Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The last light of the day spilled through the dusty windows of the Chow family general store, staining the shelves in shades of gold. You moved between aisles with a practiced rhythm, tucking jars into their places, your honey-blonde hair slipping loose from its tie no matter how many times you brushed it back. The soft hum of your tune carried in the still air, a small comfort in the quiet stretch before closing.

The bell above the door chimed, and your stomach sank before you even looked up.

Tom.

He strolled in like he owned the place, tipping his hat, that same crooked smile plastered across his face.

“Evenin’, sweetheart. Workin’ late again?”

You forced a polite smile, though your hands tightened around the jar you were shelving.

“Evenin’, Tom. Store’s open ‘til nine, same as always.”

He leaned against the counter, far too close, his eyes dragging over you in a way that made your skin prickle.

“Well, if you’d let me take you to supper sometime, maybe you wouldn’t have to stay cooped up in here every night.”

Your smile strained. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“You keep sayin’ that.” His voice dipped, almost sulking, though the edge beneath it was sharp. “Can’t figure why you won’t give me the time of day.”

Before you could answer, the bell chimed again. The air shifted as another man stepped inside — broad shoulders filling the doorway, beard shadowing his jaw, eyes flicking over the room once before settling on you.

Remmick.

Something about the way he carried himself — steady, quiet, dangerous without trying — made Tom straighten a little. He muttered under his breath, forced a smile, and tipped his hat again.

“Guess I’ll leave you to your… customers.”

As he brushed past, his arm grazed too close to yours, his voice dropping low enough only you could hear.

“We’ll talk again, sweetheart. Don’t keep me waiting forever.”

Then he was gone, the bell jingling behind him.

Remmick’s eyes followed him out, then turned back to you. His voice was low, calm, but curious. “Friend of yours?”

You huffed, returning to your shelf. “Something like that. Persistent is all

He leaned in the doorway, shoulders broad enough to block the glow behind him, hair mussed from the wind, a faint scruff shadowing his jaw. Rugged on the outside, but when his eyes found yours, they warmed the room in a way the fading sun couldn’t.

“You’re here again,” you said, half-smiling as you crossed your arms. “At this rate I ought to start charging you for loitering.”

He smirked, fishing a coin from his pocket and tossing it onto the counter. “Loiterin’, is it? Thought I was keepin’ you company.”

“You’re not buying anything,” you teased, plucking a pack of gum from the shelf and sliding it toward him. “So tonight? Fifty cents.”

He picked up the gum and tucked it into his shirt pocket, his grin lingering. “Then I’ll call it money well spent.”

For a month now he’d been coming at sunset, sometimes buying small things, sometimes nothing at all. He never seemed in a hurry. Sometimes he stayed to carry the heavy crates you could barely budge, muscles shifting under rolled-up sleeves with quiet ease. You told yourself you didn’t mind either way — but when he missed a night, the store always felt emptier.
The store had grown quiet, the shelves neat, the golden light outside fading to gray. Remmick lingered at the counter, leaning on his elbows, his grin edged with mischief.

Remmick leaned his elbows on the counter, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth.

“Tell you what—how about I buy you somethin’ stronger than gum? There’s a place down the street serves whiskey that won’t kill you.”

You laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I’d love to,” you admitted, soft but sincere, “but not tonight. I need to get home.”

His smile held steady, though his eyes searched yours. “Rain check then?”

“Rain check,” you echoed, slipping the keys into your pocket as you walked him to the door.

The bell stilled overhead as you locked up, and the street outside had already begun to sink into shadow. You hugged your arms close against the evening chill and started down the road that curved toward your house on the edge of town. The path was familiar, lined with maples and the faint sound of water running through the creek, but tonight it felt different. Too still.

“Evenin’.”

The voice came sharp from the dark. One you knew well.

Tom stepped out from beneath the sycamore, shoulders tight, jaw set. The look in his eyes made your stomach drop.

“You got time for him,” he said, bitterness dripping from every word, “but you don’t got five minutes for me?”

“Tom, I’m going home,” you said, steady as you could. You tried to move past, but his hand snapped out, fingers biting into your arm.

“You brush me off like I’m nothing girl,” he snarled, pulling you closer. “All that smiling at him, and what do I get?”

“Let go.” You shoved against him, harder than you thought you could, but he shoved back harder still. Gravel tore at your palms as you stumbled, his shadow blotting out what little light the road offered.

You fought—nails, fists, twisting your body any way you could—but his grip only grew tighter. His breath was hot against your cheek, his words a torrent of anger and want you didn’t ask for. You screamed, the sound swallowed by the night.
And then another shadow.

Remmick.

He came fast, silent as if the dark itself had sent him. Tom turned, startled, but he never had a chance.

“Close your eyes,” Remmick said.

It wasn’t a yell. It was a command that carried through every nerve in your body. The sound of it left no room for argument.
But you couldn’t.

You saw him change. His hand shot forward, wrapping around Tom’s throat, lifting him clean off the ground like he weighed nothing. Tom clawed at his grip, choking, but then Remmick’s fingers shifted—lengthening, darkening. Claws. They punched through flesh and muscle, bursting out through Tom’s back with a wet sound that turned your stomach.

Tom’s scream tore through the night but ended in a choking gurgle. Blood spilled, hot and heavy, as Remmick pulled him closer, his mouth opening wide, fangs flashing.
You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. You watched as his teeth sank deep, as Tom’s struggles slowed, as the life bled out of him into Remmick’s mouth.
And then there was silence.

The silence after was worse than the struggle. Tom’s body hit the ground with a dull, final thud, and the night swallowed him whole.
Your legs gave out. The world spun, air thick and metallic in your lungs. You stumbled back, palms slick, vision narrowing to nothing but Remmick’s shadowed form, his chest heaving, his mouth red.

“Easy,” he said, his voice lower now, raw from what he’d done. He crossed the space in two strides before you fell, catching you like you weighed nothing. His arms closed around you, solid, unyielding.

“I’ve got you.”

Your body sagged against him, trembling, and you couldn’t tell if the shaking was from fear, shock, or the way his warmth bled into your skin. The road blurred past as he carried you, his steps steady, measured, like the weight of you grounded him as much as he steadied you.

Chapter Text

By the time he reached your house, the two-story shape looming out of the dark, your breaths came shallow and broken. He shouldered the door without asking for the key, took you straight inside, past the familiar hall, and into the bathroom.

The light hummed as he flipped the switch. Steam rose when he opened the tap, water rushing warm into the tub. He set you on the edge, hands steadying you a heartbeat longer than needed. Then, with patience that didn’t match the blood drying on his skin, he crouched and slipped off your shoes one by one, lining them on the mat. Only then did he lift you and lower you into the bath—clothes and all.

Heat shocked a gasp from you, but it steadied you; blood and sweat lifted away as the water climbed.

Remmick sat on the floor beside you, back to the cabinet, knees drawn up, forearms resting there. He didn’t look at the mirror or the water. Only you. Watching. Waiting.

Your voice rasped. “What are you?”

His jaw set. “A monster, some would say. A vampire, if you’re askin’ plain.”

The word landed heavy.

“Are you going to kill me?” you whispered.

He shook his head, slow, final. “No. I could never hurt you.”

Steam thickened; the quiet stretched until it felt like the house was listening.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked at last.

You swallowed. Tom’s hands. The helplessness. The way Remmick’s voice had cut through the night like a rope thrown to you.

Quietly, you shook your head. “No.”

Something let go in him then, though his eyes still burned. He tipped his head back against the cabinet, shutting his eyes like your answer both broke and saved him.

You let it breathe before you found your voice again. “What about Tom? They’ll find his body.”

His eyes opened, clear and hard. “Nah. He’ll wake tomorrow, good as new. No memory of tonight.” His mouth curved, grim. “But he won’t be the same. He’ll be mine now—one of my kind. Bound to me. And he won’t ever bother you again.”

Your stomach turned, but his certainty left no room for doubt. Tom wasn’t gone. He was changed. Your fingers tightened on the tub’s rim.

“Bound… what does that mean?”

He dragged a hand across his jaw. For a beat, you thought he wouldn’t answer. “It means he won’t think for himself anymore,” he said at last, careful. “My blood runs through him now. He’ll wake hungry, empty, and when he looks for direction, it’ll be mine he follows.”

Your breath hitched. “So he’s—”

“He’s mine,” Remmick said, quiet and firm. “A shadow of what he was. He’ll walk, he’ll breathe, but he won’t cross you again unless I tell him to.” His gaze held yours. “And I won’t.”

Water lapped at your dress. “That’s… horrifying.”

“It is,” he said, weary with truth.

Silence gathered again. You leaned back against porcelain; warmth was already fading. Damp fabric clung, a shiver running through you. Your nipples tightened under the soaked dress, and you crossed your arms.

His glance dropped and snapped back, jaw tight. Then he rose, took a towel, and settled it across your shoulders with a care almost too gentle for a man still marked with blood.

“I’ll go start a fire,” he said, voice rough but steady. “Warm you up.”

He left.

You pulled the plug; the water roared away. You peeled the wet clothes free, left them heavy at the bottom of the tub. Wrapped in the towel, skin prickling, you crossed the hall to your room. From the back of a drawer came a short silk nighty—one of the few indulgences you owned. The fabric whispered over your skin, cool then warm. You loosed your hair; gold fell damp over your shoulders. The brush smoothed through it, each stroke settling your hands.

Downstairs, the hearth threw gold into the room. Remmick crouched there, sleeves shoved up, muscles shifting as he fed a log to the flames. Every motion was deliberate, as if tending the fire was how he kept himself in check.

You stepped into the doorway. He stilled, met your eyes, flicked once to silk and hair, and came back to your face.

“The room’s heatin’ up,” he said evenly. “You’ll be warm soon.”

He nudged the coffee table aside, wood rasping on wood, hauled over pillows, spread blankets—making a low nest in front of the fire.

“Come here,” he said, gentle but sure.

You crossed the room; he draped a blanket around your shoulders and guided you down. You settled side by side against the couch, the fire crackling. His arm rested along the cushion behind you—quiet ballast in the glow.

You leaned into the heat. Sparks climbed the flue.

“If you shiver again, I’ll make tea,” he said, a teasing edge tucked under restraint. “Or I’ll just carry you off to bed where it’s warm.”

You managed a small smile, but curiosity pressed harder. “How old are you?”

He weighed it, then answered flat. “1,200 years old.”

The number thudded through you. “Twelve hundred??”

His gaze stayed on the flames. “Born in Ireland, 732. Saw my first war before I could lift a blade.” A slight shift of his shoulders. “Watched empires fall, plagues sweep through, men swear their gods would save ’em while they burned everything in sight.”

“And your family?” you asked. “Where are they?”

“They’re gone.” No hesitation. Just weight. “I’ve had… kin since, but not blood. Not truly.”

You hesitated, then, “So… Tom. Does that make him your family now?”

He turned then, eyes unblinking. “No. Tom isn’t family. He’s bound. A shadow.” Something unreadable crossed his face. “There’ve been others. Too many. I don’t call them kin.”

The fire popped. You felt the heaviness of it settle. Your grip tightened on the blanket.

“How did you… become this?” The question slipped free. “How did you become a vampire?”

He watched the flames, features carved by the light. When he spoke, it came from far off. “I was taken.”

“Taken?”

“A raiding clan—not human. My kin called ’em demons. They swept through like fire, left ruin. Turned the strongest, fed on the rest.” His jaw jumped. “I fought. Didn’t matter. Woke with blood in my throat and the sun burnin’ my skin.”

It sounded recited and raw at once.

“So it wasn’t your choice.”

His gaze found you. “No. But survival rarely is.”

Quiet folded over you both. You drew the blanket tighter.

“And the family you’ve tried to make?” you asked softly. “Friends? People you’ve loved?”

A beat. Then: “I have.” The light etched the line of his jaw. “I outlived them. Even some who were turned.”

“Even the ones like you?”

He nodded. “Immortality doesn’t promise strength. Some couldn’t bear the hunger. Some made enemies they couldn’t outrun. Some…” A long exhale. “Some chose an end.”

Sparks chased up the chimney. Your lids grew heavy; warmth soaked the room. You slid your head to his shoulder, then drifted sideways onto the pillows. He didn’t move at first—just watched your breath even out. Then his fingers combed gently through your loosened hair, careful, almost reverent.

“Get some sleep, darlin’,” he murmured, voice threading the hush. “You’re safe.”

You sank, breathing slow.

Sometime deep in the night, you jolted—Tom’s weight in a dream, the press of his hand, blood on the road. A gasp tore out of you as the blanket slipped.

Before panic locked tight, Remmick had you. One arm wrapped you in, the other slid into your hair, holding you steady.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he whispered, meant to cut the fear. “It’s over. I’ve got you.”

You clutched him, heart racing, cheek to the warm skin of his shoulder. Smoke and earth and something darker filled your lungs; the present came back.

“Remmick… will you stay?” Your voice was small.

He drew a slow breath, arms tightening a fraction. “I’ll stay as long as I can.” Softer, Irish slipping through like a secret: “But when the sun rises, I have to go. Can’t be in the light, mo ghrá.”

“Then stay until it comes.”

His gaze held yours, dark and steady. “That I can do.”

He settled against the pillows, kept you close, arms firm as if he could hold the night at bay. The fire sank low, shadows drew long, and in his hold sleep found you again.

Chapter Text

Gray light spilled across the floor, the fire burned down to ash. Morning. You woke alone, the space beside you cold, no trace of him but the blanket tugged carefully up around your shoulders.
For a long while, you sat still, the silence of the house pressing in. The memory of his arms lingered heavy in your chest, matched by the ache of waking without him.

You had to work.

The store opened like it always did. Shelves to stock, jars to line up, customers drifting in and out. You smiled when you had to, carried crates that felt heavier than they should, hummed under your breath just to fill the air. Every time the bell above the door chimed, your heart jumped — and every time it wasn’t him, the disappointment cut sharper.

Two days passed like that.

By the third evening, the ache had dulled, though it hadn’t left. You were bent over the counter at closing, tallying the day’s receipts, when the bell above the door chimed again.

“Sorry, we’re just about to close—” you began, not looking up.

“Then I’m right on time.”

Your head snapped up.

Remmick stood in the doorway, broad shoulders filling the frame, twilight behind him. His hair was a little wilder, his beard a touch thicker, but his eyes — steady, sharp, softened only for you — hadn’t changed.

Heat rushed through you, anger and relief tangled, but before you could speak, Mrs. Chow bustled from the aisle with a broom.

“Oh, evening, Mr. Remmick,” she said kindly. “You’re cutting it close tonight. Store’s nearly shut.”

He dipped his head, polite, that soft Irish lilt threading his words.

“Aye, and I won’t keep you long. Just a pack of gum.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, biting back the words clawing at your throat. Gum. Always gum.

He slid a coin across the counter. Your fingers brushed his when you took it — a fleeting touch, but enough to spark the charge simmering for days.

“Missed me, darlin’?” His voice was quiet, meant only for you, his mouth tugging with that infuriating hint of a smirk.

You kept your face still, knowing the Chows’ eyes were near.

“You disappear for two days without a word, and you want me to hand you gum like nothing happened?” you hissed under your breath.

His gaze stayed locked on yours.

“Couldn’t help it. But I came back, didn’t I?”

Mrs. Chow clucked from the back, calling something about locking up. You slid the gum toward him with a practiced smile, pretending nothing was wrong.

“Good night, Mr. Remmick,” you said, voice bright for show.

His eyes burned hotter than the words. “Good night’.”

Remmick didn’t linger for the Chows’ sake. After he bought the gum and gave you that look that said more than words, he stepped out into the night, the bell chiming softly behind him.

By the time you finished balancing the register, the Chows had gathered their coats, Mrs. Chow fussing with her keys. You waved them off with a smile, waited until their footsteps faded, then flipped the lamps.

When you shut the door and turned the key, he was already there. Leaning against the lamppost, arms crossed, watching the street like he belonged to it.
You startled faintly, though you shouldn’t have been surprised.

“I’m walkin’ you home,” he said simply, straightening from the post.

It wasn’t a question.

The night air bit cool, your shoes tapping the quiet road as he matched your stride. He didn’t press, didn’t speak — but his presence filled every space, steady and certain, the way his outline stretched beside yours in the lamplight. Every now and then your hands brushed, enough to set your pulse racing.

The house loomed ahead, familiar and heavy. You climbed the steps, unlocked the door, and pushed it open — only to freeze.

The blankets and pillows were still spread on the floor by the cold fireplace. Just as you’d left them. The hearth was gray ash now, untouched since the night he carried you home.
Remmick’s eyes tracked the room, sharp. He took in the bedding, the empty dishes stacked by the sink, the too-neat counters. His jaw flexed, but he said nothing.

You shifted, tugging your cardigan tight. “It’s easier down here,” you muttered, half excuse, half truth.

His gaze lingered on the nest of blankets before cutting back to you. The silence stretched, weighted. Then, even, he said:

“You’ve not been eatin’, sweetheart’.”

It wasn’t accusation, just fact.

You pulled the sweater tighter, eyes dropping.

“I just… haven’t been feeling well. Not since Tom.” The words slipped out small, almost ashamed.

Remmick’s jaw went hard. In the next heartbeat, his arm swept around your waist, and before you could protest he hefted you over his shoulder.

“Remmick!” Your fists thudded against his back, but he didn’t flinch.

“You’re weak, and starving yourself,” he growled, rough but steady. “That ends tonight.”

He carried you through the hall like you weighed nothing, boots striking against the wood until he pushed into the kitchen. With one hand he cleared space on the counter, then set you down firmly. His grip lingered at your hips just long enough to keep you still.

“Sit.”

You scowled, folding your arms but staying put. He gave you a sharp look, then turned to the pantry.

He moved with purpose — flour, eggs, butter, salt. Soon the skillet hissed, the smell of garlic and butter filling the room. He worked fast, efficient, like a man who’d done this more times than he cared to count.

The scent was unbearable on an empty stomach.

Remmick plated the food, set it beside you, then pressed a fork into your hand. His dark eyes locked on yours, immovable.

“Eat, darlin’.”

You hesitated, just long enough for mischief to glint in his gaze. He pulled a stool close, sitting beside you, his heat seeping against your side.

“You give me trouble, I’ll feed you myself,” he warned, low and edged with promise. His mouth curved faintly. “And I won’t be neat about it.”

Your cheeks heated. Under his stare you took a bite. Then another. And another.
Only when the plate was half-empty did he ease back, watching with that quiet satisfaction that made your stomach flutter worse than the food.

“Good girl,” he murmured, softer now, brushing his thumb across your cheek as if to chase away the shadows there.

The fork clinked against the plate as you set it down, your stomach finally warm. Remmick reached for the dish, but you caught his wrist before he could move away.

“Where were you?” The question came sharper than you meant. “Why didn’t you come back?”

His eyes met yours, steady. Slowly, “I had business.”

“Business?” You frowned. “That’s all you’re going to give me?”

His jaw worked. He pulled his wrist free, resting his palm against the counter beside your hip instead, leaning close.

“Some things I can’t drag you into,” he said, voice even. “Not yet. Safer for you if you don’t know.”

Your brows drew tighter. “That’s not an answer.”

He exhaled, controlled. “You want details? I had to feed. Keep my strength.”

The bluntness twisted your stomach. “Feed,” you echoed, sharp.

“You want me strong, sweetheart,” he said, tone hardening. “That takes huntin’. I can’t live off scraps.”

Your pulse kicked — anger, confusion, fear tangled. The words tumbled out before you could stop them.

“So what—you’re just going to come sit in my house when it suits you, then leave with no word of where you’re going? Do you think that’s fair?”

You shoved off the counter, the stool screeching.

His hand shot out, catching the counter as he rose to full height. The kitchen seemed to shrink, his presence filling every corner.

“Careful.” His tone was low, but sharp now. “You’re talkin’ like I owe you every step I take.”

You spun on him, fire in your chest.

“Maybe you do! Maybe after what I saw—what you dragged me into—you do owe me that much!”

For a moment, neither of you moved. His jaw clenched, his chest rising slow, but the edge in his eyes darkened, hungry.
Then, deliberate, he closed the space in two strides, towering close enough that the air went tight. His hand braced the counter behind you, caging you without touching.

