads writing people up for wardrobe malfunctions while taking attendance. We are protectors, not boarding school marmes.”

“I wouldn’t know what exactly you do, how and why, now would I, except for the obvious — because you never wanted to talk about it.” Her tone was pointy.

“I can’t speak about details…”

“Right. Okay. Have fun at the dance.”

She turned away. I ran after her, hand on the door handle, searching for the right words.

“Cerys, please. Accompany me tonight.”

“Damon… why? You know we can’t.”

“Says who? You made up that rule. I never agreed we’re done. I don’t want to be done. And neither do you — be honest.”

“I don’t have to be honest now. I never denied that. I want to be with you, very much so, but there are so many reasons why we shouldn’t. Better to stop before we get in too deep.” Her voice softened, a small smile curling her lips. “And before your false alarm becomes something real. You know we can’t be parents together.”

“Do I though?” I asked. She gave me the strangest look. I gave up, opened the door for her. She thanked me — and leaned in to kiss me. Just a quick peck, but it curled my toes. I froze for a second, then went after her, grabbed her, lifted her, carried her up the stairs — several floors — until we reached one of the towers. I set her down and kissed her like I meant it. She didn’t fight me. She leaned in, pulled me closer.

When I released her, she gave me that look again — like she was reading my thoughts — then turned to the banister.

“Wow. I’ve never seen Forgotten Hollow from this high up. It’s beautiful.”

I joined her. We stood side by side for a while.

“You weren’t scared when you thought I was… you know…” she said. Not a question. A statement.

“I don’t get scared. I’m an Enforcer, remember? I just randomly torture and kill anyone who deviates from righteousness.”

“Damon. Snark and sarcasm now?”

“What else do I have left.”

She turned to face me. I turned my head toward her.

“Convince me I’m mistaken.”

I raised my eyebrows. Was she serious?

“Are you saying you might change your mind about me being a bloodthirsty brute?”

“I never thought that about you. But you do kill, don’t you?”

“Only those who deserve it.”

“And who decides who deserves it?”

“Depends. The Grand Master Elder. My grandfather Caelan, Commander of the Enforcers. Or me, if there’s no choice. I’m not afraid to take a life, but it’s always the last resort, Cerys — not a hobby.”

“I see.”

“I’m shocked that needed to be specified.”

“It didn’t. But it felt good to hear it out loud. I don’t know you well, even though it feels like I’ve known you forever. Most of the time I’ve known you, you were unconscious, recovering from injuries.”

“But the rest was one hell of a ride, wasn’t it?” I smiled. She smiled back, nudging me lightly.

“Yes, it sure was. And somehow, still is. Look, Damon — I’d go with you, but I have nothing to wear. I’m not being dramatic. I have my uniform and a few casual things, but no ballgowns. I never needed one. So… it’s sweet you asked, but I have to decline.”

I didn’t like that answer. But she smiled, turned, and left me standing there — simmering in yet another rejection.

Dance Preparations

I walked home — not far from the castle, just down the hill. My childhood home was the first on the right. Inside, the living room looked like a fabric explosion. Mom sat with Lavinia, Riordan’s wife, and my sister Fiona, surrounded by gowns draped over every surface. My dad appeared beside me.

“I wouldn’t go in there now, son,” he said, half‑laughing.

Too late. Fiona spotted us and waved. “Guys, come on in! We could use your expert opinion!” she called.

Mom gasped. “No! I don’t want your father to see me in my dress before tonight!” she protested.

Lavinia chuckled. “Why not, Emmy? You’re not getting married. Connell has seen you in gowns many times,” she teased.

They all laughed, dragging us into the chaos, chattering about fabrics and silhouettes. I barely listened. Growing up with two older sisters who treated fashion like religion had cured me of caring. But when Fiona held up three gowns to Mom, an idea struck.

“Hey, Fi… mind if I borrow something from your reject pile?” I asked.

Four pairs of eyes turned toward me, mouths open.

“Not for me!” I added quickly. “Seriously. Cerys can’t go because she doesn’t have a gown, and if none of you are using these…”

The collective sigh of relief was almost insulting.

