Darian's fingers twitched at his sides. The moment Nikolai's eyes began to change—those sharp whites bleeding into crimson, veins threading like obsidian vines from the corners—something in Darian snapped back into place. Not his fear. Not his panic. But training. Conditioning. That cold, clinical detachment he'd buried under half-meant laughter and whiskey smiles.
His face went blank. Empty. Not because he didn't care, but because now, caring could get him killed.
He squared his shoulders, spine rigid, and his breathing leveled out. A soldier again. A weapon.
Nikolai noticed instantly.
"No. No—" Nikolai's voice cracked, raw, frantic, as his fingers curled into fists. "Don't do that. Don't you dare shut down on me like them."
Tears streamed freely now, but it was the rage in his tone that filled the space like smoke, choking and thick. His body trembled, shoulders rising with each breath as he stepped forward, almost convulsing with emotion.
"Do you hate me now?" he screamed, voice breaking. "Is that it? Is that it, Darian?"
Those red eyes glowed like coals in the dark, and the veins beneath them pulsed with unnatural energy. He looked like something holy had snapped inside him, like divinity melting into wrath.
Darian knew—one wrong word. One wrong breath. And Nikolai would rip his heart out through his spine. Not because he wanted to. But because whatever he was didn't understand restraint when it came to pain.
So Darian did what no trained soldier, no operative, no sane person should have done.
He stepped forward.
Right into the center of the storm.
Nikolai's breath caught. His fists remained raised like he was about to strike. But Darian was already there—
—and before either of them could flinch or flail or scream—
Darian grabbed Nikolai's face.
Hands cupping those trembling, hot cheeks. Thumbs brushing the tears away. And then he kissed him.
A deep, desperate, breath-stealing kiss that silenced the room and stole the weight from the air. Nikolai froze—utterly stunned—his arms caught mid-motion, red eyes wide and trembling beneath thick lashes.
For a moment, there was nothing but mouths and breath and the crashing of some invisible line being crossed.
Darian poured every ounce of not-hate into it. Every ounce of you scare me but I'm still here into the way he gripped the back of Nikolai's neck. And when he finally pulled back, lips tinged red from Nikolai's unnatural tears, he didn't step away.
He leaned their foreheads together and whispered, low and hoarse, "I could never hate you."
Nikolai let out a broken sound—part sob, part whimper—and collapsed into him like a cathedral falling apart.
Nikolai was still trembling against him, breath shallow, lashes wet, and Darian tried—tried—not to look at the blood smeared across his mouth. It had dried at the corners, flaking slightly when he exhaled. His chest, bare and streaked red, rose and fell with erratic need, but Darian kept his gaze up.
He didn't want to think about Milo.
Didn't want to see what was left of the man on Nikolai's skin.
But his body had already moved again, fingers dragging slowly downward—past Nikolai's ribs, the sharp cut of his waist, and lower still. There was heat radiating off him, not just from power but from something far more primal.
Darian's hand found him soft… for a breath.
Then, not.
Nikolai twitched in his grip, hips subtly pressing into the touch. His breath hitched, and for a moment, he smiled. A slow, trembling thing that looked wrong on his bloodied face.
"Always so obedient when you're scared," he whispered, his voice dipped in honey and ruin.
Darian didn't answer. He just leaned in and sank his teeth into Nikolai's lower lip—enough to make him gasp, enough to taste copper. Nikolai's eyes fluttered shut, lashes trembling like wings, and the smile widened even as blood welled on his bitten mouth.
And then, as if summoned by the silence, Nikolai spoke again. A murmur against Darian's mouth, almost dreamy:
"I want to keep you. Break your legs so you can't leave. Wouldn't that be romantic?"
The chill that ran through Darian was instant, visceral. He swallowed hard, his jaw tightening, but his hands didn't move away. They stayed exactly where they were—still touching him.
His voice, when it came, was rough. Detached.
There was a flicker in Darian's eyes.
Not fear.
Not disgust.
But want.
His voice came low, almost reverent, like a confession pulled from a place he hadn't dared name until now.
"I want you to ruin me," he said. "I want to belong to something that can destroy me."
Nikolai's breath caught. For a second, he just stared—wide-eyed, blood drying on his lips, lips Darian had just bitten. His fingers clenched against Darian's shirt like he didn't trust his legs to keep holding him up.
"You mean it," he said softly, almost childlike in his awe.
"I mean it," Darian murmured, brushing his mouth along Nikolai's jaw, tasting the iron there. "So do it. Cage me. Break me. Just don't ever stop looking at me like that."
Like he was the only thing worth bleeding for.
Darian pushed him hard into the wall, mouth never leaving his. The kiss deepened, wet and hungry, as his hands explored Nikolai's trembling body. Nikolai gasped into the kiss, tilting his head, arms clumsily wrapping around Darian's shoulders like he couldn't decide whether to pull him closer or collapse.
"You're insane," Darian muttered against his mouth.