“I’d watch that tone if I were you.”

You tilted your chin up, heat sparking despite the weight of him. “Or what?”

His eyes flared. Before you could blink, his hand caught your jaw, firm, tilting your face up. His mouth crashed against yours, rough and hungry, swallowing whatever comeback you had.

The kiss stole the air from your lungs, fierce and unrelenting. You gasped, but it only gave him more to take. His tongue swept against yours, claiming, until your fists, once tight with defiance, loosened against his chest. Heat coiled low in your belly, your thighs pressing together as his grip held you fast. Anger blurred, melted into something else entirely.

And then—just as the need clawed higher—he broke away.

His mouth left yours, his hand lingering at your jaw before falling. He stepped back, breathing steady, though his eyes burned hotter than the fire had.

You sat stunned, lips tingling, chest heaving, nerves wound tight.

“That answer your question?” he drawled, his mouth curling faintly.

You opened your mouth, ready to throw it back at him — but nothing came. Heat still hummed in your veins, your breath unsteady.

The silence stretched.

Remmick’s smirk eased. His gaze swept over you — the rumpled nighty, the tension in your shoulders, the exhaustion plain in your eyes. His hand lifted, not to grip, but to brush his thumb along your jaw, slow.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he said, voice softer now. “Let’s get you cleaned up. No more sleepin’ on the floor like a stray. You’ve got a bed upstairs — use it.”

Your breath caught at the sudden shift.

He stepped back just enough to give you room, though his presence filled the kitchen still. “Go on. I’ll see you to bed. You need rest more than a fight.”

He didn’t push. Just guided you upstairs with a hand steady at your back.

The room smelled faintly of lavender and ash. He pulled the covers back and gestured for you to climb in. You did, the silk nighty whispering against the sheets.
He drew the blanket snug around your shoulders, his rough hands oddly careful. For a moment he lingered, standing over you in the moonlight.

“Stay,” you whispered, fragile. “Please.”

His eyes softened. He nodded once, loosening his shirt and collar, setting his things aside. Boots thudded softly to the floorboards.

Then he lowered himself onto the bed. The moment you felt him close, you shifted, curling into his side, your face against the warm breadth of his chest. His arm wrapped around you, strong and grounding. Within minutes, your breathing steadied into sleep.

Hours later, the fire in your chest soothed by dreams, Remmick sat in the chair by the window. Moonlight carved his profile in silver, his eyes fixed on the quiet rise and fall of your body.

You looked peaceful — hair splayed on the pillow, your outline soft and still. He let himself watch longer than he should, something heavy pressing at his chest.

But peace wasn’t his to keep.

His thoughts pulled back to the shadows outside — the Choctaw warriors tracking him, hunters who knew how to follow monsters. And beyond them, another clan pressing in, old debts demanding blood.
That was the real business. The danger that kept him from your side. The reason he couldn’t promise more than the night.

Still, he sat there, silent, guarding you until the first thin line of dawn.

The room was quiet, save for the tick of the clock and the rhythm of your breathing. Moonlight softened your form, making you look like something he could almost believe in.

Until you stirred.

At first just a shift, a small sound caught in your throat. Then your legs tangled in the sheets, your chest rising faster. A whisper slipped past your lips, aching.

“Remmick…”

His hands curled around the arms of the chair.

You sighed again, softer this time, a tiny moan breaking free, your body arching faintly beneath the covers.

“Remmick…”

His fangs pricked his tongue as he clenched his jaw. The warrior in him wanted to move; the man in him fought to hold still. For centuries he’d resisted hunger. But this — this was temptation of another kind.

His voice came out rough, almost a growl, though quiet. “You don’t know what you’re doin’ to me, darlin’.”

The sound of your moan coiled around his chest.

His grip on the chair broke. In the next breath he was rising, silent as shadow. The floorboards didn’t creak as he crossed to the bed.

You shifted again in your sleep, a quiet whimper threading his name. The sound gutted him.
He knelt at the edge, one hand braced on the mattress. His other reached forward, fingers trembling as he brushed a strand of hair from your damp forehead. Silk slid against calloused skin.

Your lips parted, whispering his name again. His jaw clenched. He bent, breath ghosting your ear.

“Mo ghrá…” The word came ragged, accent thick. “You’ve no idea the things I could do to you.”

Your body arched faintly, answering some invisible call. His thumb grazed your hip through the sheet. Every nerve in him screamed to take more.

Instead, he pressed his mouth to your temple, lingering, desperate. His fangs grazed, sharp but restrained, as he groaned low against your skin, fighting the beast clawing to the surface.

“You’re killing me, darlin’,” he whispered, hoarse. “And you don’t even know it.”

His hand tightened on the mattress until the wood groaned. One move, one slip, and he could taste everything.

Instead he tore himself back, staggering to the chair as though it took more strength than any battle.

You sighed, shifting in the sheets, another faint moan of his name curling into the dark. The sound cut through him. His body ached with hunger that had nothing to do with blood.

He sank into the chair, braced his elbows to his knees, dragging his hands down his face. His breath came ragged as he forced it steady, eyes locked on you in the moonlight.

The outline of your body beneath the sheet was torture — every curve mapped in silver, every twitch undoing him.

“Fucks sake,” he muttered, voice raw, the lilt thickening with strain. “I’ve fought battles with less effort than it takes to keep my hands off you.”

Still, he stayed rooted, nails biting his palms, fangs pressed to his tongue, eyes never leaving you. Watching. Guarding. Wanting.

Hours stretched on, the moon climbing higher, and he endured every second of it, chained by will.

The night dragged, broken only by your sighs and the whisper of his name.

Remmick stayed in the chair, unmoving but burning, every second an act of war against himself. His body screamed for what lay within reach.

You shifted once more, settling deeper into the pillow, a faint smile tugging at your lips. Sleep held you firm, mercifully unaware of the storm beside you.

The moon dipped low, silver softening to gray. He sat through it all, eyes never leaving you, chest rising with the slow rhythm of restraint.

And when dawn began to creep at the edges of the sky, Remmick was still there — silent, watching, chained by his own will.

You slept soundly, safe in your dreams.

He did not.

Chapter Text

Morning light filtered through the curtains. You stirred, stretching against the sheets, the warmth of the night before still clinging faintly to your skin.
But when your hand reached across the bed, the space was cold.

Your eyes opened fully, scanning the room — empty. The chair by the window sat pushed back, angled toward the bed, as though someone had kept watch there for hours. On the nightstand, a glass of water sat half-full, condensation beading down its rim.

And beneath it, a folded scrap of paper.

Your pulse kicked as you snatched it up. His handwriting was rough, slanted — written quickly, yet deliberate:

Darlin’,

Had to take care of business. Don’t worry yourself. I’ll be back.

— R.

Your fingers lingered on the ink, the paper crinkling faintly in your hand. The ache of his absence pressed sharp in your chest, but it wasn’t the same hollow as before. This time there was proof — a trace of him, a promise inked in his hand.
Still, as you dressed for another long day at the store, the silence of the house settled heavier than ever.

The forest closed in, thick with mist, pine, and danger. The Choctaw were still on him — he could feel it in his bones. Quiet as ghosts, patient as stone, they never lost a trail once they’d taken it.
But tonight, he’d make them chase the wrong prey.

Remmick pressed westward, farther and farther from the town, pushing for hours until the burn in his muscles dulled to instinct. Each mile behind him was another mile between them and her. He’d drag the hunt clear across counties if he had to.

By midday he reached the stream he’d been aiming for. Its water cut sharp across the earth, washing scents away. He crouched low, pressed his palm into the mud, leaving a false set of tracks before springing clear across. His own trail ended neatly at the water’s edge, but the boot marks he planted told a different story: someone staggering, struggling, perhaps wounded.

The Choctaw would take the bait.

He moved fast, circling wide until he reached the hollow ridge where the ancient clan had been. The ground still reeked of them — iron tang of spilled blood, sour musk of their kind.
He dug his hand into the earth, smeared the scent along bark and stone, layered it over the false prints. Scattered it in quick bursts, enough to suggest a clash — a skirmish ending with the clan dragging off their wounded.
Any hunter worth his salt would follow.

He stilled, listening. The Choctaw weren’t close enough to see him, but faint movement stirred the hush behind. His mouth curved. They’d smell it soon, taste it on the air.
And when they did, they’d follow the clan’s ghost instead of his.

By dusk, he crouched on a ridge, watching the forest behind. Sure enough, torches flickered far in the distance, veering south, away from the town.
Remmick’s jaw unclenched for the first time in hours. He’d bought her safety — for now.

But relief carried its own curse.
The moment the chase eased, the fire in his blood surged back, hotter than the danger he’d just outrun. The memory of her soft moan, her lips trembling under his, her warmth pressed close — it all came rushing back, raw and hungry.

He swore under his breath, shoving a hand through his hair, forcing his gaze toward the dark horizon. He couldn’t afford to think of her. Not here. Not now.
And still, she haunted every step, every breath, every ache.

Chapter Text

The evening air was heavy, the sky painted in streaks of rust and shadow. The bell over the door chimed as Mrs. Chow pulled the shutters closed, her broom tucked under one arm.

“Careful on your way home tonight,” she said, peering out at the darkening street. “Blood moon’s up. Old folk say it’s bad luck.”

You forced a small smile, tugging your cardigan closer. “I’ll be fine, Mrs. Chow.”

She gave you a look that said she didn’t quite believe it, but she didn’t press. The lock slid into place, and then you were on your own, stepping into the cool hush of night.

The town was quieter than usual, shadows stretched long under the reddish cast of the moon. You kept your head down, footsteps quick on the packed dirt road, each creak of a shutter or rustle of leaves prickling the back of your neck.

Halfway home, you felt it.

A presence. At first it was only a flicker at the edge of your vision—the shape of someone lingering just beyond the lamps. Tall, still, waiting.

“Remmick?” you whispered, breath fogging in the cold.

The figure didn’t answer. You took a step forward, pulse pounding. Then you saw them: the eyes. Pale, glinting like glass under the blood moon, unblinking. Watching.

Your stomach turned to ice.

That wasn’t Remmick.

You stumbled back, nearly tripping on the uneven road. The figure only shifted closer, slipping in and out of shadow without a sound. Never speaking. Only watching. Panic clawed up your throat. You ran, the night stretching too wide, shoes pounding the ground as the silence followed. Every time you dared glance back, those eyes gleamed—closer, relentless. Your house rose ahead like salvation. You bolted up the steps, key shaking as you forced it into the lock. The door slammed, breath tearing from your lungs.

You twisted the bolt hard, pressed your back to the wood, and listened—nothing followed. Only silence, the echo of those eyes burning in your mind. You slid down against the door, knees to your chest, heart hammering. The house felt too quiet. Shadows from the dying fire stretched long, wrapping the room in a hush that made every floorboard creak sharp as a blade.

Then came the sound—the latch rattling, the handle turning.

You froze.

“Darlin’, open the door.”

Your breath caught. The voice was his, deep and unmistakable, but fear clamped tight. You’d heard him once already tonight—or thought you had. You’d seen those eyes.

You pressed harder to the door, voice shaking. “No. You’re not him. I saw—”

“It’s me.” Calm. Then gentler, threaded with the Irish lilt he never quite lost. “Mo ghrá, it’s me. Let me in.”

Tears burned your eyes. “Say something else,” you demanded, nearly pleading.

Silence held. Then: “Remember the first night at the store? You charged me for talkin’ too long. Pack of gum and a nickel’s worth of sass.”

Your hand tensed as you undid the bolt. The door creaked open an inch, and there he was—solid, real, eyes dark but warm. No pale gleam. No hunger.

Relief hit so fast it almost hurt. You threw the door wide and he stepped in, filling the entryway. The lock clicked behind him as your knees buckled, adrenaline crashing.

Without a word, he caught you before you could fall, pulling you close.

“You’re safe now,” he murmured into your hair. “Nothin’s touchin’ you while I’m here.”

He held you steady as the tremor in your body gave you away. For a long moment you just breathed him in—smoke and pine, the thrum of his chest grounding you. One hand slid up your back, guiding your chin until your eyes met his.

“What happened?” Not a suggestion. A velvet-wrapped command.

Your lips parted, but no sound came. You shook your head, and his thumb brushed along your jaw, keeping you still.

“Don’t keep it from me, sweetheart. Not tonight.”

The memory hit hard. That silent figure tracking you home. The pale, glassy stare.

“I thought it was you,” you whispered. “But it wasn’t. It just… stood there. Watching. Never spoke. Just… the eyes.”

His jaw locked. The warmth in his gaze iced over. Still cupping your face, his body turned rigid.

“Where?”

You hesitated. He repeated it, lower.

“Where?”

“On the road. After I left the store. I thought it was you—tall, still—but then I saw its eyes.”

“Eyes?”

“They—” You clutched his shirt. “They glowed. Not like yours. Wrong. Like glass.”

“How close?”

“Too close,” you breathed. “Every time I turned, it was nearer. But it never moved. Never spoke. Just stared. I ran the whole way home.”

His arms closed around you tighter, mouth brushing your temple. “You did right, darlin’. Gettin’ inside. Lockin’ the door.”

You looked up at him. His jaw was set, his eyes dark and storming. Whatever had followed you, he was going to find it.

Panic rose again.

“Don’t go,” you whispered, desperate now. “Please, Remmick—don’t leave me.”

His brow furrowed. One hand cradled the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. “Mo ghrá…”

“I mean it,” you said, voice shaking. “Don’t tell me you have to leave, or deal with business, or—or whatever it is you do. Not tonight. Please.”

He didn’t move. Just held you, steady and warm, your face tucked against his chest. The sound of his heartbeat was the only thing in the world not trembling.

Then he tipped your chin again, making you meet his eyes. “I’m not goin’ anywhere. Not tonight. Not with you lookin’ at me like that.”

Something broke open inside you.

You grabbed his shirt, dragged him down, and kissed him hard—desperate, wild, searching for relief in the heat of him. His beard scraped your skin. His mouth was all pressure, all hunger. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t question—just kissed you like he needed it too.

When he pulled back, your breathing stuttered. “Remmick… please.”

“What do you want, sweet girl?”

Trembling. “You.”

The word landed heavy.

He watched you a long moment, reading every flicker of your expression. His thumb grazed your bottom lip, slow.

“Say it again.”

“I want you,” you whispered.

He didn’t smile. Something darker flickered across his face—possession, reverence.

“That’s all I needed, darlin’.”

His mouth crashed into yours again, fiercer this time. One hand caught your jaw, the other dragging you against him, heat bleeding through every layer of fabric. A low groan rumbled from his chest as your hands clawed at his shirt.

He broke the kiss by a breath. “You’ve no idea what you’ve asked for.”

His grip stayed firm. His mouth hovered just shy of yours. His thumb teased your lip, slow, deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world.

“You hand yourself over with one little word,” he murmured. “If you think I’m givin’ you what you want just like that… you’ve sorely misjudged me, baby.”

His hand slid down your throat, slow and possessive, pausing just above your collarbone. The other claimed your hip. He kissed you again—barely—then pulled back. Again, and gone. Teasing. Cruel.

“Remmick…” Frustration cracked your voice.

“Mm?” His mouth curved against your cheek. “Somethin’ you need?”

You nodded, shaking. “Please.”

“Not near enough, mo ghrá.” His hand hovered at your waist, fingers spread but holding back. “I want to hear you beg proper. Tell me how bad you want it.”

Your breath came faster. Every touch lit you up, but never satisfied. Pride warred with need—until his thumb brushed the inside of your thigh through your dress.

The gasp gave you away.

“Remmick…” Your voice broke. “Please. I want you. I need you.”

He drew back just enough to see you. That crooked smile returned—dangerous and dark.

“That’s it. My sweet baby, beggin’ for me.”

You surged up for another kiss. He held you just short, lips brushing yours but never landing. His hand traced slow patterns along your thigh, higher, then away again. Each pass left you aching.

“Please, I need—”

“Shhh.” His mouth curved. “Not yet. You’re not ready.”

Your hips arched instinctively. His grip pinned you. He nipped your bottom lip, pulling back as you chased him, a growl reverberating in his chest.

“Look at you,” he muttered. “Already shakin’, already wet for me. And I’ve barely touched you.”

Heat rushed through you. Humiliation knotted with hunger.

“Please,” you breathed.

“Please what, baby?” His thumb drifted inside your thigh again. “Say it plain. Tell me what you want me to do.”

“Please—please touch me. Please fuck me. I can’t take it anymore.”

His eyes darkened, mouth cutting into a sharp grin. “There it is. That’s what I wanted. My pretty girl, beggin’ for my hands, my cock—beggin’ to be ruined.”

You shivered. He lowered his mouth to your ear.

“And now that I’ve got you right where I want you… I’m not stoppin’ until you’re cryin’ my name.”

He threw you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing, carried you upstairs, and tossed you onto the bed. You landed with a gasp, limbs tangled, heart pounding.

Chapter Text

You woke draped across him, his chest rising slow beneath your cheek, arm heavy around your waist, beard rough against your hair. He was asleep.

Remmick. The thought startled you. You hadn’t imagined he ever truly slept. But here he was—head tipped back, lips parted slightly, features unguarded in the pale wash of morning light.

Carefully, you slipped from his hold. His arm dragged across the sheets like it was reluctant to let you go. Bare feet padded across the cool floor as you moved through the house.

The blinds in the front room were still open, sunlight bleeding faint at the edges. Panic tugged sharp in your chest. You hurried to draw them shut, each slat falling into place until the house was dim again. Safe.

In the kitchen, your hands moved out of habit—eggs cracking into the skillet, bacon hissing, sausage browning slow until the air thickened with the scent of comfort. Toast soaked in butter crisped golden on the cast iron. When you plated it all, it looked like too much for one man.

But that wasn’t the point.

This wasn’t scraps. It wasn’t necessity. It was choice. It was care. And somehow, that felt more dangerous than anything that had happened the night before.

The skillet hissed its last. You were still holding the plate when the floorboards creaked—the heavy drag of footsteps.

He appeared in the doorway, hair mussed, shirt hanging open, eyes dark with sleep. The sight hit you hard.

“Somethin’ smells good,” he rumbled, voice thick and gravelly. His gaze moved from the table to you, a slow smile pulling at his mouth. “You tryin’ to spoil me now, baby?”

You rolled your eyes, heat blooming in your cheeks despite yourself. “Sit down before it gets cold.”

But instead of heading to the kitchen table, he tilted his head toward the back door. “Outside.”

You both carried plates to the porch. Morning air met you soft and cool. The roof’s slant and the tall oaks cast shade over the steps while the sun glowed just beyond. You sat side by side, plates balanced on your laps. Bacon crackled under your fork, toast melting butter in the heat. For a moment, it felt… ordinary. Like he was just a man. Like you were just a girl feeding him breakfast on a summer morning.

He took a bite of sausage, chewed slow, then looked your way.

“Could get used to this,” he murmured. His hand brushed against yours on the step, thumb grazing your knuckles before pulling back. He let the words hang.

You shifted, finishing your toast. The cicadas buzzed faintly in the trees. For a while, neither of you spoke—just sat with the cool shade wrapped around you, the sun climbing higher above the trees. Your gaze drifted over the field, golden light spilling across the grass. You sighed, setting your plate aside.

“I wish we could go out there,” you said quietly. “Walk in it. Sit in it. Just… have a day. Like anyone else.”

He stilled, fork halfway to his mouth. Slowly, he set it down. His eyes stayed on the horizon.

“There is a way,” he said at last, voice careful.

You turned toward him, pulse stuttering. “What do you mean?”

His gaze shifted, finally meeting yours—and the weight of it made you shiver.

“When the sun rises, if someone gives themselves to me—willingly—while the first light breaks…” He hesitated. “The bite changes them. They’ll walk the day same as the night. Stand with me under the sun.”

The words landed like stone.

You blinked. “And that someone would… turn.”

“Aye.” His voice roughened. His hand curled into a fist on his thigh. “They’d be mine. Not just for a night. Not just for a sunrise. Forever.”

The cicadas hummed louder. The silence stretched thick.

You stared at him, lips parting. But he didn’t press. Just sat there, still, as if the morning itself could carry the weight of his words.