Fiona and Mom dove into the pile, debating colors and fabrics like generals planning a campaign.

“Damon, what color are her eyes again?” Fiona asked, holding up a dress to compare.

“Green,” I said.

“What kind of green?” Mom asked, squinting thoughtfully.

“Oh, I remember,” Fiona said, snapping her fingers. “I’d call it sage green. Striking with her dark hair. But Damon, were they warm or cool green?”

“Huh? I… don’t… know what that means,” I muttered.

“Her complexion,” Mom clarified patiently. “Olive or pinkish? A golden or more of a bluish undertone?”

“What?!” I sputtered. Cerys wasn’t pink, blue, or golden. She was… whatever undertone maddeningly beautiful to me has.

Dad leaned in and murmured, “Told you to stay out of here.” Then louder, to the room: “Why don’t you go get Cerys so she can join the ladies in frolicking through the seas of fabric?”

I glared at him thinking If I did that, she’d murder me,

“Oh, she’s busy and can’t get away,” I said flatly. “Can I just take a few over to her?”

“But what about accessories?” Fiona asked, horrified. “They make the gown, underline her personality.”

“And shoes?” Mom chimed in.

“Does she have help with her hair?” Lavinia asked, genuinely concerned.

“I… couldn’t tell ya,” I admitted.

Dad, merciful as ever, grabbed an armful of rejected gowns and shoved them into my chest. “Here you go. Get going, kid,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” I replied, grateful and slightly buried under chiffon, lace and silk.

I took his advice. Of course, I didn’t think to bag the gowns, so this Enforcer walked the long way back up to the castle, past guards and helpers hustling to set up for the evening, carrying an armful of ladies’ garments like a lady’s maid from eras long gone and way before my time.

It wasn’t the most dignified trek I’d ever made.

Asserting Dominance

Finding Cerys was another problem. I knew her station in the medic ward and that she had a chamber in the staff wing, but not which one. When we’d seen each other often, I’d been recovering — she came to me. Or we met outdoors. Boyfriend of the year, right? Had I ever even been her boyfriend? How does one know when a relationship shifts from early stages to something more? Had we ever been more?

I reached the medic ward. Empty aside from male medics tending to the injured. Wandering the staff corridor, I got lucky — someone knocked on a door, and Cerys answered. She took whatever they handed her, then froze when she saw me.

Leaning against the doorframe, she watched me approach.

“Hey,” I said. “Mind if I come in for a moment? I need to recover from the most uncomfortable walk of shame any man has ever endured.”

“I doubt that,” she said with a smirk as she stepped aside. “Didn’t they used to make people walk the streets naked for atonement of sins a few centuries ago?”

“Would’ve been more comfortable than this,” I muttered, dropping the pile of gowns on her bed. “These are for you. Hoping you’ll find one you like and change your mind about rejecting my invite. There’s only so many rejections a man can take.”

“Damon, I never rejected you.” Her voice softened as she looked over the dresses. “But these are beautiful.”

“Borrowed from my mom and sister,” I said.

She turned to me. “Which is your favorite?”

“Hard to choose between my mother and sister,” I joked, trying to lighten the mood.

She laughed, nudging me. “The dresses, of course, funny man.”

“I’d have to see them on,” I said with a wink — better to flirt than give her the dreaded ‘I don’t care’. Years of being a son and a brother had taught me that much.

She rifled through the gowns, then suddenly pulled her blouse over her head. I tried to look away. Failed. I flat‑out stared as she slipped into a gown, adjusted it in front of the special mirror we all owned, pinned her hair up, and turned to me.

“Well?” she asked.

“Wow,” I said. And I meant it. But honestly, I didn’t see the dress — I saw a way back in. Hope. A chance to turn her no into a maybe. Beyond tonight’s dance.

“You like it? Should I try the others?” she asked.

“No. I mean yes — yes, you probably should…” Alright, I’ll admit it: I didn’t care about the dresses. But what man in his right mind would turn down more free show? Clearly not me.

She put them on, one by one. I tried to be helpful, but let’s be real — no man on earth could think straight while a woman like Cerys changed in front of him. My mind was completely elsewhere.

