Bloodbound – Blood in the Moonlight

The nighttime forest beyond the Hollow Perimeter was quiet — the kind of quiet that made even vampires pause. Cerys walked ahead of me, basket in hand, scanning the underbrush for the herbs she needed. Moonlight caught the red lining of her cloak — the same shade as the gown she’d worn at the ball — and for a moment, I forgot why we were out here at all.

In my mind, I was back in the Grand Hall. What a night that had been. We were still circling each other — testing, teasing, pushing — but somehow I always ended up with her in my arms. A kiss here, an embrace there. Together we circled the drain.

She crouched to gather a cluster of night‑blooming valerian. “This one’s potent. We don’t get it often.”

“I still don’t understand why you were going to be out here alone at night,” I muttered. “Why didn’t you ask someone to escort you?”

“Didn’t have to. You’re here anyway.” She rolled her eyes. “Damon, I’ve been picking herbs since I was five. And back then, I was still mortal. Now I have fangs and immortality, so I don’t think I need an escort to pick plants.”

“This isn’t safe,” I shot back. “You should have at least two other medics and a pair of Sentinels with you. Who approved this?”

“Nobody approves this. We’re not captives — we’re medics. This is part of my job. Not the first and not the last time.”

“I’ll speak to Great‑Grandfather. This is unsafe.”

She rose and glared at me. “Good luck telling the other medics they’ll be treated like toddlers.”

“Does everything have to be an argument with you? Something about this doesn’t sit right with me.”

“Damon—”

“No. My mind is made up. You said you liked me being assertive. This is me doing my job, assertively.”

“I said it was sexy, not that I liked it.” She smiled — that smile — daring me.

Challenge accepted.

I grabbed her, pulled her close, and kissed her. She didn’t fight me — she leaned into it — and we made out for a while. I have no idea how far it would’ve gone if my Enforcer senses hadn’t suddenly screamed.

I went still.

“Damon, what’s wrong?”

I put a finger to her lips, motioning for silence.

She frowned, opened her mouth to retort—

And that’s when the air shifted.

A whisper of movement. A wrongness. A presence that didn’t belong.

Before I could react, a blur shot out of the trees.

A hand — clawed, cold — clamped around Cerys’s throat and yanked her backward.

She made a sharp, soundless choke, feet leaving the ground.

“NO!” I lunged.

The rogue vampire materialized behind her, dragging her against his chest, blade pressed to her ribs.

“Pretty little medic,” he hissed. “You’ll do nicely.”

Cerys clawed at his arm, eyes wide with shock and fury.

I saw red.

I didn’t think — I moved.

I slammed into him with everything I had. Cerys was thrown aside, hitting the ground hard but free. The rogue snarled and turned on me, faster than I anticipated.

He hit me like a battering ram, slamming me into a tree hard enough to crack the bark. His blade drove into my side, skidding off bone with a sickening scrape. Pain flared through my ribs, white‑hot and immediate. I shoved him off, but he was fast — older than me, stronger than he looked, and fueled by something feral. A blade pressed to my throat, and without betraying any vampire secrets, I’ll tell you this much: it wasn’t a regular blade. Regular weapons cut us, sure — we’d bleed, curse, and heal in minutes. But there were other weapons. The kind that bit deep. The kind that lingered. The kind that killed. I would know. Those are the ones we Enforcers carry. No matter what occult you are — if I get my hands on you and I want you dead, dead is exactly what you’ll be.

Cerys scrambled to her feet, movements sharp with panic.

“Run!” I barked. “Back to the castle — get help. NOW!”

She hesitated — damn her — but the rogue lunged at her again, and I intercepted him, taking the hit meant for her.

His claws tore into my shoulder. My vision wavered. My knees buckled.

He had me now.

The rogue’s hand closed around my throat, claws digging in, while the knife found my shoulder, digging in, breaking skin. “O’Cavanaugh, you bastard,” he hissed. “I only need one thing from you. I bet you can guess what that is…”

“Not happening,” I growled. Yes, I knew what he wanted.