Then his hand slid over yours.

“I want you home for the next few days.”

You blinked. “Home?”

“Aye. Don’t set foot in that store till I tell you it’s safe. Call in sick.” His tone didn’t invite discussion.

You frowned and drew your hand back. “I can’t just not work, Remmick. I need the money—”

He cut you off with a sharp look. “Don’t worry about money. I’ll take care of it.”

“That’s not how it works,” you snapped, heat rising. “I can’t just—”

He caught your chin, tilting your face up until your words faltered under the weight of his stare.

“You can. And you will. I said I’ll handle it.” His voice softened, but the command stayed firm.

You wanted to argue. His thumb brushed your jaw—calm, steady, grounding.

“I don’t ask for much,” he murmured, the Irish lilt gentling the words. “But this—I need this. Stay home. Let me keep you safe.”

The protest tangled in your throat. You tried again, but the words withered. The fight in you shook, unsure.

Finally, you let out a breath. “…Fine. I’ll stay home.”

His thumb stroked your cheek before he let go. “Good girl.”

The words sent a shiver through you. You looked away.

He leaned back, eyes still on you. “You can step outside if you need the air. Sit on the porch. Feel the sun on your face.” His tone turned coaxing—then sharpened again. “But when you’re done, you get back inside, and you lock those doors behind you. No one comes in, no matter what. You hear me?”

You nodded. “Yeah, I hear you.”

“No—say it.”

Your breath caught. But you said it anyway. “I’ll lock the doors. I won’t open them.”

His mouth curved. Not quite a smile—something deeper. He reached over again, hand wrapping around yours.

“That’s all I need.”

The cicadas buzzed, plates cooled beside you, and the sun crept toward the porch edge. For a moment, it felt almost like any other morning.

But the rules between you told the truth.

Chapter Text

The forest was thick with fog, the moonlight cutting pale beams between the trees. Remmick moved like shadow, every sense honed to the silence around him. He could feel it — that presence — trailing him, circling.

Then, a voice. Not one, but many, layered atop each other, distorted, like whispers curling out of a hollow grave.

“Remmmick…”

His jaw tightened. He knew that voice. Knew it even through the centuries, through the ruin it carried.
From the shadows, it emerged. A figure impossibly thin, skin pulled tight and colorless over bones, lips stretched wide and cracked — a grotesque echo of a mouth, like something that had forgotten how to wear a human face. Its eyes glowed faint, unreadable, as it drifted closer without moving its feet.

The Pale Vampire.

A relic of the clan that had made him. The clan he’d bled to escape.

“You run far… but never far enough.” The voice warbled, almost sing-song, its words breaking into riddles. “We gave you eternity, and you squander it on mortals. On playthings.”

Remmick’s hand curled into a fist, claws threatening to break through his skin.

“Stay away from her.”

That wide mouth cracked into something like a grin.

“Ahhh. So the whispers were true. The girl in the general store. Honey hair. Soft lips. Fragile little bird.” Its head cocked to one side, jerking unnaturally. “Does she know how you bury them all, Remmick? Does she know how every love of yours rots?”

The words slithered through him, cold and sharp, raking across wounds long scabbed but never healed — the family he’d lost, the friends who’d died even after he’d tried to keep them. The few he’d turned, who hadn’t survived the centuries.

“Shut your mouth,” Remmick growled, his voice low, dangerous.

But the Pale One only leaned closer, its distorted voice rising like broken strings of a fiddle.

“Bring him back, bring him home. The prodigal son with blood on his hands. You owe us, Remmick. And we will have you.”

The fog shifted. Behind it, more shadows slithered out of the trees — the rest of the clan. Their bodies jerky, unnatural, eyes glowing faint in the moonlight. One crawled along the ground, another twisted its neck too far, bones cracking loud in the silence. One of them stepped closer, jaw unhinging, that awful warble spilling out as it launched toward him.
Remmick braced — but an arrow hissed past his cheek and struck the creature through the chest. It shrieked, convulsed, and collapsed into ash. Remmick turned. Shapes moved through the trees, steady, silent — the Choctaw.

The Pale One hissed, that grotesque mouth curling wide.

“Not tonight.” It melted into the fog, most of its clan following, leaving only a few behind to lunge in fury.
The night erupted. Arrows flew, claws raked, blood steamed in the cold. Remmick tore through them with brutal strength, while the Choctaw’s blades sang, their chants low and steady. Together, they cut the remnants down until silence returned to the woods. Breath ragged, Remmick wiped blood from his mouth. Across from him, the Choctaw warriors lowered their weapons only slightly, eyes sharp, watchful.

The leader stepped forward. “You kill them as we do.”

Remmick’s claws flexed, wary. “I kill what hunts me. Don’t mistake me for an ally.”

The man tilted his head. “Nor we you. But our enemy is the same. For now.”

The words hung between them, taut as a drawn bow.
The leader’s eyes lingered on Remmick, unflinching, dark as flint. “You kill them as we do,” he said again, slower this time, as if weighing the words. Then his gaze narrowed.

“But you walk with one who carries our blood.”

Remmick froze, his jaw tightening. “What did you say?”

A murmur ran through the warriors, low and deliberate. The leader stepped closer, close enough that Remmick could see the faint markings painted across his cheekbones, symbols older than the trees around them.

“The girl,” the man said simply. “She is not only yours to protect. Her grandmother was Choctaw. She carries our blood, our stories, though she may not know it.”

Remmick’s claws twitched at his sides, his voice a growl. “Leave her out of this.”

A faint smile — humorless, sharp — touched the warrior’s mouth.

“She is already in it. You brought our enemy to her door.”

The air between them tightened like a drawn blade. Remmick’s instincts screamed to tear him down where he stood, but behind the leader, bows remained half-raised, arrows notched and ready.

At last, the man inclined his head, almost like a warning, almost like respect.

“Keep her close. Or you will lose her… as you have lost all the rest.”

The words landed like a knife. By the time Remmick bared his teeth, the Choctaw were already fading back into the trees, leaving only the silence of the dead behind.

Chapter Text

The night air cut sharp against your skin, slipping past the blanket cinched at your shoulders. The fire inside had burned low, nothing left but ember glow, and the porch stack was empty. The spare pile waited at the edge of the yard—just beyond the reach of lamplight. Fifty paces into dark.

You hesitated, blanket drawn tighter. The cold kept sinking. With a sharp sigh, you dropped the wool over the rail, took the lantern, and stepped barefoot into the grass. Your white nightdress—sheer cotton, straps slipping—clung when the wind stirred. Gooseflesh climbed your arms. The flame wavered.

Halfway to the logs, the quiet turned wrong. No cicadas. No owls. Just stillness.

You slowed. “…Hello?”

Nothing. Only your pulse thudding in your ears. You pushed forward, gripping the lantern tighter until the metal bit into your palm. You bent to grab the wood—

A shadow moved between the trees. Tall. Steady. Watching.

You jerked the light up. It threw a wild stripe across the yard. “Remmick?”

He stepped into the glow.

Eyes caught first—feral gleam—then the carved tension in his face. For a heartbeat, it didn’t feel like him at all. He crossed the yard with a predator’s patience.

You called his name again. He didn’t answer. Didn’t stop. He circled instead, forcing you to turn, the lantern jerking with each step back. The ring tightened. Too late, you realized who was cornered.

“Stop it,” you snapped, breathless.

He did—because he was already there. His hand flashed, catching your wrist. The lantern rattled as he yanked you forward. Firelight struck his face full—jaw locked, gaze burning, not with hunger but fury.

“What did I tell you?”

The command hit like a chord in your bones.

Your chest rose hard against the nightdress. “I—I was just getting wood—”

“Again.”

Claws pressed just shy of your skin.

“What did I tell you?”

The flame trembled in the glass. His grip held fast. His stare didn’t waver—like the night itself bent under his control.

“You think this is a game?” Each word scraped gravel.

He stepped closer. His heat rolled against your chilled skin.

“I said doors locked. Inside. Not standin’ half-naked in the yard for the world to take.”

The cold bit crueler now. The sheer dress clung to every line of you, nipples hard against the fabric. His gaze flicked, caught, then dragged back to your eyes like it cost him.

His grip shifted on your wrist, not shaking, just steady. Contained.

“I wasn’t gone five minutes,” you managed, shame and pride wrestling for space in your chest.

His hand tightened. The claws bit just enough to make your heart hammer.

“Five minutes is all it takes.”

The words landed cold. Final.

He didn’t let go right away—just held you in that unbearable stillness until your breath came shallow.

Then, finally, he released.

“Inside,” he rasped. “Now.”

You turned. The cotton brushed your nipples with each step, your skin prickling under his shadow. You reached the porch, the boards groaning under your feet, fumbled the door open—and the moment it shut behind you, he was there.

You felt him before you saw him. Heat and shadow spilling in after you. You turned, pressing your back to the door.

He filled the space.

His eyes glowed faint in the dim light, chest rising like he was holding himself back by a thread. He looked at you—just looked—your breath still fast, your lips parted.

Then he stepped in, quiet and controlled, and took the lantern from your hand. He set it gently on the table.

His voice came low.

“Do you want to be mine?”

Your heart stopped. “Yes.”

His hand rose, calloused fingers brushing your jaw. He tilted your face up until you had no choice but to meet him.

“Then you need to understand what that means.”

His tone was steady. Unshakable.

“When you disobey—when you step out into the dark half-bare with every monster waiting—it’s not just careless. It forces my hand.”

You swallowed. “Forces your hand how?”

His thumb dragged slow along your jaw.

“It means I have to correct you. Remind you who you belong to. Because if you’re mine… then your life isn’t just yours anymore.”

His gaze never broke from yours.

“Do you understand me?”

Your pulse pounded in his grip.

“Yes, Sir,” you whispered. “I understand.”

His eyes searched you one more beat. Then his thumb traced your jaw again—slow. Possessive.

“Good.”

His hand slid behind your neck, anchoring you. Not rough. Just firm.

“But I’ll ask you again, darlin’…” His breath skimmed your lips. “Do you want to be mine?”

This time, it wasn’t a claim. It was a vow.

“Yes.” It came stronger now. Surrender, full.

That second yes hadn’t even cooled on your lips before his mouth crashed into yours.

The kiss was fierce. Teeth and tongue and heat, his hand fisting in your hair, swallowing every breath like he meant to keep it. You melted against him. Linen against his shirt, bare skin against control.

When he pulled back, he was breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours. You thought he might take more—pin you to the door and strip what little was left.

Instead, his hand gripped your nape tighter.

“Go upstairs.”

Your breath caught. “Remmick—”

“Now.”

The word carved through the room like a blade.

Your legs trembled as you obeyed. The stairs stretched underfoot, each step held his heat at your back. You perched on the bed, heartbeat in your ears. The fire’s glow barely touched the walls. Straps slid lower. Linen clung to your skin.

Below, he moved with slow purpose. Wood stacked. Iron shifted. The hearth hissed.

Every sound drew out the tension like a wire.

When his steps creaked the stairs, you froze. The door swung open. He filled it—shoulders squared, eyes dark.

“Up.”

You stood.

“Turn.”

He circled close. His hand skimmed your shoulder, then your back, guiding you to the edge of the bed.

“Bend over.”

Your breath caught. “Remmick—”

“Now.”

Your palms braced on the mattress. The hem of your dress rose. The fabric did nothing to hide the curve of your ass. His gaze burned across your skin.

He paused.

Then lifted the fabric higher.

“You said you want to be mine.”

His voice slid over your ear, low and rough.

“Then you’ll learn what happens when you disobey.”

The first strike cracked sharp.

You gasped, body jolting.

“Count.”

Your voice shook. “One.”

Another landed. “Two.”

Each one came slow. Deliberate. By the fifth, your voice broke. Your thighs trembled. The sting and the ache had braided together.

Then his hand curled tight at your hip, claws barely grazing.

“This is what happens when you step out that door without me. Do you understand?”

Your breath was ragged. “Yes.”

But he didn’t let go.

“You think that was it?”

His palm slid low. Almost gentle.

Then lower.

Between your thighs.

His fingers pressed to the soaked linen. You gasped, body arching into him.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Even now… still beggin’ for me.”

His fingers moved slow, teasing circles.

You whimpered. “Remmick…”

He leaned in.

“No begging yet, baby. You’re still being punished.”

One hand held you bent over the bed. The other worked cruel and slow, stroking between your thighs, the soaked linen no barrier at all. Every motion made your legs tremble harder.

Chapter Text

When it was done, when your body was trembling and limp against the sheets, he gathered you up in his arms. His strength made it effortless, your head falling against his chest as he carried you into the bathroom. The bathwater was warm, steam curling up as he lowered you in, his big hands gentle for the first time all night. He stayed beside the tub, sleeves rolled back, carefully washing the sweat and mess from your skin, his touch soft and steady.

You leaned back with a long sigh, sore and boneless, but your lips pursed in a sulky pout.

“You didn’t have to be that rough,” you muttered, voice hoarse but defiant.

His mouth quirked, eyes glinting as he dipped the cloth to your collarbone.

“Didn’t hear you complainin’ when you were screamin’ my name.”

You huffed, splashing a little water at him.

“Still… you left me empty.”

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. He leaned close, pressing a kiss to your damp hair.

“Aye, I did. That was the point, darlin’. Punishment, remember?”

You rolled your eyes, whining under your breath as he brushed the cloth down your arm. The smirk sharpened. His hand came up fast, not hard — just a quick pop against your cheek, enough to make your eyes widen. The sting was light, playful, more shock than pain.

“Careful,” he drawled, his voice teasing but edged with that command that always made your stomach flip. “Keep that little attitude and I’ll have you bent over this tub before it cools.”

Your cheeks flushed, your lips twitching between pout and smile.

“You wouldn’t.”

His eyes burned down at you, the corner of his mouth curling.

“Try me, mo ghrá.”

Your cheeks still burned where his hand had landed, more from surprise than sting. You gave him a mock glare, lips pushed into a pout.

“You’re mean.”

Remmick chuckled low, dipping the cloth again and brushing it gently over your shoulder.

“Mean?” he echoed, tilting his head. “Darlin’, if I were mean, you wouldn’t be sittin’ here in warm water with me washin’ you clean. You’d still be bent over that bed.”

Your stomach fluttered, heat flashing in your cheeks as you splashed at him again.

“Don’t tempt me to call your bluff.”

His hand stilled, cloth resting on your thigh. The glint in his eye sharpened, but then his mouth softened into something warmer, more human. He leaned down, brushing a kiss to your damp temple.

“Mm. Not tonight, baby,” he murmured, voice rough but tender.

“You’ve had enough. I’ve wrung you dry.”

You huffed, leaning your head back against the rim of the tub with a little whine.

“I could’ve taken more.”

He smirked, thumb trailing down your jaw.

“Maybe. But I know my sweet girl’s limits better than she does.” His lips brushed your cheek, softer this time.

“Tonight you rest. Tomorrow, maybe I’ll test that sass again.”

When he finally pulled you from the bath, he wrapped you in a thick towel, carrying you back to bed like you weighed nothing. He laid down beside you, gathering you into the heat of his body, tucking you under his arm as the firelight flickered low across the walls.

“You’re mine,” he murmured into your hair, half a tease, half a vow. “And you’ve had enough for the night.”

You mumbled something about being spoiled, but the weight of him around you, the steady beat of his heart against your back, lulled you into sleep before you could say more.
You woke to warmth and the weight of him. Remmick’s arm was slung heavy across your waist, his chest pressed to your back, his breath slow against your hair. The scent of smoke and cedar clung to him, and for a few blissful minutes, you lay still, soaking in the heat of him.

When you stirred, he pulled you tighter with a low rumble. “Where d’you think you’re goin’, mo ghrá?”

A sleepy smile tugged at your lips. “Work.”

“Mmm.” His lips brushed your shoulder, the scruff of his beard tickling your skin. “No you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.” You tried to roll, but his arm locked around you like iron. You huffed, half laughing, half annoyed. “Remmick, I can’t just not show up. The Chows rely on me.”

“They’ll manage,” he muttered, burying his face in your hair. “You’ve been run ragged. You don’t need to worry about money. I’ll take care of you.”

You stilled, his words sinking in. Sweet, protective… and suffocating.

“Remmick,” you said softly, turning to face him. His eyes opened, blue and sharp in the morning light filtering past the curtains. “I want to work. I want to see my friends. I don’t want to be locked up here like some… doll on a shelf.”

For a long moment, he only looked at you, the muscle in his jaw ticking. You saw the war in his eyes — the instinct to cage you where you’d be safe, and the dawning realization that you wouldn’t let him.

Finally, he sighed, brushing your hair back from your face.

“Christ, you’re stubborn.”

You smiled faintly. “You wouldn’t like me half as much if I wasn’t.”

His thumb traced your cheek, softer now. “Aye, maybe not.”

He kissed you slow, lingering, then pulled back with a reluctant grin. “Go on then. But don’t think for a second I’ll stop watchin’ out for you. Whether you’re workin’, walkin’, or laughin’ with your friends — you’re mine. That doesn’t change.”

You rolled your eyes, playful but fond. “I didn’t say it did.”

For the first time, you saw it: the faintest crack in the wall he kept around himself, the reluctant acceptance that he couldn’t chain you to the bed forever.

Chapter Text

The bell above the door chimed as you stacked a row of jars on the shelf. Mrs. Chow looked up from the counter with a smile.

“Well now,” she said warmly, “haven’t seen you in a while.”

You turned, and your heart lifted.

“David? Isaiah?”

Two men stepped inside, their presence filling the little store in a way that felt both familiar and imposing. Cousins on your grandmother’s side — Choctaw blood.
You hadn’t seen them in years, but their faces, the way they carried themselves, were unmistakable.

“Thought that was you,” Isaiah said, his deep voice edged with fondness. “All grown up now, huh?” You laughed, brushing your hands on your apron before stepping forward.

“And you’re both exactly the same. What brings you here?”

“Passing through,” David said smoothly, his dark eyes sharp beneath the brim of his hat. “Heard you were working here. Thought we’d stop in, catch up.”

It felt natural, slipping back into talk. You smiled, chatting about the store, the town, the little things. They asked about the Chows, about your house out on the edge of town. Their questions seemed casual, warm, but a tension you couldn’t quite name threaded beneath them. When Mrs. Chow excused herself to the back, David leaned on the counter, his gaze steady on you.

“Heard you’ve had company out there lately.” Your smile faltered. “Company?” “Tall man. Beard. Accent.” Isaiah’s voice was even, but his eyes searched yours. “Comes around in the evenings.”
Your stomach tightened. You forced a laugh, too quick.

“Small town. People notice everything.”

David’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “We just want to make sure you’re safe.” The warmth in your chest cooled, unease creeping in.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Isaiah’s gaze softened, but the weight of it pressed on you. “Because not everything that looks at you kindly means you well.” His gaze lingered, steady but not unkind. “You’ve noticed the nights feel different lately, haven’t you? The air heavier. Shadows moving where they shouldn’t.”

A chill slid down your spine, but you forced a smile.

“It’s just the season changing. Fog’s always heavier this time of year.”

David shook his head slowly, his eyes sharp. “No. It isn’t the fog. It’s what walks in it.” The words landed heavy.

You swallowed, clenching your hands behind the counter.

“If you’re trying to scare me, it won’t work. I can handle myself.”

Isaiah’s mouth curved, almost sad. “We don’t doubt your courage. But courage won’t stop what’s out there.” His voice dropped lower, enough that you had to lean closer to catch it.

“They’ve been moving through this land for generations. We’ve hunted them, driven them back. But more have come. Stronger. Older.” David added, his tone firm,

“And when we find them, we’ll put them down. Every last one.”

The words struck like ice in your chest. Your mind leapt instantly to Remmick — to his glowing eyes, his rasping voice in the dark, the way he’d carried you, saved you. If they were hunting vampires, then they were hunting him. Your heart raced, but you forced your voice steady, defensive.

“You don’t need to worry about me. I can handle myself.” Isaiah’s eyes softened, but his voice carried a warning.

“It isn’t just about you. It’s about what you let close. What you trust. If you ever need us…” His hand tapped the counter twice, deliberate. “Call. We’ll come.”