Nikolai laughed—giddy, wild. "I've never found anyone like you before," he breathed, hips grinding into Darian's thigh, eyes glittering with fevered joy. "First time I saw you, I wanted to rip your arms off… pull your ribs open and see what color you screamed."
Darian didn't flinch. His lips found Nikolai's throat, and he felt the laugh that bubbled there.
"But now," Nikolai whispered, "I want everything. All of you. Everyone else is scared of me—but you…" His voice cracked a little, like it couldn't hold the weight of what he was feeling. "You like this side of me, don't you?"
Darian didn't respond immediately. He just kissed him again, slower this time—intimate, almost tender. One hand cradled the back of Nikolai's blood-streaked neck. The other drifted, lazily, almost thoughtlessly… to the heavy lamp on the side table.
Nikolai melted against him, still whispering, "You see me."
Darian gave one last soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.
"I do," he said.
And then his hand closed around the lamp.
In one fluid motion, he swung it—hard. The heavy ceramic base cracked loudly against the side of Nikolai's head. The boy's body jerked, the light in his eyes going glassy as his knees gave out, collapsing against Darian's chest with a dull, stunned sound.
Darian caught him.
Held him for a moment, breath shaky, pulse hammering in his throat.
"I see you," he whispered again—this time quieter, darker.
"And that's why I had to do it."
Nikolai crumpled to the floor with a sickening thud, the lamp slipping from Darian's hand and landing beside him. A weak, strangled scream escaped his throat—not one of pain, but of betrayal. Blood trickled in lazy lines down the side of his head, painting his pale cheek, dripping onto his chest where Milo's blood had already dried. His hands clawed at the floor, trying to push himself up, but his limbs didn't obey. They trembled violently, like a puppet with severed strings.
Still, his dazed eyes only looked for one thing.
Darian.
"D... Darian," he mumbled, a pathetic mix of hurt and wonder in his voice. He swayed, head lolling, and fell back to his elbows, blinking through red-tinted vision. "Why...?"
Darian didn't answer. His hands moved fast, yanking the sheet from the corner of the bed, the cotton fabric dragging across the mattress like a whisper. His heart was thudding in his ears, drowning out everything but the sound of Nikolai's groan behind him.
Nikolai watched with blurred eyes, reaching out with shaking fingers, but Darian was already sprinting toward the door.
"Don't," Nikolai breathed, "don't leave—"
The door flew open.
And that's when Nikolai's fury hit.
The moment Darian stepped out, Nikolai let out a roar—hoarse and broken but filled with venom.
"Darian!"
The word cracked through the air like lightning, raw and guttural, echoing down the hall. It wasn't just a scream—it was a promise. A curse. The kind that makes the hair on your neck stand up and your stomach twist.
Darian didn't stop. He didn't look back. But his jaw clenched.
Because he knew that wasn't the end.
Nikolai might be bleeding on the floor, love-struck and wounded.
But he'd come after him.
Darian's bare feet whispered across the marble, slick with panic and sweat. The sheet clutched around him trailed like a tattered robe, catching on the corners of ornate furnishings as he moved blindly through the estate.
Then
Laughter.
It drifted down the corridor like perfume, delicate but unmistakably sharp. Darian skidded to a stop, chest heaving. Voices echoed closer, too casual, too clean. He ducked into an alcove beside a marble pillar, heart in his throat.
And then he saw them.
Four vampires. Immaculate despite the gore staining their skin and silk. They were swathed in blood like it was cologne, gleaming on the lapels of their tailored suits, dripping from their cuffs. One of them carried a severed hand as if it were a glass of wine.
"Oh, please," drawled the first, smoothing back a streak of crimson hair. "He began shrieking the moment I raised my hand. I hadn't even touched him yet. So tiresome."
"I rather liked the sound," said another, a tall, flaxen-haired man with rings glittering on his fingers. "He made this ghastly gargling noise when his windpipe collapsed. It had... texture."
"I did find it charming when he begged for his mother," added the third, a woman with eyes like polished steel. She dabbed delicately at her mouth with a lace handkerchief already ruined by blood. "So quaint. Mortals and their familial attachments."
The fourth vampire—lounging against the wall, absently gnawing on a femur—snorted. "I hope the staff are disinfecting properly. I'd rather not step in bits of spleen again. Ruined my shoes last time."
Then one of them paused.
The flaxen-haired one sniffed the air like a bored hound. His head tilted, eyes narrowing toward the corridor where Darian crouched, hidden behind a velvet curtain.
"Hm," he mused. "Something... off."
"What is it?" the woman asked, adjusting her diamond earring.
"I thought I caught the scent of something living," he said, with distaste curling on his lips. "But it's faint. Like... fear, perhaps. Drenched in sweat."
A beat.
Then another vampire chuckled, languid and amused. "Darling, we reek of death. You're likely smelling yourself. You've got lung on your collar."