We had his mate.

Which was why he was dumb enough to loiter near Forgotten Hollow. Most rogues were smarter than that — this place was crawling with Hollow Sentinels, Coven Guards, and of course Enforcers like me.

Rogues weren’t inherently criminals. Being covenless wasn’t illegal. But the moment they broke our laws, they were fair game. A coven protected you, fed you, cared for you when impaired. All you had to do was abide by the rules. If you didn’t want to join, there was a reason: you didn’t like rules and weren’t going to follow any.

Not always — there were exceptions — but usually covenless vampires ended up on our list.

Case in point: his mate.

She’d killed a mortal — a poor hapless soul in the wrong place at the wrong time. No reason we could see, so likely just because she could. When we feed, we don’t need enough to kill a mortal. Some very new turns make mistakes, which is why Cesare has strict rules in place. But his mate wasn’t a new turn.

We tracked her, caught her, and incarcerated her in the Lower Cells. She was awaiting trial in the Judgment Hall with Cesare and Riordan. Bureaucracy at this point. There was only one verdict.

His mate was as good as dead. The only variation was paperwork and which Enforcer would do the deed.

He slammed me to the ground, pinning me with a knee to my chest, the dangerous blade at my throat. “Release her. Or I’ll peel that pretty‑boy hair from your skull and send you back to the castle in pieces!”

I knew I was in a bad spot, but all I could think of was Cerys. For better or worse, I’d done my job and protected her — maybe for the final time, because I let her distract me. But she was safe. That was all that mattered.

The rogue leaned in, voice low and venomous. “Start figuring out how to get her to me — or your pretty little lover is next. I will extinguish every single one of you until I get to her.”

I laughed, even as blood trickled down my jaw. “Go fuck yourself.”

He tightened his grip. “You will do as I ask!”

“Not a chance.”

He started cutting me.
The pain was excruciating — the blade treated with something deadly, similar to our own weapons. Regular steel couldn’t kill a vampire. This could.

I was fading.
Losing strength.
Losing the fight.

And Cerys was gone.

Good. She was safe. That was all that mattered.

But as the rogue pinned me, claws digging into my chest, a cold realization hit me harder than the impact:

I never got my chance with her.

Not a real one. Not the one I wanted. Not the one she almost gave me.

And now I was going to die here — alone, bleeding into the dirt — not an honorable death in battle, but here, alone, in the woods, surprise by a single rogue like a total rookie, while the girl I loved ran back to the castle thinking we had a chance. I knew we didn’t.

By the time someone reached me, I’d be gone.
I do not negotiate with rogues.

The rogue leaned in, voice rasping. “Tell me where she’s kept and how to get her free. Tell me, and I’ll make it quick.”

I laughed, even as blood filled my mouth. “Go to hell.” I swat at him.

He snarled and drove the blade deep into my already injured shoulder. A sound tore out of me — involuntary, raw, otherworldly.
My vision wavered.
My limbs went numb.

This was it.

This was how it ended.

And then—

The rogue jerked.

Froze.
Eye wide.

A wet, choking sound rattled in his throat.

He sat up stiffly, hands flying to his neck as blood spurted between his fingers, raining down on me. I blinked through the haze, trying to understand what I was seeing.

And then I saw her.

Cerys.

Standing behind him.

Her knife buried deep in his throat. Her eyes blazing. Her posture steady. Her hands shaking only after she pulled the blade free.

She hadn’t run.

She’d come back.

For me.

“You—” the rogue rasped. “That won’t kill me.”

“No,” she whispered, voice cold as winter. “But what’s on the blade will. And I made sure it will hurt until you feel nothing ever again.” With that, she cut his vocal cords.

His veins blackened.
His skin greyed.
His body convulsed violently, collapsing beside me.