The bell above the door jingled as another customer entered, breaking the moment. Both men straightened, their expressions smoothing into casual smiles, but the weight of their words clung to you long after they left. The Choctaw cousins lingered only a moment longer before nodding their goodbyes. Their boots creaked against the floorboards, the bell above the door chimed, and they were gone — leaving behind the echo of their warning. You stood behind the counter, staring at the spot where they’d been, your hands tight on the wood.

Mrs. Chow emerged from the back room, brushing flour from her apron. She gave you a warm smile, though her eyes narrowed just slightly as she studied you.

“They were family, weren’t they?” she asked casually, arranging a jar on the shelf. You nodded, throat dry.

“My grandmother’s side.”

Mrs. Chow hummed, thoughtful, then tilted her head. “Good men, I think. But they asked many questions, hm? About your house. About you.”
You swallowed hard, forcing a shrug.

“It’s a small town. People are curious.”

Mrs. Chow set the jar down, her gaze lingering on you with more weight this time. “They weren’t the first to ask questions.” You froze.

“…What do you mean?”

Her mouth curved, faint and knowing. “About the man who visits you. The one with the accent.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. “Remmick just stops by sometimes—”

“Ah.” Mrs. Chow’s voice was soft, not accusing. Almost maternal. “Then there is something, hm?”

You busied yourself straightening papers on the counter, heart pounding. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Mrs. Chow let the silence stretch, her eyes kind but sharp. Then, with a small smile, she patted your hand.

“Just be careful, dear. The world is not always kind to women who let secrets into their homes.”

The bell over the door chimed again — another customer — and just like that, the moment was over. But her words clung to you as heavy as your cousins’ warning. The last jar was shelved, the counters wiped, the lamps snuffed one by one.

Chapter Text

You tugged your cardigan tight as you locked the front door, the bell giving a final tired chime. The street was quiet, bathed in the reddish glow of the blood moon climbing higher. You let out a shaky breath, ready to walk home and put the day behind you—

“Finally.”

You jumped. Remmick leaned against the post just beyond the glow of the storefront lamp, arms crossed, eyes gleaming faint in the dark. His frame looked too big, too dangerous for the still little street, like a wolf waiting just beyond the fence line.

“Remmick,” you breathed, half relief, half unease. “What are you doing here?” “Watchin’.” His voice full of grit. “Been here all day. At the bar across the street” Your stomach twisted.

“All day?”

He stepped closer, the lamplight catching the sharp lines of his face. “Saw your friends come in. The Choctaw.” His jaw ticked. “What’d they want?”

You stiffened, clutching your cardigan tighter.

“They just came by to say hello. To check on me.” His eyes burned hotter, unblinking.

“And?”

“That’s all,” you snapped, a little sharper than you meant. “Not everything is about you.”
His hand shot out, catching your wrist as you tried to step past him. Not cruel, not bruising — but firm.

“Don’t lie to me.” His voice was gravel, every word edged like a blade. “I could hear the weight in their voices from the street. They weren’t just catchin’ up.”

Your chest rose, your pulse hammering.

“What does it matter?”

His jaw clenched, teeth flashing faintly as he leaned in close.

“They’re hunters. And you’re sittin’ here lettin’ ‘em sniff around while I’m fightin’ to keep you safe.” Your heart twisted, fear and defiance clashing in your chest.

“Maybe I don’t need you to keep me safe. Maybe I can take care of myself.” The words hung sharp in the night, but Remmick didn’t flinch. His eyes narrowed, his grip on your wrist tightening just enough to make your pulse thrum harder.

“Those men.” His voice was low, almost too calm. “Who were they to you?”

You swallowed hard, avoiding his stare.

“They’re… just people passing through. Old acquaintances.”

His thumb brushed against your pulse, slow, deliberate. “That so?” You nodded quickly. “Yes.” His head tilted, the lamplight catching the sharp cut of his jaw.
“Strange, then, the way they looked at you. Like they had a claim. Like they already knew your blood.”

Your chest went tight, breath catching. “Remmick—”

“Say it.” His voice dropped, rough and commanding, leaving no room to hide. “Tell me who they are.”

You shook your head, panic and stubborn pride tangling.

“Tell me,” he growled, stepping closer, his shadow swallowing you whole. Your voice cracked under the weight of his stare.

“…They’re family. My grandmother’s people.” His silence stretched heavy, his jaw working, eyes burning as the truth settled between you.

“They’ve been hunting, haven’t they?” His words were more statement than question, bitter as iron. “And now they’ve come sniffin’ at your door.”
You bit your lip, fighting the urge to look away. “They just want to keep me safe.”

His mouth curved into something dark — not a smile, not quite anger, but something that carried both. “Safe from me.” he bit back, voice low and sharp.

“Maybe they’re right!” The words flew out before you could stop them, hot and reckless. “Maybe I shouldn’t trust someone who hides in the shadows, who keeps secrets, who—”
His grip on your wrist tightened, his eyes flashing.

“You don’t know what you’re sayin’.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying,” you shot back, your voice shaking with fury. “You disappear for days without a word. You show up whenever it suits you. And now my family comes to town warning me about blood and shadows, and you expect me not to listen?”

He stepped closer, towering over you, his chest heaving. “Your family doesn’t know me.”

“They don’t have to!” You shoved against his chest with your free hand, though he barely moved.

“They’ve been fighting this longer than I’ve even been alive! They’ve seen what men like you do—”

“Men like me?” His voice cracked into a growl, dangerous and raw. “Men who saved you when that bastard had his hands on you? Men who’ve been bleedin’ in the dirt for centuries to keep monsters off your neck?”

Tears burned your eyes, anger tangling with fear.

“And what are you, then? A monster or a savior? Because I can’t tell anymore!”

The words slammed between you, leaving the air thick and heavy. For a long moment, the only sound was your ragged breaths and the distant creak of the sign swinging in the wind.
His jaw tightened, his voice rough as gravel when he finally spoke.

“I asked you if you wanted to be mine. You said yes. But bein’ mine means you don’t get to doubt me every time someone whispers in your ear.”

“And being yours doesn’t mean I stop being me!” you fired back, your chest heaving, your wrist straining in his grip. “It doesn’t mean I bow to every word you say without question!”

The words hung between you, sharp as broken glass. Neither of you moved. Neither of you gave an inch. Finally, Remmick released your wrist, the sudden absence of his grip almost worse than the pressure itself. His jaw tight, eyes burning into you like fire in the dark.

“Fine,” he rasped. “Let’s get you home.”

He turned, shoulders taut, and you fell into step beside him. The night stretched quiet, but the silence wasn’t peace — it was a storm. Every footfall echoed too loud, every brush of his hand near yours sparking like static. You wrapped your cardigan tighter, your heart pounding. You wanted to scream, to cry, to demand he say something — but the words stuck. Remmick’s eyes flicked to you once, catching the edge of the lamplight, but he said nothing. His jaw was locked, his silence heavier than any growl. The walk back to your house felt endless, the distance stretched by the weight of everything unsaid. The fight still lived hot in your chest, and you could feel it in him too — his fury wound tight under his skin, his possessiveness snarling against the need to keep from breaking you.

When the house finally came into view, your hands steadied as you unlocked the door. He followed you in, closing it behind him with quiet finality. But still, he said nothing. The air inside was thick with everything you both carried home from the street. The silence inside was heavier than the night air. You set your cardigan over the chair, hands trembling as you tried to busy yourself, to act like the fight hadn’t followed you in. But Remmick was a storm at your back, pacing the room once before stopping dead. The scrape of his boots against the floor cut off, and when you turned, his eyes burned into you like coals.

“Don’t ever throw those words at me again.” His voice strained, shaking with the effort of control. “Monster. Doubt. Like I ain’t bled enough for you already.”

Your throat tightened, but the heat of your anger hadn’t cooled.

“And don’t you dare think you can keep me caged just because you’re afraid of losing me.”

In a flash he was on you, his hand catching your jaw, pressing you back against the wall. Not cruel, not breaking — but unyielding. His breath hit your lips, hot and ragged.

“You are mine,” he snarled, his forehead pressing to yours. “And if I chain you, it’s because I’d burn this whole world to the ground before I watched it take you from me.”

Your breath came hard, your hands pressed to his chest — not pushing him away, but grounding yourself in the storm of him. His thumb traced your jaw, rough but trembling. For the first time you felt the crack in him — not just anger, but fear, the raw edge of a man who’d lost too much already.

“Don’t make me lose you too,” he whispered, the words breaking.

The fight, the fury, the silence — it all collapsed in that moment, leaving nothing but his body caging yours and the ragged truth between you. Your chest heaved, your lips parted under the weight of his grip. The anger that had carried you this far cracked, crumbling beneath the raw ache in his voice. Slowly, you lifted your hands, sliding them up his chest, curling into the fabric of his shirt. Your forehead tipped against his, your eyes closing as the fight drained out of you.

“Remmick…” you whispered, but it broke, soft and trembling. His thumb pressed harder against your jaw, tilting your face up, forcing your gaze to his. His eyes burned, fierce and unrelenting.

“No,” he rasped, rough with command. “You don’t ever put those words on me again. Not monster. Not doubt. Not like that.” His grip on your jaw tightened just enough to make your breath catch. “You don’t speak to me that way and think I’ll let it slide.”

A shiver raced down your spine. You swallowed, lips trembling, but you nodded against his hold. His mouth crashed to yours then, the kiss rough and consuming, teeth scraping, his tongue claiming you as if the fight itself were still burning between you. You clung to him, whimpering into the heat of it, your knees going weak under the force of him. When he broke away, his forehead pressed hard to yours, his voice was a growl.

“You’re mine. And next time you forget that, I’ll remind you in ways you won’t be sittin’ comfortable for days. Do you understand me?”
Your breath hitched, your body trembling under the harsh promise in his tone.

“Yes,” you whispered, the word more surrender than sound. His hand finally loosened on your jaw, smoothing down your cheek, softer now, though his eyes still blazed.

“Good girl.” His thumb stroked your cheek, almost gentle — a brief mercy — before his hand slid back into your hair, fisting tight. His mouth crashed onto yours again, rough and consuming, stealing your breath, your thoughts, until there was nothing but him. He carried you up stairs, throwing you on the bed, pushing you down into the mattress. His body covered yours, his weight pinning you in place, every inch of him burning against you.

“Mine,” he growled, the word torn from his chest as he yanked the last scraps of your dress aside. His mouth found your throat, biting hard enough to sting but not break skin, his beard scraping fire over your sensitive skin. You whimpered, arching into him, your hands clutching at his shoulders.

“Remmick—”

“Quiet,” he snarled against your skin, his hand sliding down to grip your hip, dragging you closer to the thick press of him.

“You said yes. You’re mine. Now I’m gonna fuck that truth back into you until you never forget it.”

He pushed into you in one rough, claiming thrust, filling you to the hilt. You cried out, nails digging into his back, but he swallowed the sound with another fierce kiss. His pace was hard, unrelenting, his hips pounding into yours with raw fury. But every time you cried out, every time your body clenched around him, his hands softened just enough — stroking your cheek, brushing your hair from your face, holding you close as though he could fuse you into him. Your legs locked around his waist, your moans breaking against his lips. He groaned low, almost pained, his forehead pressed to yours.

“Don’t you see? You’re all I’ve got left. I can’t lose you.”

The words cracked something inside you. You cupped his face between your shaking hands, your tears hot against his beard.

“You won’t. I’m here. I’m yours.”

His thrusts grew harder, desperate, as though he was trying to bury himself in that promise. You shattered beneath him, your body clenching tight around him, and his growl filled the room as he followed, spilling deep inside you with brutal, aching tenderness. After, he didn’t pull away. He held you, his weight heavy, his lips pressing soft, reverent kisses over your damp cheeks, your jaw, your mouth. The storm had broken, but his arms never loosened — his roughness tempered now with the fierce need to keep you close.

Chapter Text

The morning came quietly, sunlight slipping pale through the curtains. You stirred against him, wrapped in his arms, your head resting on his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear, his warmth wrapped around you like a blanket heavier than any quilt. For a while you just lay there, listening to the rise and fall of his breath. Safe. Content. Then the words pressed out of you, soft and tentative.

“What do we do now, Remmick?”

His hand stroked idly through your hair, calloused fingers gentle as he could..

“We breathe. We eat. We take one night at a time.” You lifted your head to look at him, your eyes searching his.

“I’ve been thinking.” That earned a faint smirk.

“Dangerous, that.” You rolled your eyes, but your voice stayed quiet.

“I want you to bite me. At sunrise.” The smile vanished, his eyes darkening as his hand stilled in your hair.

“No.”

“Remmick—”

His voice sharpened, firm as iron. “You’re not ready.”
Your throat tightened, but you pushed, your heart pounding.

“Why not? I’m already in danger. If I was like you—”

He cut you off with a growl, sitting up against the headboard, dragging you with him so you straddled his lap. His hands gripped your shoulders, holding you steady as his gaze burned into yours.

“Because once it’s done, there’s no turnin’ back,” he rasped. “You think it’s just about bein’ strong enough to walk in the sun with me? No. It’s hunger that’ll rip you raw, centuries stretched out in front of you with nothin’ but loss and blood and fightin’ for scraps of peace. I won’t curse you with that. Not yet. Not until you know what you’re askin’.”

The heat in his voice, the fear laced beneath it, stole the words from your tongue. You swallowed, your hands gripping his shirt, and rested your forehead to his chest. He kissed your hair, softer now, his hand smoothing down your back.

“One day, maybe. But not now. Not like this.” Your forehead stayed pressed to his chest, but your voice was small, trembling as it broke the silence.

“Then… what do I have to do?” His hand stilled on your back.

“Do?”

You lifted your head, meeting his eyes, raw and unflinching. “What do I have to do for you to feel I’m ready? To trust me with this?”

For a long moment he only stared, his jaw tight, his thumb brushing absently along your shoulder as though weighing the words. Finally, he spoke, low and steady.

“You’d have to know what you’re askin’ me for. Not just the strength, not just the sun. You’d have to be ready to watch everyone else fade while you keep walkin’. You’d have to face hunger that gnaws at you even when your belly’s full. And you’d have to trust me enough to let me break you when that hunger takes hold.” His eyes burned into yours, sharp and pained.

“Could you do that? Could you let me be the one to chain you when the beast in you tries to tear the world apart?” The weight of his words pressed hard on your chest. Your lips parted, but no sound came. Remmick cupped your jaw, his thumb brushing against your cheek, softer now.

“You say you want forever, mo ghrá. But forever ain’t kind. Not to me. Not to anyone I’ve tried to love.”

Your breath shook, but you held his gaze, your fingers curling tighter into his shirt.

“I want that. All of it. Because I can’t stay stuck like this, Remmick — halfway between your world and mine. It’ll tear me apart.” His eyes flickered, something fierce and aching burning there.

“No matter what you do,” you whispered, your voice breaking, “you’re going to lose me. Either to time… or to this. And I don’t want to fade away while you keep walking without me.”

For a moment, the silence was so heavy it hurt. His hand stayed cupped at your jaw, but the muscle in his cheek jumped, his eyes storm-dark. Finally, his thumb traced your skin, rough and trembling.

“You don’t understand what you’re askin’.”

“I do,” you shot back, fierce through the tears threatening to fall. His jaw clenched, his forehead pressing to yours with a groan.

“No. You don’t. You don’t know how to fight. You don’t know how to hunt, how to feed, how to disappear when the world comes sniffin’. You think it’s just my bite that’ll change you — but it ain’t. It’s everything after.” He pulled back, his eyes locking onto yours with brutal honesty.

“And if I gave you that now, you wouldn’t last a week.” The words landed like a knife, sharp and true. Your lips trembled, but you didn’t look away.

“Then teach me.”

His stare hardened, torn between fury and something softer, heavier. His grip on your jaw slackened just enough for his hand to slide into your hair, holding you close, his voice rough at your ear. Your words hung between you like a challenge, fierce and unyielding: Then teach me. For a long moment, Remmick said nothing. His jaw was tight, his eyes burning into yours with a mix of anger and something almost like despair. Finally, he let out a long, rough breath, dragging a hand down his beard.

“Christ almighty, you’re stubborn.” You opened your mouth to argue, but his hand was suddenly back at your jaw, thumb pressing firm against your lips, silencing you.

“You won’t let this go, will you?” he resigned.

You shook your head, defiant even as your pulse hammered under his touch. A muscle jumped in his jaw. He leaned closer, his forehead pressing hard to yours, his voice a growl edged with reluctant surrender.

“Fine. I’ll teach you. But only because if I don’t, you’ll go runnin’ headlong into danger thinkin’ you can stand without me.” His thumb stroked your lip once, rough and tender.

“This way, I can keep you where you belong — under my eye. Under my hand.” A shiver rolled through you at the weight of his tone.

“But listen close,” he continued, his voice sharpening.

“You do exactly as I say. You don’t argue. You don’t run. You obey me — because if you don’t, I won’t just punish you, I’ll drag you back from whatever foolish mess you’ve thrown yourself into, and you won’t sit right for a week.”

Your breath caught, heat flooding your cheeks, but your eyes stayed locked on his.

“I understand.”

“Good.” He kissed you then, rough and claiming, as though sealing the vow. When he pulled back, his eyes were still dark with worry, but his hand lingered at your cheek with something softer.

“If I’m gonna lose you someday, darlin’, it won’t be because you walked blind into the fire. Not while I’m here.”

Chapter Text

The woods at night were alive with sound. Owls called from hidden branches, leaves whispered under the pull of the wind, and the earth itself seemed to hold its breath. The blood moon was waning, but its pale light filtered through the canopy, just enough to paint silver across the ground. Remmick walked ahead of you, quiet as shadow, his broad frame blending into the dark as though he belonged to it. He turned once, those eyes catching the faint light, and crooked a finger.

“Stay close.”

You swallowed, your hands trembling as you followed. Every twig seemed to snap under your boots, every breath louder than it should have been. He moved like a predator — you, like a clumsy fawn.

“Too loud,” he murmured when you tripped over a root. He caught your elbow before you fell, his grip rough but steady.

“The whole forest can hear you.” You flushed hot, frustrated.

“I’m trying.”

“Try quieter.”

His mouth twitched at the edge, the ghost of a smirk, before he released you and moved on. It went like that for a while: you stumbling, him sighing; you breathing too hard, him correcting your stance; your eyes straining against the dark, his hand tugging you back before you crashed into branches. The humiliation burned, but so did determination. When he crouched low, gesturing toward a clearing where a rabbit nibbled at grass, you forced yourself to still. You copied the way he lowered himself, the way his weight sank silent into the earth. Remmick glanced at you, expecting another mistake — but this time, you were steady. Your breath slowed, your shoulders loose. You moved forward one careful step at a time, every muscle tight with focus. The rabbit’s ears twitched. You froze. It waited. You waited longer.

Then, with a sudden burst of movement, you darted forward and snatched the creature up in your hands. It kicked wildly, but you held firm. Remmick straightened, his brows lifting. For the first time that night, something like pride flashed in his eyes. “Not bad,” he said, his voice low but edged with approval.

“Thought you’d scare it off.” You clutched the rabbit, panting, grinning despite yourself.

“Guess I’m not completely hopeless.”

He stepped closer, his hand covering yours around the trembling animal. His eyes caught yours, dark and fierce in the moonlight.

“No. Not hopeless. Just green. But green can grow.” The rabbit kicked against your grip, its heartbeat hammering frantic in your palms. For a moment you just held it, chest heaving, a rush of triumph flooding through you. Then Remmick’s hand tightened over yours. His voice was low, hard.

“Now finish it.” Your smile faltered.

“…What?” His eyes never left yours. “Kill it.”

Your throat tightened, stomach turning.

“Remmick, I—” “This ain’t a game,” he cut in, his tone sharp enough to slice the night.

“You want this life, you want what comes with it? Then you take it. With your own hands.”

The rabbit kicked again, claws scratching at your wrist. Tears stung your eyes, but his grip didn’t let you falter.

“Do it,” he growled, his voice a rasp at your ear. “Or let it go and walk back to your bed, because you’re not ready for the blood that comes after my bite.”

