Stellan stops walking.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with centuries of understanding that's never been spoken aloud. When he finally turns, there's something raw in his expression that I've only seen once before—the night he found me half-dead in an alley, fangs still bloody from feeding on someone who hadn't consented.
"No," he says quietly. "I left because I saw myself in you. And that scared me more."
The words land wrong, cutting deeper than they should. "What the hell does that mean?"
His gray eyes are steady, unflinching. "You're still waiting for the version of her that fixes you. And when you realized she was real—kind, wounded, human—you couldn't look at her."
I want to deny it. Want to throw back some cutting response that will put distance between us and this conversation. But the words stick.
"She's not what I expected," I say finally.
"No?" Stellan's tone is careful now. Probing.
"No." The admission costs me. "I expected a weapon. Got offered breakfast instead."
The memory surfaces before I can stop it—that morning, the way she held my gaze when I mentioned the journey ahead. Not afraid. Not grateful. Just measuring. Like she was deciding if I was worth the effort.
"She looked at me like..." I stop. Cut the thought off before it goes somewhere I can't take back.
Stellan waits.
"Like I might be useful," I finish. Safe. Clinical. Not the truth.
Stellan's mask slips for just a moment, pain flickering across his features before he locks it down again. But not fast enough.
"Someone like you," he repeats, and there's something sharp in his tone now. "You still think every bond can be earned through suffering. Or worse—taken. You're a vampire, Thane. You take. That's what they'll always see when they look at you."
The word hangs in the air between us like a curse.Vampire. The first time either of us has said it aloud in decades.
I flinch—just barely, but enough for him to see.
"And you?" I fire back, letting my own venom surface. "You don't even feed. You seduce and call it mercy."
"At least I don't—"
A quiet sound interrupts him. A branch snapping. The soft intake of breath.
We both turn.
Theo stands a few yards back on the path, those deep brown eyes wide with something that looks like recognition. His chest rises and falls too quickly, like he's been running, but he's perfectly still.
For a moment, nobody moves. Nobody speaks.
Then Theo's voice cuts through the tension, quiet but carrying unexpected steel.
"You're both idiots."
I try to regain my footing, fall back on the authority that's kept me alive for centuries. "This isn't your—"
"Shut up."
The words are quiet, but they carry weight. Command. Like he's finally found his voice and decided to use it.
Theo steps forward, and I can see something shifting in his expression—the careful, thoughtful mind that's been watching and cataloging everything finally reaching a conclusion.
"You talk about her like she's a prophecy," he says, voice gaining strength with each word. "Like she's something to claim or be afraid of. She's not."