Cerys stepped back, watching him die with a medic’s precision and a survivor’s resolve. The healer became a killer in that moment — and I was shocked and impressed in equal measure.

Only when he stopped moving did she turn to me.

“Damon—” Her voice cracked. “Good God, Damon—”

She dropped to her knees beside me, hands flying to my wounds. Her fingers were gentle but frantic, pressing, working with practiced speed.

“You’re hurt,” she whispered. “You’re really hurt badly.”

She pulled her bag closer and continued treating me. It stung, it burned, but all I could see was her — and the realization that I would have died if she hadn’t come back.

“You saved me,” I managed, my voice sounding strange to me, foreign.

She shook her head, eyes shining. “You saved me first.”

The pain surged again — sharp, blinding — and the edges of my vision darkened.

“Stay with me,” she said, voice tight. “Damon, stay with me.”

I wanted to. I tried to. But the darkness pulled harder.

Her voice was the last thing I heard.

“Please don’t leave me Damon.”

And then everything went black.

The Weight of Survival

Warmth surrounded me.

Not the mortal kind — the kind created by firelight reflecting off ancient stone, by the heavy presence of old magic, by the weight of lineage pressing down like a cloak. By safety.

Cesare’s study.

I blinked until the room sharpened into focus — the towering shelves of leather‑bound tomes, the crackling hearth, the scent of aged parchment and iron ink. Cesare sat across from me in one of his carved high‑back chairs, Riordan standing nearby with his arms crossed.

And beside me—

Cerys.

Sitting in a straight‑backed chair pulled close to the couch where I lay. Her cloak was still stained with rogue blood, dried in dark streaks across the red lining. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, knuckles pale. Her eyes — normally sharp, steady — were rimmed with the faintest redness, the kind that came from tears shed long after the danger had passed.

She wasn’t resting. She wasn’t recovering. She was watching me.

Waiting for me to wake.

Alive. And I was alive.
Somehow.

Cesare leaned forward, his voice low and controlled. “Welcome back, Damon. You gave us all quite the scare.”

But I couldn’t look away from her.

She hadn’t run. She’d come back. She’d saved me.

Her gaze met mine — and something in her posture loosened, just slightly, as if she’d been holding herself rigid for hours. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. The relief in her eyes said everything.

Riordan exhaled sharply — not a breath, but a sound of tension releasing. “You’re lucky she ignored your order to run,” he said. “If she hadn’t returned when she did…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

Cesare’s expression softened — rare, and reserved for moments that mattered. “You owe her your life, boy.”

I swallowed, my throat tight from injury, not emotion — though the two felt dangerously close.

“I know,” I said quietly, still staring at her. “I know I do.”

Cerys looked down at her hands, as if unsure what to do with the attention. A faint tremor ran through her fingers — the only sign she was still shaken.

I shifted, wincing as pain flared through my ribs and shoulder. She immediately leaned forward, instinct overriding everything else.

“Don’t move,” she said, voice low, steady, professional — but her eyes betrayed her. “You’re not fully healed yet.”

Her hand hovered near my arm, not touching, but close enough that I could feel the intention.

Cesare watched the exchange with an expression I couldn’t read — something between amusement and calculation.

Riordan muttered, “She dragged you all the way back from the forest. Alone. Half‑carrying you. Stubborn as hell.”

Cerys shot him a look. “I did what needed to be done.”

“And you did it well,” Cesare said. “Very well.”

Her jaw tightened — not pride, not modesty. Something else. Something heavier.

I pushed myself up a little, ignoring the pain. “Cerys.”

She looked at me again.

And in that moment, everything else in the room — the Elders, the fire, the ancient shelves — faded into the background.

“You saved my life,” I said.

Her voice was barely above a whisper. “You saved mine first.”

The room fell silent.

And for the first time since the forest, I let myself feel it — the weight of what almost happened, and the weight of what didn’t.