The words struck deep, heavier than any blow. You swallowed hard, your hands shaking, then — with a broken sob — you twisted, snapping its neck. The forest went still. The rabbit hung limp in your hands. Your breath shuddered, tears slipping down your cheeks, but you didn’t let go. You looked up at him, your body trembling, your voice a whisper.

“I did it.”

Remmick’s jaw was set, his eyes searching yours. He took the rabbit from your hands, setting it down gently on the ground. Then his thumb brushed your cheek, rough but steady.

“You did,” he said, softer now, but no less fierce.

“You hated it. But you did it anyway. That’s what it takes.”

Your chest ached, torn between pride and sorrow, but beneath it all was a strange, dangerous warmth — because for the first time, you’d stepped into his world, and he’d let you stay. You wiped your eyes with the back of your sleeve, your chest heaving as you tried to steady yourself. The weight of what you’d done clung to you heavier than the night air. Remmick crouched in front of you, the rabbit laid carefully at his side. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear. His voice was gravel softened at the edges.

“You did good, mo ghrá. You did what needed doin’, even when you hated it. That’s strength.”

Your lip trembled, but his praise lit something warm in your chest. You leaned into his touch, seeking that rare gentleness. But then his eyes hardened, his hand sliding down to grip your chin, tilting your face up so you couldn’t look away.

“Don’t mistake it, though. This was just a rabbit. Easy prey. Next time it won’t be so simple. Blood’s blood — and if you can’t take it, you’ll die.” The words were harsh, but his gaze burned with something fierce — pride, fear, need. You swallowed, your voice small but steady.

“I can do it.” He searched your face a moment longer, then leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Aye,” he murmured, softer again.

“You can. You will. I’ll make damn sure of it.”

For a long moment, the forest was silent around you — only the sound of his breath mingling with yours, his hand still firm at your jaw. You were shaken, aching, but beneath it all, a dangerous resolve had taken root. Remmick stood, hauling you up with him like you weighed nothing. He slung the limp rabbit over his shoulder and fixed his gaze on you.

“Not done yet.” Your chest tightened.

“Remmick, I—”

“No.” His tone cut through you like a blade.

“If you stop here, that kill means nothin’. You need to learn the rest — how to find, how to follow, how to close in without bein’ seen. Come on.”

The weight of his command left no room to argue. You nodded, shaky but determined, and followed as he moved deeper into the trees. The night was thicker now, the moonlight barely threading through the canopy. Every sound felt sharper: the rustle of leaves, the crack of a twig under your boot. Remmick glanced back once, his eyes catching yours in the dark.

“Loosen your steps. Don’t fight the ground. Let it carry you.”

You swallowed, trying to mimic the way he moved. He flowed silent as shadow, every stride deliberate, weight spread so nothing snapped beneath him. You stumbled once, cursed under your breath, but adjusted. Minutes stretched long, the forest pressing in close. Then Remmick’s hand shot up, halting you. His head tilted, his body lowering into a crouch. You followed his gaze. A deer grazed in the clearing ahead, its ears twitching, body tense but unaware. Your breath caught.

“It’s so—” “Quiet.” His whisper was a growl. He crouched lower, gesturing you forward.

“Your turn. Show me you can track without spookin’ it.”

Your stomach twisted, but you forced yourself to sink into the crouch. Step by careful step, you moved, remembering his corrections: weight low, breath steady, eyes on the target. The deer’s head lifted once, its ear flicking. You froze. It sniffed the air, then lowered again. You pushed closer. Five paces. Four. Three. Your heart hammered so hard you swore it could hear. Then— A twig cracked under your foot. The deer’s head shot up, muscles coiling— —but Remmick was there, moving faster than your eye could follow. He lunged past you in a blur, claws flashing, and in a heartbeat the deer collapsed, its throat torn clean. The forest went still again. Remmick rose, blood dripping from his hand, his chest heaving as his glowing eyes found yours.

“Close,”
“But close don’t keep you alive.”

Your whole body trembled, caught between fear, awe, and the fierce desire to prove yourself. The words struck deep, heavy as stone. Your lips parted, but no sound came. You only nodded, your whole body trembling from the chase, from the lesson, from the brutal truth of it all. Remmick watched you a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Then, with a grunt, he hauled the deer over his shoulder as though it weighed nothing.

“Come on. You’ve seen enough for one night.”

You fell into step behind him, your mind a storm — the rabbit still warm on your hands, the deer’s collapse echoing in your chest. You hated it. You feared it. And yet, beneath the ache, a dangerous spark of pride burned. Because you hadn’t turned away. And Remmick had seen it.

The girl walked ahead of him, her shoulders tight beneath the pale light of the moon. She thought he couldn’t see the tremor in her hands, the way her breath shivered out of her chest — but he saw everything. Always did. She’d killed. Not clean, not confident, but she’d done it. And when he told her to move quiet through the trees, she’d stumbled, but then she’d found her rhythm. He hadn’t expected that. Most broke before they found their feet. His jaw clenched as he shifted the deer on his shoulder. He hated that he was proud. Hated more that he was relieved. Because she was right — she couldn’t live straddled between his world and hers.

Sooner or later, she’d be swallowed whole. And he knew damn well which side would swallow her. The Pale One’s grin flashed in his mind, its words dripping rot. Honey hair. Soft lips. Fragile little bird. Remmick’s teeth ground together. No. She wasn’t fragile. Not if he could help it. He’d make her sharper, harder, until even the oldest blood couldn’t break her. But the truth bit at him sharper than any claw: she wasn’t ready. Not to fight. Not to hunt. Not to carry the curse of his bite. And still she’d looked him in the eye, stubborn as sin, and asked him for forever. He almost laughed — almost. The sound stuck in his throat, bitter. He’d loved before. He’d turned others before. All of them gone. All of them dust.

But she was different. He could feel it in his bones, in the way his hunger coiled tighter every time her pulse quickened near him. He wanted her strength, her fire. He wanted her softness just as much. He wanted— Remmick cut the thought off, shoving it down deep where it couldn’t choke him. Wanting was dangerous. Wanting made a man weak. And weakness got people killed. The trees thinned, the outline of her house coming into view. He shifted the deer again, his eyes narrowing as the wind carried the faintest scent across the yard. Not her. Not blood. Something else. Something watching. His grip on the carcass tightened. If the Pale One had followed them this far, if the Choctaw were closing in— A muscle jumped in his jaw. He’d fight the whole damn world if he had to. But God help him, he wasn’t sure how many battles she could survive at his side.

The walk home was silent but heavy. You could feel him at your back the whole way, the weight of the deer slung over his shoulder like it was nothing. By the time you reached the house, your arms still shook from the rabbit, your stomach turning, but you didn’t dare complain. Remmick carried the deer straight to the chopping block out back and let it drop with a thud. The sight of it — its slack jaw, its glassy eyes — made your throat close.

“You’re not done,” he said, voice flat as he reached for the axe.

“Lesson’s not over.” Your breath caught.

“…What do you mean?” He fixed you with a look sharp enough to cut.

“You killed. Now you finish. Skin it. Quarter it. Learn what it means to take life and use it.”

Your stomach twisted, but before you could answer, the axe swung down with a crack, splitting a log clean in half. He set another on the block, raised the axe again.

“You want this world? Then prove it. I’ll be right here. Keepin’ watch.” The axe slammed down again, sparks of bark flying. His meaning was clear: this was your work, not his.

You swallowed hard, hands trembling as you crouched by the deer. The knife felt too big, too sharp in your grip, but you forced yourself to press the blade into the hide, peeling it back the way you’d seen hunters do before. The smell hit you first — hot, metallic, wrong. Your gag caught in your throat, but you gritted your teeth and kept going. Behind you, the steady rhythm of his axe never faltered. Crack. Split. Crack. Split. Once, when you stalled too long, his voice carried low across the yard.

“Don’t stop now, girl. You started it. Finish it.”

Your chest burned, your hands slick, but you worked through it — skinning, cutting, sawing through bone until the deer lay in quarters. By the end, your arms shook, your apron was streaked red, and your stomach roiled. But you hadn’t quit. You looked up, breathless, to find him watching. The axe rested at his side, his eyes locked on you. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then, slowly, he nodded once.

“Better.” His voice was rough, but beneath it, something softer flickered.

“Not perfect. But better.”

Your arms trembled as you wiped the knife against your apron, breath ragged, hands sticky with blood you couldn’t seem to get rid of. The sight of the quartered deer laid out before you made your head spin, but you didn’t look away. Not this time. Remmick finally set the axe aside, crossing the yard with that steady, heavy stride. His boots crunched over the dirt, his shadow falling across you as he crouched down.

“Good,” he murmured, taking the knife from your hand. He examined your work with a critical eye, then set the blade aside. His rough thumb brushed across your cheek, smearing a streak of blood you hadn’t noticed.

“You didn’t quit. That’s what matters.” You let out a shaky breath, leaning into his touch.

“I almost did.”

“But you didn’t.” His hand slipped down to catch your wrist, hauling you gently but firmly to your feet.

“Come on. We’re not leavin’ this mess for the coyotes.”

He made you walk the process with him: rinsing the knife, wrapping the cuts of meat, setting the hide aside. You fumbled, still clumsy, but he guided you through each step with calm precision, never letting you shy away. “Hold the bucket steady,” he ordered as he poured water over your hands, scrubbing them clean with his own. His grip was firm, his touch rough but deliberate, like he wanted you to feel the weight of what you’d done even as he washed the blood away. When the last of it was packed and stacked, he led you back toward the house, his hand heavy on the small of your back.

The night air bit cold, but his presence at your side was steady, anchoring. Inside, he hung the knife to dry by the hearth, then turned back to you. His eyes swept over your bloodied apron, your tired face, your aching hands.

“Not bad for your first lesson,” he said, voice edged with approval.

“You made me proud tonight. Don’t forget that.”

The words sank deep, warm despite the iron in his tone. You exhaled, exhausted but lighter somehow, knowing he wasn’t just keeping you alive — he was making you into something that could stand beside him. Inside, the fire was already snapping in the hearth, the warmth a stark contrast to the chill of the yard. Remmick tugged the bloodied apron over your head, tossing it aside, then guided you toward the wash basin. He rolled his sleeves up, his forearms streaked faintly with wood dust, and dipped the cloth into the steaming water. He scrubbed your arms and hands himself, rough but careful, like he wasn’t just cleaning you — he was reminding you that you weren’t alone in it. By the time he pressed a fresh towel into your palms, your muscles sagged with exhaustion. You leaned into him, your temple brushing his chest, and he wrapped an arm around you, guiding you toward the fire.

“Sit.”

You obeyed, curling into the blanket he draped around your shoulders. He lowered himself onto the couch beside you, the weight of him solid and grounding. For a while, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the faint hiss of the night wind outside. When he finally did speak, his voice was low, steady, but it carried iron.

“Tonight was blood and hide. Easy things. But it won’t always be.” You tilted your head up, watching his face lit in flickering gold.

“Next time,” he continued, his gaze fixed on the flames, “it won’t be deer. Or rabbit. It’ll be somethin’ bigger. Meaner. Maybe one of my kind. And when that happens, you won’t have the luxury of freezin’ or cryin’. You’ll have to choose fast, strike fast, kill fast. Or you’ll die.”

The words pressed cold into your chest, but his arm tightened around you, his warmth pulling you back from the edge of that fear. Your voice was quiet, trembling.

“And you’ll be there?” He turned, meeting your eyes. The firelight caught in his, dark and endless. His thumb brushed your cheek again, softer this time.

“Aye. I’ll be there. Always. But I won’t fight your battles for you, mo ghrá. Not if you’re askin’ me for forever. Forever means standin’ on your own feet. Even when it terrifies you.” You swallowed hard, but nodded.

“Then teach me. All of it. I don’t care how hard.” For the first time that night, something softer cracked through his expression. He pulled you into his chest, his lips pressing into your hair.

“I will. I swear it.” The fire popped, the night pressed close against the windows, and in his arms — exhausted, aching, but steadied — and safe.

Chapter Text

By the time the bell over the door chimed the next morning, your bones still ached. Your arms carried the ghost weight of the knife and the rabbit, your legs the burn of hours moving silent through the woods. The store felt too bright, too normal after the night you’d had. Mrs. Chow noticed first. She gave you a once-over as you stacked tins on the shelf.

“You look tired, dear.”

“I’m fine,” you lied, forcing a smile.

She hummed, clearly unconvinced, but let it go. The day wore on in a blur. Customers came and went, their chatter swirling like background noise. But here and there, pieces of conversation caught your ear.
“—another animal found torn up at the edge of the woods—”
“—some folks swear they saw somethin’ movin’ on the ridge at night—”
“—hunters say it’s too clean to be wolves…”

Every whisper made your stomach twist tighter. You knew what it was. You’d seen it in the woods, heard it in Remmick’s voice. But you couldn’t let it show. Not here. Not with Mrs. Chow glancing at you now and then with that quiet suspicion. By the time evening settled in, your hands were trembling as you wiped down the counter. The whispers clung to you, heavier than the smell of flour and oil. You wanted nothing more than to see Remmick’s shadow at the door, to feel his hand on your back, grounding you. But the door stayed closed. And for the first time, you wondered if the whispers weren’t just about the Pale One or the Choctaw. Maybe they were about him too The sun had long dipped below the hills by the time you locked the store.

The lanterns in town burned low, their light thin against the press of night. Your feet dragged, every step home heavier than the last, your body aching from more than just work. The air was damp, heavy with the smell of earth and pine. Every whisper you’d overheard that day seemed to follow you into the dark: torn animals, shadows on the ridge, things moving where they shouldn’t. You pulled your cardigan tighter, trying to ignore the chill that slipped beneath it. The road stretched quiet and empty, but you couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on your back. Halfway home, you glanced over your shoulder. Nothing. Only trees swaying in the wind, the moonlight cutting pale across the dirt road. Still, you quickened your pace. By the time your house came into view, your chest was tight, your breath sharp. You rushed up the steps, your hands fumbling with the lock.

The door clicked shut behind you, the sound echoing loud in the stillness. You leaned against it, eyes closed, trying to steady your breath. But even with the lock turned, even with the quiet pressing in, the unease didn’t fade. Remmick wasn’t there. And for the first time in days, you had to face the night alone. The lock clicked into place, and for a long moment you just stood there, back pressed to the door, listening. Nothing. No footsteps, no breath, no low rumble of his voice filling the silence. With a heavy exhale, you pushed yourself off the door and into the kitchen. You lit the lantern, the warm glow spilling across the table, the counters. The routine steadied you: rinsing potatoes, slicing onions, laying strips of bacon in the pan until the crackle filled the air. The scent of grease and herbs rose, drowning out the phantom smell of blood that clung to your memory.

You set the table for one. Ate in silence. Washed the dishes after. Every sound was louder without him there: the scrape of your fork, the drip of water into the basin, the creak of the house settling on its bones. You wrapped your cardigan tighter, fighting the hollow ache that pressed in harder with each hour. When the food was put away and the lamps turned down low, you moved through the rest of your night as if nothing had changed. As if you weren’t waiting for a shadow to step through the door. But when you finally climbed into bed, the emptiness beside you burned. You curled onto your side, staring at the pale moonlight bleeding through the curtains, whispering into the quiet as though he could hear you.

“Where are you, Remmick?” No answer came. Only silence.

The knock came just after midnight, heavy and uneven against the door. You froze halfway down the hall, blanket wrapped around your shoulders, breath caught in your chest.

“Open up,” came the rasp, low and frayed.

You knew that voice. You slipped the lock, pulling the door open. Remmick stood hunched in the doorway, his shirt ripped to ribbons, his chest streaked with blood. He leaned hard on the frame, his breath ragged. But you didn’t flinch.

“Come inside,” you said quietly, steady. He grunted, too proud for thanks, and let you shoulder under his arm, guiding his massive frame into the living room. The couch creaked as he dropped onto it, blood smearing the fabric.

“Stay still.” You fetched the basin, hot water, needle, and thread with practiced urgency, your hands only trembling once as you threaded the needle. His eyes followed you through the haze, half-lidded but sharp enough to catch the change. No tears. No panic. Just grim determination.

“You’ve done this before?” he rasped. You set the basin down, dipping the cloth into water before pressing it firm to the gash along his ribs. He hissed, but you didn’t waver.

“No. But I’ve mended plenty of fabric. You’re not so different.”

That almost earned a smile — almost. You cleaned, stitched, bound. Each pass of the needle sank deeper into you than into his skin. The weight of it pressed harder with every thread: He bleeds like this because of me. Because I asked for forever. Because he’s out there fighting to keep me alive. The realization settled heavy in your bones. By the time you tied the last knot and wiped your bloody hands on a rag, your throat was tight, your voice rough.

“I didn’t know… what I was asking of you.” Remmick’s eyes fixed on you, burning through the haze of pain. His hand caught your wrist, holding you there.

“You wanted my world,” he rasped, voice low but fierce.

“Now you’re seein’ it. This is what it costs. But don’t think for one damn second I’d rather you not ask. You’re worth every drop.”

The words shattered something inside you. For a moment, you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak — only sit there, his blood on your hands, your heart pounding with the dawning truth of what it meant to love him. You sat back on your heels, staring at the stitches pulling his skin together, the blood still dark against his chest. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The words came out before you could stop them, quiet but heavy.

“What if we aren’t together anymore? If you leave… then you don’t have to keep doing this for me. You can find somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe. You don’t have to bleed like this.”

For a moment, silence. His chest rose and fell, each breath rough and uneven. Then his head turned, his eyes locking on you.

“Don’t say that.” His voice was gravel, sharp and unsteady in a way you hadn’t heard before. You swallowed hard.

“I’m serious, Remmick. If I wasn’t in the picture—” His hand shot out, catching the back of your neck, pulling you closer. His eyes burned, fever-bright, panic flickering at the edges of that endless depth.

“They’ll hunt me either way,” his voice cracked. “You think they’ll let me walk? That the Choctaw or the Pale One would leave me be? No. They’ll keep comin’, forever, ‘til I’m dust.” His grip trembled against your skin, holding you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. “And I’ll be damned before I face all that without you.”

Your chest tightened, the weight of his words crashing over you. You’d meant it as mercy, as a way to free him, but the thought alone had broken him open. His thumb brushed against your throat, rough, desperate.

“Don’t ever speak like I could leave you. Don’t put that thought in my head. Because the moment I start thinkin’ I could lose you… I’ll tear the world apart tryin’ to keep you.”

For the first time, you heard it — panic beneath the growl, fear laced into every word. He wasn’t just claiming you. He was terrified of losing you. Your breath shook as his grip held you, his words searing hot against your skin. You lifted your hands, sliding them over his chest, careful of the stitches, grounding him with your touch.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, steady despite the tremor in your chest.

“You’ve got me, Remmick. I’m here.”

For a moment, his shoulders loosened, his eyes closing as if your words stitched something together inside him. His hand eased at the back of your neck, his forehead dropping against yours with a groan that sounded almost like relief. But then, softer, you pressed.

“And if I ever chose to leave?” His eyes snapped open, locking on yours, burning with something wild. The hand at your neck tightened, not cruel, but firm, unyielding.

“Don’t.” The word was rough, more plea than command. “Don’t say that to me.”

Your question lingered in the air, sharp as a blade. If I ever chose to leave? His jaw tightened, his hand still heavy at the back of your neck. For a moment, you thought he’d snap, thought the growl already building in his chest would break into something darker. But then his eyes softened — not weaker, but raw. The hand at your neck slid down, cupping your jaw with a gentleness that stole your breath.

“If you wanted to walk away,” he rasped, voice rough with something heavier than anger,

“I’d let you.” Your chest tightened, surprise breaking across your face.

“I’d never force you into chains you didn’t choose.” His thumb traced your cheekbone, trembling slightly.

“You’re not mine because I hold you. You’re mine because you stay.” The words hit harder than any growl or command.

“But…” His breath shuddered, his gaze flicking away for the first time all night, like the weight of his own words threatened to crush him.

“If you did go, it’d break me. Worse than any blade or claw. I’ve lost enough, darlin’. Too much. And I wouldn’t come back from losin’ you.”

The silence that followed was thick, aching. You reached for him, pressing your forehead to his, your voice barely a whisper.