She finally made her choice and handed me the rest with a kiss on the cheek. No way was I repeating my earlier trek, so I flagged down a passing servant, piled the gowns into his arms, and told him to deliver them to my home. His expression was priceless — he definitely hated his job at that moment — but he bowed and hurried off.

Cerys giggled behind me. “Nice.”

I turned. “What?”

“You demonstrating power. Dominance,” she said, amused.

“Why do you always complain about everything I do?” I asked, exhausted from the constant bickering.

“I’m not,” she said, stepping closer. “I like you taking command. You being dominant is… very sexy. Being assertive suits you.”

Oh. Not what I expected.

My eyes narrowed. “Does it then? Alright, you’ll love this — I’ll pick you up at seven. Be ready. Don’t make me wait, woman.”

She smiled, snapping to attention. “Sir, yes sir!”

I was still grinning as I ran down the stairs.

There — that wasn’t so hard, was it?

The Dance

Seven o’clock came faster than I expected. I’d gone home, changed into my black‑tie attire — the vampire version, all severe lines and a collar that felt like it was designed to keep my head from moving. On the way out, I grabbed a single flower from my mother’s garden. A dark red rose. Classic. Predictable. But it felt right.

I told myself it wasn’t nerves. Enforcers don’t get nervous. My hands disagreed.

The corridors were quieter now, lit by sconces that cast long shadows across the stone. When I reached her door, I knocked once.

It opened.

And there she stood.

Cerys Wynne — healer, principled, stubborn, infuriating, irresistible — wearing a deep red gown. The color made her eyes look impossibly bright, her lips looked irresistible with a matching red, her hair pinned up with a few loose strands softening her face. She looked elegant, composed… and a little unsure, like she wasn’t used to being looked at this way.

I forgot how to function.

“You look…” I tried again. “Cerys, you look incredible.” I muttered it as I handed her the rose — red as well, as if we had planned it.

She took it, lifted it to her nose, inhaled. Her lips curved — not shy, not flattered. Sharp.

“Red felt appropriate,” she said lightly. “You know. For an Enforcer. Blood and all.”

I blinked. Of course she would.

“Really?” I said quietly. “That’s the angle you’re taking tonight?”

She shrugged, unbothered. “Just calling it as I see it.” Then she broke the long stem cleanly and slipped the rose into the buttonhole of my lapel, as if marking me as her partner. Red and red.

Something in my chest tightened.

I stepped forward before I could think better of it.

Her back met the wall — not harshly, but firmly enough to stop her in place. My hand braced beside her head. Her eyes widened, not in fear, but with that same spark she’d shown earlier when she told me assertiveness suited me.

“You want to jab at me about blood when you wade through it for your profession as well, medic?” I murmured. “Don’t pretend you wore red for symbolism.”

Her chin lifted. “And what if I did?”

“Then I’ll answer in kind.”

I kissed her.

Not gently. Not politely. A decisive, claiming kiss — the kind she’d told me she liked, the kind she’d leaned into before. Then I kissed down her neck, scraping my fangs deliberately across her skin, drawing a single bead of blood, which I licked away.

She didn’t push me off. She didn’t melt either.

She kissed me back with equal force — matching me, challenging me, meeting me blow for blow. Then her hand slid up to my collar, fingers hooking beneath the stiff, high edge of the formal jacket. She tugged it aside with deliberate precision, exposing the line of my shoulder just enough before she leaned in and bit down — not hard, but with intent — a sharp, claiming love‑bite that drew a bead of blood of its own.

When I finally pulled back, we were both affected, disoriented in the same way — two predators testing each other’s edges and finding no weakness.

Her voice was low. “You’re crazy.”

“So are you.”

A beat. A long one.

Then she stepped out from under my arm, smoothing her gown, reapplying her smeared lipstick with practiced ease, as if nothing had happened.

“Are we going then?” she asked.

I couldn’t help the grin. “Just waiting for you.”

We walked into the hallway together. Medics paused mid‑stride. Staff froze. Someone dropped linens. Me being here wasn’t shocking. But me being here in formal attire, with Cerys in a ballgown, clearly attending together, was.