Because she came back. Because she chose me. Because she refused to let me die.

And nothing between us would ever be the same.

The Cost of a Kill

I woke again — and only then realized I’d passed out without noticing. Not great.

I blinked until the room came into focus.

My room. My bed. My ceiling.

I tried to sit up, and a wave of pain and nausea slammed me flat again with a low groan. It took a long moment before the world steadied enough for me to think.

Getting up wasn’t happening.

“Hello? Mom? Dad? Anybody?” My voice cracked, more from injury than emotion.

Footsteps. My door opened.

Dad’s tall, slender frame with the long, silvery blonde hair falling down his back filled the doorway, relief flickering across his face as he leaned back and called out, “He’s awake, Emmy.”

Mom’s voice answered from somewhere down the hall — sharp, worried, indistinguishable — and then Dad was at my bedside, crouching.

“Good grief, son.”

“Yeah, I know…” I muttered. “Where’s Cerys?”

Mom entered just in time to hear the question. The look on both their faces hit me harder than the rogue had.

“Just rest,” Dad said gently, patting my uninjured shoulder. “You need rest.”

“My poor baby boy,” Mom murmured, stroking my cheek.

Something was wrong.

I stiffened. “Guys. Where is Cerys?”

Dad’s expression fell. He looked at Mom. They exchanged one of those silent parental conversations that had baffled my sisters and me since childhood.

Dad nodded. Mom kissed his cheek, squeezed his arm, and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Not good.

Dad exhaled slowly. “Cerys killed a vampire. Which is against our laws. Therefore, she is incarcerated in the Detention Wing awaiting her trial.”

I shot upright, ignoring the agony tearing through my ribs. Dad tried to hold me down, but I shoved him off.

“No! NO! How could you let that happen!? She saved me! I explained everything to Cesare and Riordan—”

“So did I!” Dad snapped, then softened. “Damon, they know. This is standard procedure. They can’t make an exception for her just because it was you. That would be favoritism.”

“I’m a fucking Enforcer! We get treated like—like celebrities. Royalty. Why can’t this be an exception?!”

“Damon…”

I didn’t let him finish. I forced myself out of bed, dragging on clothes, nearly collapsing as I tried to tie my boots.

Dad hovered. “Where exactly do you think you’re going?”

I glared at him. “Where do you think?”

“You are not going over there. Not in your condition, for a fool’s errand. You think I haven’t tried?”

“Well, clearly not hard enough! Cerys is not staying in the Lower Cells for this!”

I won’t lie — I wasn’t strong enough to use vampiric speed or porting. Staying upright was a miracle. But I made it out the door. Dad followed, trying to reason with me until he finally gave up halfway up the long, winding path to Castello di Vannucci.

He tried to knock on Cesare’s study door.

I didn’t wait.

I slammed it open so hard it ricocheted off the wall. My momentum carried me straight into one of Cesare’s towering bookshelves — the impact rattled the entire thing, tomes shuddering, one falling and bouncing off my shoulder as I staggered forward.

I didn’t stop.

I half‑stumbled, half‑lunged across the room, catching myself on the edge of Cesare’s massive carved desk. My palm hit the polished wood with a crack that echoed through the study.

Cesare looked up from his papers, startled, ancient eyes narrowing. Riordan, at his separate desk near the window, lifted his head sharply, quill freezing mid‑stroke.

“Young Damon—”

“You release her,” I snarled, breathless, shaking, “right now.”

The room went still.

Cesare opened his mouth to answer — calm, measured, infuriatingly composed — but I never heard the words.

The blackness came fast, swallowing the edges of my vision, rushing inward like a collapsing tunnel.

My hand slipped from the desk.

And I went down.

I woke again on his chaise longue. Cesare, Riordan, and Dad stood over me.

I tried to rise. Dad pushed me back firmly.

“You are incapacitated,” he said. “I shouldn’t have let you come here. My deepest apologies, Grandfather.”