“Then I won’t go.”

His eyes closed, his grip tightening as though anchoring himself to you, pulling you closer like he was afraid you’d vanish between heartbeats. And in that quiet, you felt it — not just the strength of him, but the fragile thread of what you meant to him. Your vow hung in the still air: Then I won’t go. His breath caught, rough, unsteady, and then his lips were on yours. Not the bruising, desperate kiss of a fight, but something slower — aching, consuming. His hand cradled your jaw like you were made of glass, even as his body pressed you close, as though he needed to feel every inch of you to believe you were real. You kissed him back just as fiercely, your fingers curling into his hair, your chest pressed against his stitched ribs. He groaned low in his throat, the sound torn between relief and hunger. When he broke away, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes half-lidded, voice ragged.

“Say it again.” Your lips brushed his as you whispered,

“I won’t go. Not ever.” Something in him broke then.

He pulled you into his lap, burying his face in your neck, breathing you in like you were the only air left in the world. His arms wrapped around you, iron tight, unyielding, but the tremor in his chest betrayed him. You held him just as tight, threading your fingers through his hair, pressing soft kisses into his temple. The fire crackled low, the night hummed outside, but here — in his arms, in his vow, in the raw ache of him — you were anchored. And when his lips finally trailed back to yours, slower this time, lingering, you let him have you — not because you were claimed, but because you chose him. Because you weren’t going anywhere. The silence between you stretched, warm now instead of heavy, your breath mingling with his as he held you close. His chest still trembled faintly beneath your hands, his grip on you iron-strong, like he didn’t quite believe you wouldn’t slip away. You tipped your head back just enough to look at him, a small, wry smile tugging at your lips.

“You know… if I’m going to stay, I’m going to have to learn how to protect you.” One of his brows arched, though his mouth stayed pressed against your temple.

“Protect me, is it?” You gave a mock-serious nod.

“That’s right. Someone’s got to keep you in one piece. Clearly you can’t manage it on your own.”

Your eyes darted to the stitches at his ribs, the bruises spreading across his chest. For a heartbeat, he only stared at you — then, with a huff that might’ve been a laugh, he shook his head.

“Cheeky thing.” But his hand slid up to your chin, tilting your face to his again, his eyes burning steady into yours.

“You’re not wrong, though. If you’re mine, you don’t just hide behind me. You’ll learn to fight. To strike when somethin’ comes at us.” The humor on your face softened, replaced by something sharper, hungrier.

“Then teach me.” His jaw tightened, his gaze raking over your features, like he was weighing the fire in your eyes against the danger clawing at his heels. Finally, he gave a low growl, pulling you closer until your lips brushed his.

“You’ll regret askin’ for that before I’m done with you.” You smiled against his mouth, your pulse racing.

“Doubt it.”

His hand tightened at your waist, and this time when he kissed you, it was slow and fierce, a promise sealed in the heat between your lips.

The yard was quiet, damp earth soft beneath your boots. The lantern on the porch cast only a faint circle of light, but Remmick didn’t seem to need more. He stood in the shadows, sleeves rolled up, shirt open at the chest where your stitches still held him together.

“Feet apart,” he said, nodding to the patch of dirt in front of him.

“Shoulder width. Balance starts there.”

You stepped into place, mimicking his stance, but your toes pointed out, your weight too far forward. He grunted, crossing the distance in two strides. His boot tapped your ankle sharply, nudging it inward.

“You’ll topple over like that.”

You bristled. “I’m standing.”

“You’re fallin’ and don’t know it yet.” His hand came down heavy on your shoulder, pressing until your weight shifted back into your heels. The sudden correction nearly sent you off balance, but his arm slid around your waist before you could stumble.

“Better. Feel that? Rooted.” You swallowed, nodding, heat prickling where his hand lingered. He stepped back, folding his arms across his chest.

“Now. Show me you can move without trippin’ over yourself.”

You tried — stepping forward, back, to the side — but it was awkward, uneven. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Christ above. You’re thinkin’ too much. Stop thinkin’. Feel the ground. Let it carry you.” When you scowled at him, he smirked faintly.

“What? Didn’t think learnin’ to fight meant me holdin’ your hand the whole way, did you?”

Your cheeks burned, but you pushed harder, adjusting your steps until your weight began to settle, your body moving with more rhythm. Finally, he gave a sharp nod.

“That’s it. Now, keep your hands up.” You lifted them, but too high, elbows flared. He stepped in close again, taking your wrists, lowering them until your fists framed your face. His breath brushed your cheek, his voice low.

“Keep ‘em here. Protect your head, always. Anything else can take a hit.”

You nodded, your pulse hammering, his rough hands warm against your skin. When he finally stepped back, his eyes lingered on you, dark and steady.

“Not bad for a start. You’ll hate me before I’m done with you, but you’ll live through it.”

And despite your aching legs and burning pride, you found yourself smiling.

“Then teach me to hate you.” The smirk that curved his mouth was sharp and dangerous.

“Gladly.” Remmick’s boots scraped softly in the dirt as he circled you, eyes sharp, voice low.

“Footwork’ll save your life more than any blade. You keep your balance, you don’t fall, you can strike. Lose it…”

He feinted a step in, making you shuffle too wide. “…and you’re done.” You grit your teeth, correcting.

“Better. Now, strikes.” He held up two fingers, tapping his throat.

“Here. Jugular. Quickest way to bleed a man out.” His hand dropped, tapping his ribs.

“Here. Soft between bone. Hard to stitch, harder to breathe.” Finally, he lifted your wrist and pressed your knuckles against his temple.

“And here. Not always deadly, but it’ll drop most if you hit clean.” Your stomach tightened, but you nodded.

“Got it.”

“Now show me.”

You moved as he’d taught: step, strike, recover. Again and again, until your arms ached, your breath ragged. He corrected you with sharp nudges, dragging your elbow in, pressing your shoulders down, forcing your stance steady. Then he pressed harder.

“Now move like you mean it. Like you’re killin’, not just dancin’.”

Something in you snapped. You struck faster, harder, feet finding rhythm in the dirt. He parried once, twice — then you slipped past, driving your fist into his side. Right where you’d stitched him. Remmick grunted, staggered back a step, his hand clamping over the wound. The sound tore the fire out of you instantly.

“Oh my God—Remmick, I’m so sorry!”

You rushed forward, reaching for him. But before you could touch, his good arm shot out, catching your wrist. With a growl, he yanked you down into the dirt, twisting until you landed hard against his chest, his weight pinning you. His breath was hot against your ear, rough with pain and something darker.

“Rule number one,”

“Never stop. Not even if you think you’ve won. You hesitate, you die.”

Your pulse hammered, your body trapped against his, the lesson sinking deeper than any strike. You swallowed hard, your voice breaking.

“You’re bleeding—” His hand slid into your hair, forcing your gaze down into his. “And I’m still faster. Don’t forget it.”

The heat in his eyes stole your breath. Even hurt, even bleeding, he was the storm — and you, tangled in it. Remmick’s grip loosened, but only so he could shove you off his chest. He pushed himself up with a rough grunt, blood seeping fresh through his shirt where your fist had landed. You scrambled to your feet, guilt still burning hot, but his eyes cut to yours like steel.

“On your feet,” he growled. “Lesson’s not over.”

“Remmick, you’re—”

“Don’t make me say it again.” You swallowed hard, then squared your stance, fists rising the way he’d shown you. His own hands came up slow, measured, but there was no mistaking the tension in his body — every line of him coiled, ready.

“Good,” he said. “Now try again.”

You moved in, hesitating at first, then faster. He parried each strike with infuriating ease, the smirk tugging at his mouth making your blood boil hotter. You struck for his ribs again, but this time he caught your wrist mid-swing, twisting until you yelped.

“Predictable,” he murmured, his breath ghosting your ear as he leaned close.

“Don’t think I won’t learn your habits faster than you learn mine.”

You grit your teeth, shoved against his chest, and pulled free. Your knuckles shot up for his jaw, grazing just enough to make his head snap to the side. His grin widened, feral.

“Better.” Sweat beaded at your temples, your breath ragged, but adrenaline sang in your veins. He was bleeding. You were shaking. And yet, for the first time, you felt the spark of what it meant to fight beside him — to fight for him.

“Again,” he ordered, already resetting his stance.

Your fists ached, your arms heavy, but Remmick didn’t ease up. He pushed harder, faster, his strikes grazing past your guard until one clipped your mouth. The sting lit your lip with fire, the metallic tang of blood flooding your tongue. You staggered, eyes watering, but instead of falling back, you planted your feet. He smirked, chest heaving.

“That all you’ve got?” Something hot snapped inside you. You surged forward, teeth gritted, fists flying. He blocked, countered, shoved you back — but you kept coming. Pain blurred into fury, into fire. And then, somehow, you slipped through. Your shoulder drove into his chest, knocking him off balance. His boots scraped hard in the dirt before he went down, the ground shuddering under his weight. You didn’t stop. You straddled his chest, your fist cocked back, knuckles trembling inches from his throat — right where he’d taught you. One clean strike, and it could’ve been over. For a heartbeat, the world went silent. His chest rose and fell beneath you, blood still staining his side, but his eyes burned up into yours — not with anger. With pride. Slowly, the corner of his mouth curved into a grin.

“There she is.” His voice was rough with exhaustion but edged with approval.

“Knew you had teeth in you.” Your fist trembled, your lip stung, your whole body shook with adrenaline — but his words rooted deep, hotter than any praise he’d given before. You let your hand drop, breathless.

“I wasn’t going to—”

“I know,” he cut in, his smirk growing. “But you could have.” His hand came up, cupping your bloodied jaw, thumb brushing over your split lip with a gentleness that broke you.

“That’s what matters.”

For the first time, you felt it — not just his strength holding you up, but his pride in you. The fight bled out of you all at once, your arm falling limp at your side. Your chest heaved, your lip throbbing with every breath, but you stayed perched over him, trembling with the aftershock of it all. Remmick didn’t move to throw you off. Instead, his hand rose, rough and warm, cupping your cheek. His thumb brushed over the blood at your lip, careful, almost reverent.

“You did good,” he murmured, the growl softened into something close to wonder. “Damn good.”

Your throat tightened, a tear sliding down your cheek despite the heat burning in your chest.

“I hurt you.” His smile deepened, slow and dangerous, but his touch never wavered.

“Aye. You did. And I’m proud of it.”

For a moment, the only sound was your ragged breathing and the distant hum of night creatures in the trees. He pushed himself up slowly, guiding you with him, until you were both on your feet again.

“Come on,” he said gently, sliding an arm around your waist when your knees threatened to give.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Inside, he sat you on the edge of the table, the firelight painting him in gold and shadow as he fetched a damp cloth. His hands were steady now, careful as he dabbed at your lip, wiping away the blood with surprising patience. You winced, but his other hand cradled the back of your neck, holding you still with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

“Split lip suits you,” he teased softly, though his eyes were steady, fierce.

“Proof you can take a hit and still stand.” You smiled despite yourself, the ache in your lip pulling at the corner of your mouth.

“Guess I’m learning.” His thumb traced the line of your jaw one last time before he leaned in, brushing a feather-light kiss against the corner of your mouth.

“You are. And I’ve never been prouder of you, mo ghrá.”

Remmick guided you to sit while he pulled his torn shirt over his head, wincing at the fresh tug of stitches. Blood had seeped through again where you’d struck him, and you bit your lip, guilt pooling hot in your chest.

“Hold still,” you murmured, taking the cloth from his hand.

He gave you a look — equal parts warning and surrender — before letting you press the damp fabric to his ribs. The silence stretched, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the faint hiss of water as you wrung out the cloth again and again. You cleaned his chest, careful not to pull the stitches, your hands steady despite the ache in your arms. When you were done, he took the cloth back without a word and returned the favor, dabbing gently at the sweat and dirt on your face, wiping the streak of blood from your chin. His touch lingered at your jaw, his thumb brushing light over your split lip, softer than before. Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to.

Later, he carried you upstairs, both of you stripped of fight and fury, washed clean of blood. He tucked you against him beneath the sheets, your head on his chest, his arm heavy and warm around your waist. His breath slowed, deep and steady, and you felt yourself matching it, the rise and fall of his body anchoring you. For the first time in days, maybe weeks, there was no storm clawing at the edges of your thoughts. Just the quiet beat of his heart beneath your ear, the warmth of his skin, the way he held you like he’d never let you go. Sleep took you both in the same breath, deep and dreamless, wrapped in the peace of each other. 

Chapter Text

The sun hadn’t climbed far when you stirred, warmth still pressed against your back, Remmick’s arm heavy over your waist. For a moment, you thought about staying — curling back into his chest, letting the quiet linger. But duty tugged. You slid out carefully, leaving him tangled in the sheets. He didn’t stir, only murmured low in his sleep, turning into the pillow. You smiled faintly before washing up and slipping into a simple dress for work. By the time you arrived at the store, Mr. Chow was sweeping the porch. He paused when he saw you, his brow furrowing.

“Miss, your lip…” Mrs. Chow appeared behind him, her eyes narrowing with concern.

“What happened?” Your hand brushed self-consciously at your mouth, heat rushing into your cheeks.

“Oh, that? Got into a fight with a shelf that didn’t want to stay in place.” You gave a playful shrug. “Shelf won.”

Mr. Chow chuckled despite himself, shaking his head. But Mrs. Chow’s smile was softer, more knowing. Her eyes lingered on you a moment longer before she patted your shoulder.

“Be careful, dear.” You nodded, heart warming under her gaze.

She didn’t press. She didn’t need to. When you came home that evening, lantern light spilling across the porch, you expected to find him by the fire, maybe sharpening his knife or stretched lazy across the couch. the cool night air still clinging to your dress. You expected the room to be empty, quiet the way it usually was when he kept to the shadows.

Instead, Remmick sat at the kitchen table, elbows braced on the wood, eyes fixed on you the moment you stepped inside. Your brow furrowed.

“What are you doing?”

That’s when you saw it — a leather travel bag sitting on the floor beside his chair, neat and ready. Your pulse jumped.

“What’s this?” His mouth curved, slow and certain.

“Your bag. Packed.” You blinked.

“Packed for what?” He leaned back in his chair, watching your reaction like it amused him.

“For takin’ you away, darlin’. Just a couple nights. Into the city.” Your lips parted, caught somewhere between protest and excitement.

“The city?”

“Aye.” His grin deepened, and there was a flicker in his eyes — something mischievous, almost boyish.

“We’ll go drinkin’. Dancin’. Nice dinners, bright lights. And while we’re at it, I’ll teach you the rest — how to watch a room without lookin’ like you are, how to vanish in plain sight if trouble comes.”

You shook your head, still stunned.

“You’re serious?”

“As death,” he said, leaning forward again, his forearms braced on the table. His voice dropped low, the growl warm this time.

“Talk to Mrs. Chow in the mornin’. Tell her you need a few days off. She’ll understand.”

Your chest tightened, the rush of it sparking through your veins. The bag. The city. His eyes on you, steady and certain. You managed a breathless laugh, shaking your head.

“You don’t give me much choice, do you?” He smirked, tilting his head.

“You’ll thank me when you’re spinnin’ across a dance floor with the best whiskey in your hand.”

The next morning, you stood by the store’s telephone, twisting the cord between your fingers as Mrs. Chow tidied shelves behind the counter.

“Mrs. Chow?” you asked, hesitating.

“Would it be alright if I took a few days off? Just… need a little time away.”

She looked up, her sharp eyes softening as they flicked to the faint cut still healing on your lip.

“A trip?” You nodded quickly, keeping your voice light.

“Just for the weekend. Nothing big.” For a moment, she said nothing. Then her mouth curved into a knowing smile.

“Go. We’ll manage just fine without you for a few days.”

Relief swept through you, and you thanked her before stepping out into the sunlight.

By the time the sun dipped low behind the trees, Remmick was already waiting at the train station. You slid into the seat, the small bag he’d packed for you tucked underneath. His hand rested casually on your leg, but his eyes glittered when they caught yours.

“Ready?” he asked. You smiled, the nervous excitement fizzing in your chest.

“As I’ll ever be.” The ride stretched long, the forest giving way to rolling roads and then the faint glow of lights on the horizon. By the time you crested the last hill, the city unfurled below you — lamps and windows sparkling like fallen stars, the hum of life pulsing through the streets. Your breath caught.

“Oh, Remmick…” His grin was sharp, pleased.

“Told you. Somethin’ different.”

He didn’t stop at just different. The hotel towered above the busy street, gleaming white stone and gilded trim catching the lamplight. Inside, velvet drapes and marble floors stretched wide, chandeliers glittering overhead. The clerk at the desk didn’t so much as blink at Remmick’s presence; his silver tongue and heavier coin smoothed every detail. By the time he led you upstairs, your hand tucked firmly in his, the elevator doors opened to a suite that stole your breath all over again. High ceilings, soft carpets, a balcony overlooking the city’s heart. A bed big enough to drown in. Remmick watched you take it all in, his arms folding as a smirk tugged at his mouth.

“Nothin’ but the best for my girl.” Your chest warmed, your eyes shining as you turned back to him.

“Remmick… this is…”

“Just the beginnin’,” he finished for you, his voice promising.

The city was alive under the lamps, music spilling faint from open doorways, laughter rolling from packed streets. Remmick walked with you close at his side, one hand resting light at the small of your back, steering you with the same quiet authority he always did.

“Thought we were going straight to dinner,” you murmured as he slowed near a row of boutiques, light spilling from their windows.

“Patience.” His smirk curved as he tipped his chin toward one particular window.

Your breath caught. There it was — sleek black satin draped on a mannequin, the fabric catching the light like water. A plunging V-neckline skimmed daringly low, while one side slit high enough to bare a flash of thigh. It was scandalous by small-town standards, but here, in the city’s glow, it was breathtaking. Your voice wavered.

“That’s—”

“Yours.” You turned, startled. His eyes were already on you, dark and certain, his jaw set like the decision had been made long before you even saw it.

“I won’t have you hidin’ in pale dresses when we’re walkin’ into the dark,” he murmured, stepping closer, his voice low enough for only you.

“You’ll shine brighter in black than anythin’ white could ever do.”

Your pulse fluttered, your eyes dropping to the dress again, imagining the satin against your skin, the slit revealing more than you ever dared before.

“And you?” you asked, trying to steady your voice. “What about you?”

His smirk sharpened. “You’ll see.”

The bell above the boutique door chimed as you stepped inside, the soft rustle of silk and satin surrounding you. The clerk’s eyes flicked between the two of you — your hesitant steps, Remmick’s steady hand at your back, the way his presence seemed to fill the room. He didn’t ask. He just pointed.

“That one in the window.” The clerk bustled to fetch it, draping the black satin carefully over her arm before ushering you toward the fitting room. You paused, glancing back at him.

“What if it doesn’t fit?” Remmick leaned against the counter, arms folded, his grin slow and dangerous.

“It will.”

The curtain closed behind you, and you slipped into the dress. The fabric was cool against your skin, sliding over your shoulders, hugging your waist, pooling down your thighs until the slit revealed more than you’d ever dared. The deep V neckline left you bare in ways that made your pulse quicken. When you finally stepped out, the clerk gasped softly — but all you saw was Remmick. His arms dropped, his chest rising as his eyes dragged over you, slow and unashamed. For a moment, silence stretched, the air thick between you.

“Remmick,” you whispered, uncertain. His tongue swept over his bottom lip, his voice low and rough.

“Christ, darlin’… you’re gonna ruin me.” Heat flooded your cheeks, your heart pounding under his stare. You shifted, the slit in the dress parting further, and his jaw clenched, his knuckles tightening on the counter as though he had to hold himself there. The clerk coughed politely, breaking the spell.

“And shoes, sir?” He blinked, then smirked.

“Aye. She’ll need heels.”

Within minutes, you were slipping into a pair of black satin pumps, the straps delicate against your ankles. You caught your reflection in the mirror — black on black, dangerous and elegant, a stranger and yourself all at once. Remmick came up behind you, his reflection looming over your shoulder, his voice a growl in your ear.

“Perfect.” Your knees went weak, but his hand steadied at the small of your back.

“We’ll take both,” he told the clerk without looking away from you.