Cerys stiffened at the unwanted attention. I offered my arm. After a heartbeat, she took it. Subtlety was dead — we were each other’s dates for the ball.

We walked through the castle corridors toward the main wing, past portraits and chandeliers dripping with crystal. The closer we got, the louder the music grew — strings, low and elegant.

At the entrance to the Grand Hall, two guards opened the doors.

Heads turned. People stared.

Cerys inhaled softly. I leaned in. “Ignore them.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” she murmured. She gave me a sideways look. “Makes me nervous.”

“Then look at me.”

She did.

And the room faded.

I led her onto the floor as the music shifted into a slow, sweeping waltz. She hesitated only a moment before placing her hand in mine. Her other hand rested lightly on my shoulder.

We moved together — surprisingly well. Vampires are naturally graceful, but this felt like something else. Something aligned. Something dangerous.

Her eyes lifted to mine. “You’re staring.”

“Can you blame me?” I smirked, leaning in to whisper against her ear. “At least I’m making an effort to stare at your beautiful eyes, not the dangerously low‑cut décolletage you clearly chose to torture me with. And not because you liked this dress the best. Don’t even deny it.”

She tried not to smile. Failed. “I’m not denying anything. Is it working?”

“Let’s go somewhere private and check,” I whispered before pulling back. Yes, I was enjoying our little game of torturing each other.

“Maybe later,” she whispered, leaning in — and not without managing to nibble lightly at my earlobe, sending a sharp jolt through me. That woman.

We turned with the music, her red gown brushing against my legs, her scent curling around me like memory.

“Cerys,” I said quietly, “does this buy me a real chance with you?”

She arched a brow. “A real chance?”

“Yes. Not a fling. Not a mistake. Not something we treat like a naughty pastime and then pretend didn’t happen. Something more… solid than before.”

“Are you asking me to date you, Damon?”

“What if I am?”

She looked away, then back at me — eyes bright, unreadable.

“You’re asking for a lot. Facts haven’t changed just because we can’t seem to get through our skulls that we shouldn’t. I have no business with an Enforcer beyond my profession, and you can do better than a castle medic.”

“Do better?” I echoed. “I didn’t have you pegged as so old‑fashioned and bound to statuses. And I know how you feel about what I do — you made that abundantly clear. But ask yourself this: do you think my mother and Rhiannon are not women with good hearts and clear consciences? Yet both manage to love Enforcers. Do you think they see their husbands as bloodthirsty murderers? Or that they endorse the darker parts of our profession?

A profession of great honor, I might add — but one none of us chooses. It’s chosen for us by birthright. So tell me, Cerys… is it fair to hold us responsible for things we never had a say in?”

“And you’re impossible and hardly fair, putting it like that,” she said. “But think further, Damon. If I choose a relationship with anyone, I want children. My brother and I were raised in a big family — he has one, and I would like the same. But we both know that at least one of our children would have to follow in that profession. A husband and a son I constantly have to worry about being killed in action is hardly something most women aspire to, unless they do not care about either.”

“So you admit you do care about me?”

“I never denied that,” she said softly. “On the contrary, I told you multiple times that this is my problem. You are not easy to walk away from.” She realized she’d said more than she meant to, stiffened, and added, “And you are stubborn as a mule.”

“I believe the word you’re looking for is assertive and dominant, and I was recently told that it’s very sexy.” I couldn’t help the satisfied grin as I twirled her to the music.

She exhaled a soft laugh. “You are so full of yourself. And now you think all that smooth talk and logic and all your flattery during one dance buys you a chance?”

“No,” I said. “But the night is still young, and there will be more dancing — and more talking. My sexy and assertive stubbornness will wear your stubbornness down until you give me a real chance.”

Her gaze softened — not surrender, not certainty. Something warm. Something dangerous. Something that could go either way.

“I see I have to be very careful about the things I say to you,” she whispered. “Some go straight to your head, inflating your ego even further. But maybe I am the stubborn one. Maybe there is a teeny tiny chance that you are right and not everything is black and white.”

The music swelled. We turned again.

And for the first time all night, I couldn’t tell if we were falling back together… or circling each other all over again.