Cesare lifted a hand. “Please, Connell. I understand why Damon is upset. I do not like this either. But I cannot hold everyone to rules and then break them myself. She is well cared for. I have rearranged my schedule to ensure a swift trial. She saved an Enforcer — of course she will be pardoned. But it must be done properly.”

“No,” I groaned. “No, this is wrong. I’ll take her place. Put me in the cell. Say I killed him. He surprised me — or I would have. You know how many vampires, occult, even mortals I’ve killed in my days?”

“Damon,” Cesare said gently, “you are comparing apples to oranges. She is a civilian. Rules apply to her that you may be exempt from in the line of duty. And you know as well as I do — if you went on a casual killing spree, you’d be in a cell next to her.”

I sat up again. “Good idea.”

Dad snapped, “Damon, enough! You are not a child. Stop the pouting. Rules do not change because you are close to the one held accountable. You heard your great‑grandfather — she will be released soon and is cared for.”

I looked around the room, realizing I was outnumbered and outmaneuvered.

“I want to see her.”

“Damon—” Dad began, gearing up for another lecture.

Cesare raised a hand. Silence.

“Of course you do,” he said. “Pray tell, young Damon, how do you expect that to happen? The Cell Block is several floors below and down long corridors. You can barely rise from my chaise longue. Am I to carry you there?”

“Why not?”

I could hear dad facepalm himself at my lack of respect. Vampires had been thrown in prison for long periods for less than that.

“I can,” Riordan said.

All eyes turned to him.

“I think it should be me,” he continued. “We all can agree he should see her, it’s the least we can do for both of them. Connell is too invested. We all have raised children — none of us are composed when it comes to their wellbeing. Obviously, we cannot have our Grand Master Elder do it. But I can.”

Riordan finished speaking, and Cesare inclined his head with that slow, deliberate grace only centuries could teach.

“A wise observation,” he said, voice smooth as aged wine. “Very well. Young Damon, is this arrangement acceptable to you?”

“Please stop calling me young,” I snapped. “I’m in my forties by mortal count. That’s hardly young.”

Cesare leaned forward, a faint, knowing smile curving his mouth — the kind that had once charmed courts and terrified kings.

“And I,” he murmured, “am in my five hundred and thirtieth year. Neither of us is mortal, ragazzo mio. To my eyes, you remain but a youth — impetuous, hot‑blooded, but capable… and fiercely loyal when your mind is not clouded by fear.”

His gaze sharpened, ancient and unyielding.

“Now,” he continued, tone soft but carrying the weight of command, “is Riordan’s offer acceptable? Or shall I have you escorted from my halls until your strength — and your judgment — return to you?”

I swallowed my pride. “Yes, great‑grandfather, very acceptable. Thank you.”

“At last, some sense from you.” Cesare rose with the unhurried grace of an old‑world sovereign. “Connell, attend me — we have matters that require your counsel. Riordan, be so good as to escort our young, lovesick Enforcer to the dungeons.”

Dad groaned. Riordan smirked.

I didn’t care.
I was going to her.

Below the Stone

I will spare all of us the humiliation of describing what it feels like to be a respected, feared Enforcer… while being carried like a sleepy toddler by Cesare’s right hand down into the Detention Wing.

But I will never forget what I saw when we reached the Cell Block.

Cerys. Chained. Crouched in a corner like she’d already surrendered to whatever fate awaited her.

Riordan set me down, and I immediately snarled at the nearest guard.

“Is that necessary? Chains? She’s a medic — take them off!”

The guard blinked at her as if seeing her for the first time, then looked back at me. “Standard procedure, sir. Orders were ‘no special treatment.’”

“Directions have changed,” I growled.

He hesitated, glancing at Riordan — which only made my fury spike. I grabbed the guard by the front of his uniform, but weakness hit me hard. My knees buckled. Riordan caught me easily, prying my hand off the guard.