Back at the hotel, Remmick unlocked the suite with a flourish, holding the door as you slipped inside, the garment bag slung over his arm. He laid it across the bed and unbuttoned his vest, rolling his sleeves with slow, deliberate movements.

“You’ve got twenty minutes,” he said, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “I’ll be ready before you.”

You laughed under your breath, but your heart thudded as you slipped behind the folding screen, trading your plain day dress for satin. The black clung in all the right places, the slit flashing bare thigh with every shift of your hips. The shoes added just enough height to change your stride. From the other side of the screen came the sound of movement — leather, buttons, the scrape of metal. Curiosity tugged. You peeked out just as Remmick stood at the dresser, fastening his vest over a crisp white shirt. His sleeves were rolled high on his forearms, veins and muscle shifting under the taut skin, the lamplight catching in the dark hair dusting his arms. Suspenders framed his broad shoulders, his trousers pressed sharp. Rugged power dressed in polish.

You froze, caught by the sight of him. Not just his strength, not just his presence — but the fact that he’d done this for you. Your heart hammered, heat pooling low in your belly. For once, he hadn’t seen you yet, and you let yourself stare — drinking in every line, every sharp edge, every bit of restraint wrapped around the storm you knew was still there. As though he felt your eyes, he turned. And then he saw you. The garment bag slipped forgotten from his hand, his gaze dragging over you slow and searing. Black satin, bare skin, legs framed by the slit. For a moment, silence stretched thick enough to choke.

"Darlin’…” His voice came out rough, almost reverent. “You look like sin walked out of heaven.”

Your cheeks burned as you crossed the room, smoothing your hands nervously over the satin.

“You clean up pretty well yourself.” The satin clung to you like a secret, every shift of your hips flashing thigh through the slit.

Remmick’s gaze followed every inch, heavy and searing, until you thought your knees might give. He crossed the room slow, vest snug, sleeves rolled high. When his hand finally slid along your waist, rough fingers grazing the edge of satin, you shivered.

“You’ve no idea what you’re doin’ to me,” he murmured, voice a rasp at your ear. Your breath caught.

“Then show me.” He chuckled, dangerous, and pressed you back against the dresser, his body caging yours.

His lips ghosted over your throat, your jaw, your mouth, never giving you more than a taste. His hand trailed down, stopping just at the slit in your dress, fingers brushing the bare skin of your thigh. You gasped, heat pooling low, your body arching toward his. And then he pulled back. “Not yet.” His smirk was wicked as he adjusted his cuff, stepping away.

“Dinner first. Lesson after.” You stared at him, breathless, trembling with frustration, and he grinned like the devil himself.

“Patience, mo ghrá. I’ll make it worth your while.”

The restaurant glowed gold, all velvet curtains and chandeliers dripping with light. A waiter led you past glittering couples to a shadowed corner, where a single candle flickered between crystal glasses. Remmick slid your chair out with old-world grace, then took the seat opposite, the smirk never leaving his lips. As the courses came, he leaned close, his voice low.

“Now watch.” His eyes flicked toward a table across the room — a man laughing too loudly, his hand clenched white on his wine glass.

“See the hand? Tension. He’s lyin’ through his teeth.”

You followed his gaze, heart racing from more than just the lesson. Another subtle nod — a woman two tables over, her eyes darting to the door every few breaths.

“She’s waitin’ on someone she don’t trust. Shoulders stiff. If it was a lover, she’d be leanin’ back, not forward.” His hand brushed your knee under the table, grounding you, making your pulse stutter.

“People tell on themselves without ever speakin’. All you’ve got to do is listen with your eyes.”

You swallowed, nodding, though it was hard to focus with the heat of his fingers trailing slow circles on your thigh beneath the satin.

“And that’s your first lesson,” he said, voice velvet and steel.

“The best hunter doesn’t chase. They watch. They learn. Then they strike.”

The candlelight flickered between you, gilding his sharp cheekbones, catching the faint gleam of his beard. Remmick leaned back in his chair, casual to anyone watching, but under the table his hand slid higher along your thigh, calloused fingers brushing bare skin just above the slit. Your breath caught.

“Eyes on me,” he murmured. “What do you see?”

You tried — really tried — but the heat of his touch scrambled every thought. You glanced toward the center of the room where a polished couple sat, too stiff, too posed.

“The man… he’s… forcing it. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.” Remmick’s thumb traced a slow circle against your thigh, making your voice falter.

“Good. And the woman?” You swallowed hard, dragging your gaze back to her. Satin gloves clenched too tightly in her lap, knuckles white beneath the silk.

“She’s… nervous. Wants to leave.” “Mm.” His hand pressed firmer, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re learnin’, darlin’.”

The waiter arrived with the next course, steam curling off porcelain. Remmick shifted back smoothly, lifting his wine glass like nothing at all was happening. You could barely steady your fork, the heat still buzzing low in your belly, your pulse racing. But the moment the waiter disappeared, his hand was back — higher, bolder. He leaned forward, voice a husky rasp meant only for you.

“Now… the table by the door. The man in the grey suit. Tell me what he’s hidin’.”

You nearly choked, your cheeks burning as you forced yourself to look. The man’s napkin was folded too neat, his gaze darting often toward the bar. You struggled to focus with Remmick’s hand sliding closer to dangerous territory, but you clenched your jaw, steadying your breath.

“He’s… waiting. For someone. No—watching. He’s not relaxed. He’s… scouting.” Remmick’s eyes darkened with pride, his grin wicked.

“Good girl.” His thumb stroked higher, and you bit back a gasp. He smirked, leaning back again, his tone deceptively mild.

“See? You can think, even when I’m pushin’ you to lose it. That’s what’ll keep you alive. Never let the world know what’s got its claws in you."

The wine flowed through dinner, rich and heady, softening the edges of the candlelit lessons. You found yourself stealing glances over your glass, emboldened by the warmth blooming in your chest. Each time, Remmick caught you, the smirk tugging at his lips telling you he knew exactly what the wine was doing. Between bites, he whispered more truths. Who was lying. Who was desperate. Who was watching for a chance to slip away. Every detail sharpened your senses, until you realized how much the room gave away if you only knew how to look.

By the time you left the restaurant, the city night was buzzing, neon lamps and jazz spilling from club doors. Remmick’s hand never left your back as he steered you inside one, the air thick with smoke and brass. You hesitated at the bar, nerves twisting, but he pressed a tumbler into your hand. Amber liquid sloshed under the lights.

“Whiskey,” he said, eyes glinting. “Takes the edge off.”

You downed more than you meant to, the burn chasing through your chest, leaving your skin flush and your steps a little unsteady. He caught your elbow, chuckling low.

“Careful, mo ghrá. Don’t want you disappearin’ too quick.”

Then he led you onto the floor. The crowd swirled, couples twisting fast to the trumpet’s cry, others swaying slow in the shadows. Remmick pulled you close, his hand firm at your back, his other clasping your hand tight. The whiskey’s heat tangled with the warmth of his body, and you melted into the rhythm. His lips brushed your ear.

“Lesson two. Blend in. Let ‘em see what they expect to see. A girl dancin’ with her man. Nothin’ more.” Your eyes darted nervously around the room, but his voice stayed steady.

“Good. Now… let go. Watch without watchin’. Feel without showin’.”

The music shifted to something slower, sultry. He drew you tighter, your thigh brushing his through the slit of satin. His palm pressed firm at your spine, holding you flush against him. The whole world blurred into smoke and brass, your pulse thundering. Then his tone sharpened, command slipping through the velvet.

“Stay where I can see you,” he murmured, his thumb stroking the line of your hip.

“Practice. Don’t vanish from me — not tonight.” Your breath caught, the whiskey buzzing in your veins, your body pliant against his. You nodded, lips parting on a shaky whisper.

“Yes, Remmick.” The music slowed to something darker, the sax curling low and sweet. Remmick’s hand slid lower on your back, tugging you flush until the satin of your dress whispered against his trousers. The slit rode higher with every step, your bare thigh brushing his with each sway. You gasped softly when his thigh slid between yours, guiding you through the rhythm. His lips hovered just over your ear, his breath hot.

“Eyes up. Smile. No one here knows you’re burnin’.”

The whiskey fizzed in your veins, the heat of him dizzying. Your fingers clenched at his shoulders, your body arching closer, pressing into every command of his hips. Then he leaned back just enough for his eyes to lock on yours, sharp even in the haze.

“Now. Show me you can disappear.”

You hesitated, then slipped from his arms into the swell of bodies, weaving through the crowd. At first, you felt clever, ducking behind couples, letting shadows swallow you. But the room was too thick, the smoke too heavy, your head swimming with liquor. You turned — and he was gone. Panic shot through you. The walls pressed close, the brass too loud. You stumbled toward the door, desperate for air. The press of bodies grew suffocating. The lights dizzy. The whiskey burned too hot. You burst out into the night air. The door behind you opened behind you almost at once. A man spilled out into the alley, not drunk, not lost — following.

“Easy there, sweetheart,” he drawled, grin crooked as he leaned against the wall.

“Pretty thing like you shouldn’t be out here alone.” Your stomach dropped.

“I’m fine,” you said tightly, trying to move past. He blocked your path, eyes gleaming.

“Nah. Don’t look fine to me. Lemme help you out.” His hand reached for your arm.

The panic flared into fire. Every lesson Remmick had drilled into you snapped into place — balance, strike, finish. Your fist cracked into his ribs with all the strength you had. The sound was sharp, sickening. The man staggered back, wheezing. And then a shadow filled the doorway. Remmick. He stepped into the alley like a storm, eyes glowing, jaw clenched. The man froze, fear flashing before he bolted, clutching his side as he vanished into the night. Silence fell heavy. You stood trembling, your knuckles throbbing, chest heaving. Remmick’s gaze locked on you — pride and fury warring in his eyes, his voice a low growl.

“You cracked his ribs.” He stalked closer, every step deliberate. “Good. But you let him follow you out.” His hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face up to his.

“I told you to stay where I could see you.” His thumb brushed your lip, his grip on your jaw just firm enough to make your pulse race. His eyes were dark fire, his voice low enough to scrape against your bones.

“I told you to stay where I could see you,” he said again, slower this time, dangerous in its restraint. You swallowed hard.

“I—”

“Shhh.” His thumb pressed lightly against your mouth.

“Not here. Not now.”

He released you with a sharp flick of his fingers, stepping back just enough to let air fill your lungs again. The fury in him hadn’t lessened, but he wrapped it tight, banked it low. His hand found your waist, steering you back toward the club with the same unshakable authority he’d used all night. The crowd swallowed you both again, music and smoke thick around you. To anyone watching, you were just a couple rejoining the dance floor, your body tucked neatly under his arm. But inside, you were shaking — not just from the whiskey, not just from the fight, but from the promise unspoken in his eyes. When he leaned down, lips brushing your ear, the words were velvet and steel.

“You’ll answer for it when we’re alone.” Your knees nearly buckled, heat flooding through you as you nodded, breathless.

“Yes, Remmick.”

“Good girl.”

Chapter Text

The night air was cool against your flushed skin as you left the club, laughter and jazz still ringing faint behind you. The whiskey sat warm in your belly, loosening every edge, filling you with a giddy lightness you hadn’t felt in years. The satin clung to your thighs as you slipped your shoes off, dangling them from your hand before bolting a few steps ahead.

“Remmick,” you called back, voice breathless with laughter, “you’re too slow!”

His low chuckle carried down the quiet street.

“Darlin’, you’re drunk.”

“Maybe.”
You twirled, the slit of your dress flashing, your bare feet whispering against the pavement. The city lights painted your hair gold, your smile wide, unguarded.

“But I feel alive.”

You skipped ahead again, half-running, your giggles echoing off brick and stone. For a moment, it felt like the danger, the shadows, the lessons had all melted into nothing but this — the warmth of whiskey, the cool night, the man watching you with fire in his eyes. When you glanced back, Remmick was only a few steps behind, his sleeves rolled high, vest unbuttoned, his gaze fixed on you. Not angry, not yet. But controlled — simmering with the promise of what would come once the hotel door closed. You slowed as the glowing sign of the hotel came into view, your laughter softening into a smile, your breath quick. He caught up in two strides, his hand wrapping firm around your wrist.

“Enough playin’,” he murmured, voice low and rough, his thumb stroking your pulse where it beat fast.

“Get upstairs.”

The words sent a shiver racing down your spine — half command, half promise. You nodded, suddenly aware of your bare feet, the wildness in your chest, the heat of his grip. And as he led you inside, every step echoed with anticipation. The elevator hummed as it carried you both up, your head tipping against Remmick’s shoulder, your shoes dangling loosely from your hand. He steadied you with an arm firm around your waist, guiding you through the hall to your suite. Inside, the city’s glow spilled through the tall windows, painting the room in silver and gold. Remmick set your shoes gently by the door before steering you toward the bed.

“Sit,” he murmured, and you obeyed, satin pooling around your thighs as you perched on the edge of the mattress.

He crouched in front of you, his big hands sliding down your calves, fingers brushing away the dust from your bare feet. The simple touch made your breath catch.

“You’ll cut yourself runnin’ round like that,” he scolded softly, though his eyes warmed as they lingered on you. Your lips curved in a sleepy smile.

“I was having fun.”

“I know.”

He pressed a kiss to your knee, his beard scratching lightly.

“But you’ve had too much whiskey to know when to stop.”

You laughed, but it faltered when his gaze lifted again, sharp and heavy. He leaned closer, one hand cupping your jaw. His thumb brushed across your cheekbone, smudging the faint shimmer there. Remmick straightened, his gaze never leaving yours as he shrugged out of his vest. He laid it across the chair with care, deliberate in every movement.

“Tell me,” he said quietly, unhooking his suspenders one by one.

“Why are you sittin’ here waitin’ on me?” You swallowed hard, pulse racing.

“Because… because I disobeyed you.” His nod was slow, approving. The suspenders slid from his shoulders, his hands flexing as he set them aside.

“Go on.” Your thighs pressed together, satin shifting under his stare.

“You told me to stay where you could see me. And I didn’t. I left the floor.” He leaned down, unlacing his boots, the scrape of leather loud in the silence.

“What happened when you slipped away?” You bit your lip, shame mixing with the lingering fire of whiskey in your veins.

“I was followed. Out into the alley. I… I fought him off.” His boots hit the floor with a heavy thud. He rose to his full height, towering over you, shirt sleeves rolled tight against his forearms, his gaze dark and steady.

“You did,” he agreed, voice low, almost proud.

“Cracked his ribs clean. But you made yourself prey first.” Your cheeks burned as you dropped your gaze.

“I know.” Two fingers caught your chin, tipping your face back up. His eyes bore down into yours, unreadable but burning.

“Say it plain, darlin’.”

Your voice trembled. “I disobeyed you. I put myself in danger.”

A slow smile curved his mouth — not gentle, not cruel, but full of dangerous promise.

“Good girl. Now we can start.”

He let his hand linger under your chin a moment longer, thumb brushing your lip before he straightened, unbuckling his belt with a slow, deliberate pull. The leather hissed as it slid free of the loops, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Stand up,” he ordered, voice rough velvet.

Your knees shook as you obeyed, the satin of your dress clinging tight. He looped the belt in his hands, folding it once, testing the weight. Then, with a smirk, he trailed the length of it between your thighs, pressing the leather against the heat of you through the satin. Your breath hitched, hips jerking as he dragged it slow, back and forth. His grin sharpened.

“Wet already, darlin’? For punishment?” You whimpered, unable to answer, and his chuckle rumbled deep.

“Aye, I thought so.” He stepped behind you, the belt snapping lightly against your thigh, a promise.

“Bend over the bed.”

The first strike landed sharp, heat blooming across your skin. The crack of the leather against your skin echoed through the room. You gasped, clutching the sheets, but before the sting faded his hand was smoothing over the mark, gentle, grounding. Then another strike. And another. Each one sharper, each one soothed after by his rough palm. Tears streamed down your cheek as sobs poured from your lips. He watched in awe as the redness spread across your cheeks. All for him, he needed this just as much as you did. By the time he pulled you upright, your legs trembled. He turned you, pressing the belt to your lips this time, his eyes dark.

“Open.”

You obeyed, and he slid the leather between your teeth, guiding your jaw until you took it deeper. Then, with a twist of his wrist, the belt cinched snug around your throat.

“On your knees,”

You sank down, satin pooling around you, your breath shallow against the leather collar he’d made. He freed himself with a rough tug, his hand gripping the belt at your throat as he slid his cock between your lips. The stretch made you gag, tears springing as he pressed deeper, but his other hand stroked your cheek, steady.

“That’s it. Take it. Open that pretty throat.” Each thrust was controlled, testing, the belt tight in his fist. You choked, tears streaking your painted face, mascara smudging — exactly as he wanted. When he finally pulled back, letting you gasp for air, he loosened the belt just enough to stroke your jaw. His voice was low, proud, dangerous.

“You’ll learn, mo ghrá. Every mistake makes you mine all over again.”

The belt was still snug at your throat when he hauled you closer, the leather biting lightly into your skin as he guided your mouth back to him. His cock pressed hot and heavy against your lips, and before you could brace, he pushed deep. The belt tightened, his fist holding you steady as his hips drove forward. You gagged, throat straining, eyes watering, but his growl rumbled low as he held you there.

“Take me,” his, voice sharp with command. “All of me. Be a good girl for me.”

Your nails dug into your thighs as he thrust harder, the belt pulling you flush against him, every inch of him filling you until you couldn’t breathe. Tears streamed down your cheeks, black streaks marking your skin as your mascara ran. He watched every second, his eyes dark, feral, hungry. The sound of him using you was obscene — wet, desperate, your choked gasps muffled by the thick stretch of him down your throat. The leather creaked in his hand as he pulled tighter, controlling your every breath, your every movement. When you thought you’d break, he slowed — loosening the belt just enough for you to gasp. His thumb brushed your wet cheek, voice softer but no less commanding.

“So good baby. You’ll learn to take it. To give me everything.”

Then, with a sharp thrust, he was back in your throat, harder, deeper, until your vision blurred and your body trembled from the raw intensity of it. Finally, when he let you go, you collapsed against his thigh, gasping for air, the belt still warm at your throat. He crouched, rough hands smoothing over your hair, his lips brushing your temple.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, the growl gentling into something softer.

“And I’ll always put you back together after I break you.”

He lifted you easily, laying you across the bed, the belt slipping loose at last. His mouth replaced the leather — kissing, soothing, grounding — until the burn of punishment melted into warmth, into aftercare only he could give. You were sprawled on the sheets, your body trembling, makeup smeared from his belt and his cock. Remmick’s hands steadied you, his mouth soothing across your skin as his growl softened. Then his eyes locked on yours, sharp and deliberate.

“You trust me, mo ghrá?” Your breath caught.

“Yes.” He stroked his thumb over your lip, voice a rasp.

“Then you’ll listen. If I take you further tonight… you give me a word. One word that stops everythin’. You say it, I stop. No questions, no hesitation.”

Your chest rose and fell, fast.

“What word?”

His smirk was soft, almost tender.

“Anything you’ll remember, even when your mind’s gone. Somethin’ simple.” You swallowed.

“Red.”

“Aye.” His grin curved sharp, approval in his eyes.

“Red it is. You give me that, and we’re done. You understand?”

“Yes.”

He kissed you slow, then trailed down your body, his mouth hot and wet as he buried himself between your thighs. His tongue worked rough and steady, his fingers sliding into you — one, then two, then three, stretching you wide until you gasped, your body arching. Wetness poured down your thighs, his growl vibrating against your clit. You came hard, squirting over his hand, crying out his name. He didn’t stop. He pushed you through it, made you take it until your thighs trembled and your vision blurred. When he finally pulled back, his beard damp, his eyes were molten. His fingers trailed lower, pressing gently against a place you’d never been touched before. You tensed, instinctive.

“Easy,” he murmured, his hand steady on your hip.

“Nothin’ happens without your word. You trust me?”

“Yes,” you whispered, shaking, needy.

He smirked, kissing the inside of your knee before circling that tight ring with slick fingers. Slow. Patient. Letting you feel the stretch, the burn, until it softened into something else. He worked you open with one then two fingers, steady, whispering low praise against your skin.