"I told you to change before dessert," the woman said, fanning herself lazily with her bloodied handkerchief.
"Don't be absurd," he muttered, turning away with a wave of his hand. "Let's go. If the boy's not dead yet, I want his tongue."
Their laughter followed them down the corridor, the echo of it curdling in Darian's ears.
He didn't move. Not until the air stilled again, and their footsteps vanished into the far hall.
Then—shaking, sweat-slick, heart hammering—he moved.
He had to get out. Now.
Darian moved like a shadow slipping through moonlight, silent but coiled with panic. His eyes darted down every corridor, hand clenched tight around the blood-slick sheet as he stalked toward the servant's quarters.
He needed a disguise.
And luck—however thin—graced him.
A butler. Alone. Mid-turn down the hallway.
Before the man could utter a sound, Darian lunged. A blow to the throat, swift and practiced, followed by another to the temple. The man crumpled with a soft grunt, eyes wide in disbelief as he fell unconscious.
"Sorry," Darian muttered, breathless. "Wrong place. Wrong time."
He stripped the man quickly, shoving the unconscious body behind an armoire. The suit was tight around his shoulders, damp with sweat and a splash of old wine—but it would do. He tugged on the gloves, smoothed back his hair, and walked with the controlled indifference of someone who belonged.
He found his room.
Slipped inside.
The bag was already packed—Darian had never unpacked fully and whatever was out he always put back in. It was instinct. A survivalist habit he'd never grown out of. He dug into the side pocket for the car keys, fingers trembling slightly.
The growl of fury cut through the halls like a blade.
Nikolai.
His voice cracked the silence with a venomous hiss.
"Darian!"
It echoed. Closer.
"You think you can run from me?"
Darian's pulse surged. He didn't pause to breathe. He opened the window in one swift motion, slung the bag over his shoulder, and hoisted himself over the ledge. The night air greeted him cold and sharp.
Below, the car. His car.
Right where it should be. The valet must've returned it after the ball began. Thank the gods.
He dropped from the insane height, using his wolf he survived the fall, boots hitting the ground with a solid thud, and sprinted toward it.
Behind him—through the open window—Nikolai's voice crashed again.
"So help me—" he howled, voice raw and cracking. "I'll make you regret ever leaving me!"
Then the sound of a heavy crash—glass, wood, maybe a mirror—something breaking.
Nikolai was up. Healed.
And absolutely unhinged.
"You said you wanted me!" he screamed. "You liked it! Don't lie to me now, Darian—DON'T YOU DARE—"
Another crash. He sounded like a rampaging animal trapped in silk.
Darian flung the door of the car open and threw himself inside, jamming the key into the ignition. The engine sputtered, then roared to life.
As he reversed sharply out of the estate's curved drive, the last thing he saw in the rearview mirror was the glow of candlelight from the shattered window—and Nikolai's silhouette framed within it.What chilled him was the emotionless stare he was giving him as he watched his hands moving back and forth waving—freak.Is what Darian thought.
And then—
He was gone.
The estate vanished behind trees and darkness as Darian sped down the winding road, the taste of Nikolai's kiss still burning on his lips like a curse.
Darian let out a long, shuddering sigh as the estate vanished behind him, swallowed by the twisting shadows of the trees. The engine hummed steadily beneath his palms, but his body was far from calm.
He shifted uncomfortably in the seat, the pressure between his legs a raw reminder of what he had just fled. Of what he let happen.
No—what he wanted. At least, in the moment.
He grimaced, dragging a hand down his face.
It's still in me.
The thought struck like a slap. Nikolai's cum, thick and warm, still inside him, still dripping, slicking his thighs as the car bounced over uneven stone paths. It clung like memory, like guilt. Like a brand.
His eyes stung with exhaustion as he glanced to the passenger seat where his satchel lay, half-zipped, the pendant he'd nearly died for peeking from the folds of cloth.
The Serpent's Pendant.
Darian reached over and pulled it out, letting it rest in his palm.
It didn't look like much.
Silver, dull with age. A serpent wrapped around itself, mouth open as if ready to swallow its tail. It was heavier than it looked, unnaturally cold against his skin despite the heat in the car.
He turned it over, looking for some glimmer of meaning. A sign. A whisper of power. Anything.
But all he saw was the reflection of his own tired eyes.
He scoffed bitterly and tossed it onto the seat.
"This is what I risked my life for?" he muttered, voice hoarse. "What Father went mad over?"
He remembered the obsession in his father's eyes, the frantic tone when he spoke of ancient bloodlines, forgotten gods, and the power hidden within cursed trinkets.
And now, after everything—after the sex, the blood, the betrayal—Darian sat in a stolen suit, reeking of fear and regret, semen slicking his inner thighs while the so-called sacred object sat like a paperweight beside him.
He wanted to scream.
But he didn't.
Instead, he tightened his grip on the wheel and pushed the gas, the night swallowing the road ahead.