And then—

“Damon?”

Her voice.

Everything else vanished.

I tore myself from Riordan’s grip and stumbled straight into the bars like a moth slamming into a lantern.

“Cerys!”

“Open the cell,” Riordan said, calm as ever.

The guard obeyed instantly. Riordan didn’t raise his voice — he didn’t need to. His word was Cesare’s in absentia.

Metal rattled. Locks clicked. The door swung open.

I dragged myself inside, and the moment she fell into my arms, my legs gave out. We collapsed together onto the cold stone floor, kneeling, clinging to each other. I mumbled apologies into her shoulder; she pressed her face into my uninjured one, shaking.

Eventually we loosened our grip and sat side by side on the floor. Riordan and the guard stepped back, giving us space.

“I’m so sorry about this,” I said.

“It’s okay.” She studied my face. “You look horrible.”

“I feel worse.” I tried to smile. “What was that blade coated with?”

“Likely high‑potency garlic oil mixed with something else. Isn’t that the same shoulder that took the witches’ poison darts when we first met? Officially, I mean?”

“Yeah.” I forced a grin. “Think my shoulder’s cursed now?”

“I think you should wear your pauldrons all the time.”

“I would, but they ruin my shirts.”

She actually smiled — then leaned in and kissed me. It wasn’t long or dramatic, but it lit something in me that had been fading fast.

I tried to pull her closer, but the moment I moved my shoulder, the world flashed white. She immediately tugged down my shirt to inspect the wound.

“Damon, this isn’t good. You need a medic.”

I waved a hand weakly, like a magician performing for toddlers. “Poof. Done. You’re here.”

“I don’t have my bag.”

She kissed my cheek, then sprang to her feet and called for the guard.

He and Riordan appeared almost instantly.

“He needs a medic,” she said sharply. “Now.”

A medic was summoned.

I was seated on the ground with my back against the wall for support, trying not to slide sideways. It was… difficult for Cerys to take the backseat.

Twice she tried to instruct him. Twice he snapped.

“Cerys, I’m not a trainee. I know what I’m doing.”

“Clearly not.”

He glared at her. The glare she returned could have melted stone. I almost smiled.

And she won.

The medic handed her the bag with muttered complaints. She immediately launched into her own — loudly — about it being disorganized, understocked, and filthy, all while tending to my wounds with practiced precision.

It hurt. A weakened vampire feels pain more sharply.

But I didn’t care.

When she finished, I didn’t give a damn who was watching. I grabbed her with my good arm, pulled her into my lap, and kissed her — not heated, not suggestive, just desperate and relieved and alive.

Day in Court

Coven court was held a few days later.

The Judgment Hall was already full when I arrived — rows of carved benches, the high vaulted ceiling, the banners of the Vannucci line hanging like silent witnesses. Court was always open to the coven, and today half of Forgotten Hollow seemed to have shown up. Word had spread.

Normally, I would stand with the Enforcers along the right wall — a line of black uniforms and cold discipline. But I wasn’t cleared for duty. “Impaired,” they said. A liability.

So I sat in the audience, surrounded by civilians, feeling like a caged animal.

The detainees were brought in — all rogues, all dangerous — except Cerys.

She stood among them, wrists bound, shoulders squared, trying to look composed. But she didn’t belong there. She looked like a healer thrown into a lineup of wolves.

The first two cases were swift. Guilty. Guilty. Dragged away to be prepared for execution by Caelan and my father once court adjourned.

Then—

“Cerys Wynne,” Riordan announced.

She stepped forward.

Riordan read the charges with perfect neutrality — the attack, the kill, the weapon, the circumstances. Every word echoed through the hall like a hammer striking stone.

Cerys lifted her chin and told her side. Clear. Precise. Unshaken.

She didn’t embellish. She didn’t plead. She simply told the truth.

And the room shifted.

Even the rogues stopped sneering. Even the guards leaned in. Even the Elders exchanged glances.

When she finished, Cesare rose.

He didn’t need to raise his voice. He never did.

“Cerys Wynne,” he said, his tone carrying the weight of centuries, “you acted in defense of an Enforcer’s life. You are cleared of all wrongdoing. You are released.”

Relief hit me so hard I almost slumped forward. I knew he would say it — but hearing it aloud felt like something inside me finally unclenched.

Her cuffs were removed. My father — very much on duty — allowed himself the smallest, briefest smile in her direction. And she turned toward me.

I stood, ready to meet her halfway.

And then everything shattered.

A rogue detainee — a woman — lunged forward with a hidden sciff, moving with the speed of desperation. Before anyone could react, she slashed across Cerys’s shoulder and wrist, the blade catching bone and muscle before driving deep into her abdomen.

Cerys folded soundlessly, eyes wide, her hand instinctively clutching the wound as crimson bloomed through her sleeve.

Caelan seized the attacker by the hair, yanking her back so violently her feet left the ground. His blade was at her throat instantly, but he held — waiting for Cesare’s judgment.

I didn’t wait.

I saw red.

I didn’t feel my injuries. I didn’t feel the hall. I didn’t feel anything except the need to end her.

I tore Caelan’s knife from his belt — even he didn’t expect that — and slammed into the rogue he was restraining.

“I enjoy this more than I should,” I snarled as I drove the blade into the place where a mortal heart would beat.

Hands grabbed me. Shouts erupted. The hall exploded into chaos.

But I barely heard any of it.

All I saw was her — the mate of the rogue who had attacked me — collapsing, convulsing, dying. And I watched her go with a vicious satisfaction I didn’t bother to hide.

I was dragged back. Voices blurred. The world narrowed to a tunnel.

Cesare made a show of hearing the case — barely. He was done with it before it began.

Not surprisingly, I was cleared.

But that didn’t save me from the aftermath.

Court was adjourned almost immediately. The rogue’s mate had been the final case, and since she was no longer alive to be sentenced, Cesare simply closed the session with a flick of his hand.

I didn’t even make it three steps before hands seized me — guards, Enforcers, someone — dragging me toward the back rooms behind the Judgment Hall. The world tilted, my vision flickered, and every injury I’d been ignoring roared back to life.

It felt like the gates of hell had opened behind me.

Caelan yelled first — loud, furious, pacing like a caged storm.

My father yelled next — disappointed, angry, terrified for me in that way only a parent can be.

And then Cesare.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t need to.

He simply stood there, hands clasped behind his back, and delivered a lecture that felt like it lasted a century.

He spoke of law. Of order. Of restraint. Of the sacred duty of an Enforcer. Of why rules exist. Of the weight of lineage. Of the eyes of the coven upon me. Of the example I set. Of the consequences of impulsive violence. Of the delicate balance of justice and power.

He never raised his voice — but somehow, that made it worse. It was like being scolded by marble statues and ancient portraits and the entire history of our bloodline at once.

I endured it.

Barely.

And when he finally paused — when the room fell silent except for the distant echo of boots in the corridor — I asked the only thing that mattered.

“Can I see Cerys now.”

That was it. That was all I had left.

And, keeping with the theme of my current life, that was all she wrote — because the merciless blackness of unconsciousness descended on me again, swallowing the room, the voices, the anger, the fear, the everything.

Gone.

The Medic Ward

That day ended with both of us squeezed into her narrow medic‑ward bed — a cot meant for one, now holding two battered vampires who refused to be separated.

We recovered together.

The medic who once claimed she couldn’t stomach being near an Enforcer — because my job was to eliminate threats — now curled against me, having seen firsthand what the world looked like without enforcement. She understood now. Not all of it. But enough.

We drifted in and out of consciousness, trading places between pain and rest. At some point, during one of the clearer moments, her head turned toward me.

“Okay.”

I waited. Nothing else came.

I turned my head too. “Okay?”

“Yes. Okay.”

“Okay what?”

She stared at me like I was the slowest creature alive.

“I will date you now.”

I bit back the grin threatening to split my face and decided to give her a taste of her own medicine — pun absolutely intended.

“Who said I wanted to date a medic? That’s below my status. I can do much better, as I was told.”

The pillow hit me so fast I didn’t even see it coming. I was suddenly eating fabric, laughing — which hurt — and then she was trying to crawl over me to escape.

Not happening.

I flung the pillow aside, grabbed her, and with a burst of vampiric speed — finally working again in small spurts — flipped us so I was on top.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Anywhere you are not!”

She was furious. Which only made me grin wider.

“No, you’re not.”

She wriggled, shoved, pushed — angry, but careful to avoid my injuries. That didn’t go unnoticed. And then I kissed her.

Her fight melted. Her arms slid around my neck. Finally.

I won’t detail what came next — but afterward, we lay side by side again, unclothed now, relaxed, the tension drained from both of us.

“Now this,” I said, “is what I’m talking about. Best medicine. Period.”

“Not bad. Had better.”

My head snapped toward her so fast I nearly reopened a wound. She burst into laughter.

That woman.

She was unlike anyone I’d ever met.

I’d met sweet girls — they bored me.
Tough girls — they repelled me.
Pretty girls — they annoyed me with their obsession with themselves.
Caring girls — they reminded me of my mother, which was a non‑starter.

Cerys was all of them combined in just the right measures.
Just the right amount of sugar and spice.
And something else entirely — something sharp, steady, and impossible to walk away from.

Truth at Swordpoint

A few weeks later, once I was cleared for training again, Caelan didn’t even bother with a greeting.

He just asked, “How is the girl?”

“Cerys is fine.”

He grunted. “Good. Let’s see if she hasn’t turned your head so far you forgot how to fight. You already failed me once — letting a rogue surprise you. Rookie mistake.”

He swung.

My spatha met his longsword with a ringing clash that echoed through the training hall.

“It wasn’t a mistake,” I said. “It was serendipity.”

He recoiled as if I’d insulted his ancestors. “What kind of weak nonsense is that now?”

Another strike — faster. Another block — cleaner.

He pulled away and tried to catch me with speed.

Bad choice.

Speed was my thing. Always had been. He knew that. He just forgot.

I didn’t know what had gotten into me, but I was on fire. Caelan always won — always. I’d earned my place as an Enforcer, but he was still the monster under every bed.

And yet… today, something was different.

He started gaining the upper hand again, pushing me back, testing my limits.

“Doing nicely, boy,” he said between strikes. “Hopefully she doesn’t tire of you too soon. Whatever she’s doing to you, it helps you focus.”

That did it.

My shoulder screamed from another brutal block, but I twisted out of his reach — and before the thought even finished forming, I was behind him.

My spatha at his throat. His arms locked behind his back. My knee pinning him to the cold stone wall. His face squished into it.

In my peripheral vision, I saw my father’s eyes go wide.

“I’m going to marry her one day,” I said. “And you lost.”

Caelan’s voice came out muffled against the stone. “Finally…”

“Damon,” my father said sharply. “Enough. You won. Release him.”

I did.

Caelan stepped back, rolling his shoulders, and I swear — I swear — he was smiling.

“Nice job, kid.”

Caelan doesn’t compliment. Ever. Unless your name is Rhiannon — his wife, my grandmother, eternally young, eternally patient, and the only person who can tame him.

He sheathed his longsword and strode out without another word.

My father approached, tall with pride and trying not to show it too much.

“I agree,” he said. “Nice job, son. How did you pull that off with an injury like yours?”

I grinned up at him.

“I’ve got some very potent medicine to get back to. Gotta make the few days we have left on leave count before we’re both back on duty.”

He snorted. “Get going then.”

And I did.