“That’s it… relax for me. You’re mine. Every inch. Let me take care of you.”

By the time he pressed the head of his cock there, you were trembling, asshole stretched and aching — but ready. He met your gaze, giving you one last out.

And when you nodded, whispering “please,” he pushed inside.

His cock pressed firm against you, stretching the ring he’d worked open with patient, slick fingers. The burn was sharp, unfamiliar, making your breath stutter.

“Breathe, mo ghrá,” he rasped, his thumb stroking your hip, his other hand braced tight on your thigh to steady you.

“I’ve got you. Let me in slow.”

You whimpered, nails digging into the sheets, but you obeyed — drawing in a shaky breath as he pushed deeper, inch by inch. The pain twisted, raw and hot, but with it came a dizzying fullness that stole the air from your lungs. “

Good girl,” he murmured, sweat beading on his brow from holding himself back.

“So fucking tight, you’re takin’ me better than I dreamed.” You gasped, eyes watering, but you shook your head when he hesitated.

“Don’t stop. Please… don’t stop.” His jaw clenched, a low growl breaking loose as he sank deeper, seating himself fully inside you. The stretch was overwhelming, almost unbearable — but when his hand slid down to circle your clit, the sharpness blurred into a rush of white-hot sensation. You cried out, your body convulsing, clenching around him.

“That’s it,” he groaned, hips starting to move in short, steady thrusts.

“Feel me. Take all of me.” Each stroke was harder, deeper, pushing you open, pulling sounds from your throat you didn’t know you could make. The sting and the fullness tangled until you couldn’t tell where the pain ended and the pleasure began. Your body shook, tears streaking your face, your voice breaking.

“Remmick— I— I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he snarled, dragging the belt from the floor and looping it loosely around your throat again, pulling you up against his chest.

“You’re mine. Every part. Give it to me.” His thrusts grew rougher, punishing, his hand relentless on your clit until the pressure snapped. You screamed as release tore through you, squirting over his hand, your body milking him even as he drove harder into your ass.

“Fuck—” he groaned, burying himself deep, his teeth sinking into your shoulder — not breaking skin, not yet, just marking you as his while he spilled inside you. You collapsed against the sheets, trembling, the belt slipping free. He stayed close, holding you, grounding you with soft kisses against your damp hair.

“Proud of you,” he murmured, his voice ragged but tender.

“Took me so well. My perfect girl.”

The pain still hummed, but wrapped in his arms, the aftershocks melting into warmth, you felt it — every inch of you, claimed. Remmick laid you down, your body trembling against his chest. The sting still hummed through your skin, but his hands were steady, gentle, with care.

“Shhh,” he murmured, brushing his lips against your temple.

“I’ve got you.”

He sat beside you, tilting your chin up with two fingers, his touch softer than it had been all night. With slow, deliberate strokes, he wiped away the smudges of black around your eyes, the streaks down your cheeks. Your lashes fluttered.

“Remmick… my dress…”

His gaze flicked to the satin crumpled, torn and rumpled from sweat and tears. His smirk curved, half tender, half wicked.

“Ruined,” he said simply. “I’ll buy you another. Better. Blacker. You’ll shine in it.”

A shaky laugh broke from you, comfort loosening your chest despite everything. When the last traces of paint were gone, he slid the dress carefully down your body, easing you out of it with a reverence that made you ache. He drew the blanket up over you, tucking it snug against your shoulders, his rough hands smoothing the covers as though to shield you from the world.

“Sleep, mo ghrá,” he whispered. “You need it.”

But when you turned toward the pillows, he reached into his vest pocket.

“Not yet. I’ve somethin’ for you.” From a small leather case, worn at the edges, he drew out a delicate gold chain. At its center hung a single charm, tiny and understated, etched with an R no larger than your fingernail. Your breath caught.

“Remmick…”

He fastened it around your throat, fingers brushing the curve of your neck where his belt had rested earlier. His voice dropped low, rough with meaning.

“Now you carry me with you. Even when I’m not there.” Your hand rose to touch the charm, heart hammering, eyes blurring.

“It’s beautiful.” His lips curved faint, private.

“No, darlin’. You are.”

Sleep pulled you down with the chain warm against your skin, his arms tight around you, his body a fortress that let you finally, finally rest.

Sunlight slipped through the tall curtains, gilding the hotel suite in pale gold. You woke slow, the dainty chain resting cool against your skin, Remmick’s arm heavy across your waist. He stirred when you shifted, his voice rough from sleep.

“Stay put, mo ghrá.”

Minutes later, there was a knock at the door, and soon a silver tray was set before you both — eggs, fresh bread, fruit glistening, coffee steaming, champagne already chilled in ice. Remmick lounged against the headboard, shirtless, the sheets low on his hips. He poured two glasses, passing you one with a smirk.

“To survivin’ each other,” he said. You laughed, clinking your glass against his before biting into warm bread, the butter melting on your tongue. Between sips and bites, he fed you from his plate, teasing when you tried to steal from his. Later, steam fogged the mirrors in the bathroom as he filled the enormous marble tub. You slid in first, the bubbles swallowing your bare skin. When Remmick joined, the water lapped high, his broad chest slick under the foam, muscles shifting as he settled behind you. For the first time, you had him like this — not hidden under rolled sleeves and shadows, not half-dressed and guarded, but laid bare. The scars across his ribs, the long lines of muscle, the sharp contrast of strength and stillness. Your eyes lingered, and he noticed. His grin was wicked, but his tone softened.

“Staring, sweetheart?” You blushed, but didn’t look away.

“Just… seeing you.” His hand slid around your waist, pulling you back against him, his lips brushing your damp hair.

“Then look as long as you want. You’re the only one who gets to.”

You drank champagne together, the bubbles popping against your lips, your laughter mingling in the steam. For a while, the world beyond the city walls disappeared. No vampires, no hunters. Just him, you, and the water cradling you both. The steam curled high, bubbles clinging to your shoulders as you shifted against him. Remmick leaned back in the tub, eyes half-lidded, champagne glass dangling carelessly in one hand, as if perfectly content to let the world fall away. For once, you studied him without fear or haste — the long muscles of his chest, the sharp planes of his jaw softened by the steam, the scars written across him like a history only you were being allowed to read. He caught you staring again, that crooked grin tugging his lips.

“You’ve a look in your eye, baby.” You set your glass aside, turning to straddle his lap, water lapping high against your skin.

“Maybe I want to take care of you this time.”

His brow arched, surprise flickering before it melted into heat.

“Do you now?”

You sank down slow, guiding him inside you, the water rippling as you gasped at the stretch. It wasn’t the brutal pace of the night before — it was languid, steady, a rhythm meant to savor. Your hands pressed to his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your palms. Remmick’s head tipped back against the porcelain, a growl rumbling low in his throat. His hands gripped your hips, but he didn’t take control — not this time.

“Fuck…” he hissed, eyes burning into yours. “Look at you. Ridin’ me like you were made for it.”

You rocked slow, bubbles sliding down your body, your chain catching the faint light as you moved. Every shift pressed you tighter around him, your pleasure building in waves that had nothing to do with punishment or restraint — just closeness. His hand slid up your spine, cradling the back of your neck as he pulled you down for a kiss, his lips softer than you’d ever felt them.

“My girl,” he murmured against your mouth, voice breaking into reverence.

“Always mine.”

You rode him until both of you shuddered, the water sloshing around the tub, your moans muffled in his shoulder. And when you collapsed against him, trembling, his arms wrapped tight around you, anchoring you in the warmth of water and love that felt like it might just last forever. The water lapped softly against porcelain, bubbles clinging and popping as you lay draped over his chest. Your lips brushed his lazily, champagne sweet between your mouths. For a while, it was quiet — only the hum of the city beyond the window and the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. But your thoughts stirred, heavier than the bubbles and the warmth could wash away.

“Remmick?” you whispered, fingers tracing the scars across his ribs.

“Aye?” His voice was rough, half-lidded with contentment. You hesitated, then lifted your eyes to his.

“Do you ever think about… what happens if we don’t make it through this? If the Choctaw, or your clan, or…” Your throat tightened. “If one of them wins?”

His gaze sharpened, the smirk fading into something heavier. He cupped your cheek, thumb brushing the chain at your throat.

“Darlin’, I’ve been hunted longer than you’ve been alive. And I’ll bleed before I let them touch you.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Your voice wavered, softer. “I mean… us. Do you ever think about what we are? What we’re trying to be? How long it can last?”

The silence stretched. His eyes, blue fire in the steam, held yours like they could strip every thought bare. Finally, his lips brushed your forehead, gentle but weighted.

“Every damn night,” he admitted. “And still, I choose this. I choose you.”

You swallowed, pressing your face against his chest to hide the sudden sting of tears. His arms wrapped tight, one hand smoothing down your wet hair. When you found your voice again, it cracked.

“I don’t want to lose you, Remmick. Not to them. Not to time. Not ever.”

He tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes. His voice was low, steady, but the storm underneath it was clear.

“Then don’t let go of me. No matter what comes. You hold on, mo ghrá, and I’ll tear the world apart before I let it take you.”

The bubbles hissed quietly between you, steam curling higher. You sat up a little in his lap, your chain glinting faintly against your damp skin. His hand stayed firm at your waist, anchoring you there.

“What happens… when you turn me?” you whispered, biting your lip.

His body went still beneath you. His thumb traced idle circles against your hip, but his eyes — those endless, storm-lit eyes — locked onto yours, sharp.

“You’ll never be the same,” he said at last, voice low, stripped of teasing.

“Your blood’ll burn. Your heart’ll stop. And when it starts again… it won’t ever stop until the sun itself burns out.”

Your pulse stuttered, but you didn’t look away.

“Will it hurt?” He nodded, jaw tightening.

“Like dyin’ and bein’ born in the same breath. Pain, fire, hunger. You’ll hate me for it in the moment. But you’ll come out the other side stronger. Faster. Forever.”

You swallowed, your fingers curling over the scars on his chest.

“And then what?” His expression softened, though the fire never left.

“Then you’ll walk in the dark with me. Hunt with me. Sleep in my arms while the sun burns above. No one will take you. No one will outlive you. You’ll be mine — not for a year, not for a decade, but always.” Your breath trembled out of you.

“And if I say I want that? That I’m ready?”

He shook his head, his hand sliding up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

“You’re not ready yet, mo ghrá. You’ve learned quick, but you’ve not seen half the blood this world will spill for us. I won’t turn you until I know you can fight for it. Fight for me. Fight for yourself.”

You leaned into his touch, heart aching with both fear and yearning.

“And if I do? If I learn?” His mouth curved, fierce and tender.

“Then I’ll give you forever. And I’ll never let you go.”

You traced the edge of the chain he’d given you, the tiny charm warm against your throat. Your voice came quiet, but steady.

“You told me once… if you bite at sunrise, I’ll be able to walk in the sun with you.”

His hand stilled on your skin. His jaw flexed, eyes narrowing, the storm rolling sharp in their depths.

“Aye,” he said finally, voice gravel low.

“The old way. A bond sealed as the sun breaks. But it’s no gift without cost.” You swallowed.

“What cost?” He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours.

“It ties us deeper than blood, darlin’. Forever bound. Your life, your hunger, your rage — all knotted with mine. There’s no turnin’ back. And if either of us falters…”

His voice broke into a rasp.

“We burn together.”

Your breath caught, the weight of it heavy and terrifying and yet—somehow—hopeful.

“So it would give us the sun. But it could destroy us too.” His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing along your damp cheek.

“It’s the only way I’ll ever stand beside you in daylight again. The only way you’ll see both my worlds — the dark and the light. But I won’t risk it ‘til I know you’re ready. Until I know you’ll survive it.”

You leaned into his touch, your lips trembling against the calloused pad of his thumb.

“Then teach me. Whatever it takes. Because I don’t want forever if it’s not with you.”

For the first time, you saw his composure crack — just slightly. His mouth hovered over yours, his voice a raw whisper.

“Christ, mo ghrá… you’ll be the death of me, and the only life I’ll ever want.”

You stayed in his lap, bubbles gone flat around you. The air between you held heavier than the water — fragile, aching.

“You want it too. Don’t you?” you whispered, your fingers sliding up his chest, resting over his heart.

His eyes closed for a moment, lashes damp, jaw tight like he was holding something back. When they opened again, the storm had softened.

“Aye,” he admitted.

“More than breath, more than blood. I want to walk beside you when the sun climbs over the trees. I want to see your hair burn gold in the daylight and not from a lamp. I want… all of it.”

Your throat tightened, tears stinging.

“Then why—” His thumb brushed your lip, silencing you.

“Because wantin’ it doesn’t mean you’re ready for it. Doesn’t mean it won’t kill you.” His forehead pressed to yours, the heat of his breath mixing with the steam.

“But don’t mistake me, mo ghrá. Every night I fight myself not to give in. To take you at dawn and bind you to me until the world ends.” You trembled, but you didn’t look away.

“So we wait. Until I’ve learned enough. Until you’re sure. But promise me, Remmick… promise me we’ll have that sunrise.” His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you into a kiss — soft, aching, more vow than touch.

“You’ll have it,” he swore against your mouth. “One day, you’ll have it.” You curled into him, your head against his chest, his arms wrapping you close. And for a while, in the bubble and the warmth, forever didn’t feel so far away.

Chapter Text

The streets glittered with color, neon buzzing above theater marquees and club doors, the city alive with music and smoke. You slowed before a narrow shop window, drawn by the shimmer of glass. On a mirrored shelf sat a bottle, delicate and curved, filled with golden oil that caught the glow like captured fire.
The little card read: Floral Marshmallow — jasmine, vanilla, sugared bloom. You lingered, chewing your lip, but shook your head. Impractical. Too fine for you. Remmick’s reflection slid in behind yours, tall and sharp in the window.

“You want it.” an observation more than a question

“It’s silly. I don’t—”

He didn’t wait. The bell above the door jangled, and a minute later he was pressing the little BAG into your hands. His beard brushed your temple as he leaned in close.

“When I see somethin’ that belongs on you, mo ghrá,” he murmured,

“I don’t argue with it.”

Warmth bloomed low in your chest. You clutched the bag close, its weight fragile and heavy all at once.
As you continued down the street, he tugged you into the bustling avenue, sleeves rolled to his forearms.

“Lesson’s not over,” he said, grin crooked.

“What lesson?”

“Disappear for me. Lose me. Make me work for it.”

He released your hand, and the city swallowed you. This time you didn’t laugh, didn’t stumble. You moved sharp, weaving through couples, ducking behind delivery wagons, slipping with the current of the crowd until you felt it — that shift, that stillness — the way to blend and vanish. You let go of looking back. You let yourself move like water. When he finally appeared at your shoulder, scent brushing close, his eyes were lit with something fierce.

“Not bad,” he murmured, pride threaded in his voice.

“Made me hunt for you. Now do it again.”

After the neon had burned into night, you felt it again. A weight behind you. This wasn’t Remmick. Your stride didn’t falter. Instead, you veered, deliberate, drawing whoever followed into the side streets, the crowd thinning until you slipped into an alley washed silver by the moon.
A gruff voice called behind you. The man from the night before.

“Hey, sweetheart. Don’t run off now. I wanna repay you for that little bruise you gave me.”

His grin glistened in the dim, steps steady despite the drink. Your pulse climbed, but you didn’t show it. You let him close the space, your eyes darting once — not at him, but at the glint of something near the trash heap. Moonlight caught it: a broken bottle, jagged shard gleaming sharp and cold. You bent, closed your hand around it, and stood. The man sneered, reaching for you.

“Don’t play rough.”

You drove the glass into his side. He gasped, stumbling, the sound wet and shocked. His eyes went wide as you twisted, pushing harder, the shard slicing deep. His hands clawed at you, but you shoved him back, the glass snapping slick from his ribs. He slumped against the wall, choking, blood slick across your hands. Bootsteps scraped at the mouth of the alley.

Remmick.

He stopped short, eyes burning as they took you in — hair wild, chest heaving, blood smeared down your arms, glass shard trembling in your grip. He didn’t speak. Didn’t scold. Just watched you, his chest rising and falling, something raw flickering in his gaze.You stared back, the weight of what you’d done settling in your chest like stone. He took your hand silently, as if he was scared you would break. He gently lead you back to the hotel room, giving you the chance to ease and recover.

Back at the hotel, he didn’t let you linger in the blood. He stripped the ruined dress away, cleaned your hands and arms with a cloth until her skin was bare of crimson. The silence between you wasn’t cold, just heavy — his focus sharp, almost reverent as he worked. When you were clean, he crossed to the closet. From the top shelf, he pulled a long, narrow box and set it on the bed. Your brow furrowed.

“What’s this?”

“Open it.”

The lid creaked back to reveal satin that shimmered like water — powder blue, cut with a plunging v-neck that promised more than a whisper of scandal. The sight of it stole your breath.

“Remmick…”

He only shrugged, though his eyes didn’t leave your face.

“Couldn’t let tonight take somethin’ from you it had no right to. Put it on.”

When you emerged dressed, the necklace with its tiny gold charm at your throat, you uncapped the little perfume vial. A few drops of the oil warmed against your skin — vanilla, marshmallow, jasmine. Sweetness that lingered and curled.

He froze.

The scent caught in his chest, dug sharp into something primal. His hunger stirred, every muscle tight as he wrestled it down. But you didn’t notice — you were smoothing the gown’s hem, brushing your hair loose, staring at the reflection in the mirror like you hardly knew the woman looking back.

He’d meant for the dress to steady you. For the night to be about control again, about elegance, about showing you that you weren’t just blood and violence. But the moment you touched that oil to your throat, all his plans began to slip. The scent of it — sweet, warm, sugared bloom — clung to the cool night air as they stepped from the hotel. It curled into him, down his throat, into his veins. Innocence painted in sin. And beneath it, the echo of what he’d seen in that alley. Your fist wrapped around glass, blood slick on your skin, eyes hard in the moonlight as you pushed that shard into the man’s ribs. No hesitation. No mercy. His jaw tightened as they walked, your heels clicking against the pavement. You chatted idly, pointing at some shop window, not noticing how his hands flexed useless at his sides, claws threatening to split through.

He wanted your throat. The very one you’d anointed. Wanted to sink his teeth where the scent was strongest, drink until every vein of yours ran into him. By the time they reached the restaurant, he was nearly vibrating from the effort of holding still. The hostess smiled politely, speaking to you — asking for a name, gesturing toward the stairwell to the rooftop terrace. He hardly heard it. His eyes stayed on the pulse at your neck, the way the candlelight from the lobby kissed your skin, and he cursed himself in Irish under his breath, low enough you couldn’t catch it. At their table, you didn’t touch your wine. You only stared out at the city, lips parted, silent in a way that made the lights below seem louder. Remmick dragged in a slow breath, trying to anchor himself in the taste of iron memory, in the rhythm of the jazz drifting up from the street. But it was your silence that gnawed at him most.

“Talk to me, darlin’,” he said finally, voice rough from the restraint.

“What’s crawlin’ through that pretty head of yours?”

You turned, eyes unreadable.

“I thought I’d feel something. Remorse. Guilt. Horror. Something. But I don’t. I don’t feel a thing.”

Your words hung in the air, soft but heavy as the smoke rising from the streets below. Remmick leaned back, dragging a breath through his teeth, steadying the storm inside him. He didn’t reach for your hand — not yet. His voice had to come first, even and sure, for you. “It’s all right, darlin’,” he said, tone gentled.

“Sometimes it comes later. Sometimes it don’t come at all. Either way, you did what needed doin’. And you did good.”

Your eyes softened, relief breaking over you like a tide. For the first time since the alley, your shoulders loosened. You dipped your head, lips curving faint as you whispered,

“Thank you.”

He felt it in his chest, the crack of something warm. Pride. Fierce and dangerous as any hunger. You lifted your glass then, the ruby wine catching the candlelight. He caught the faintest glint of oil on your wrist as you tilted it, the perfume rising again — vanilla, marshmallow, jasmine — and when you sipped, wetness lingered on your lips. Full. Plump. Red as sin.

His cock stirred hard against the restraint of his trousers. He forced his gaze to the skyline, to the glittering sprawl of the city, but his body betrayed him — jaw clenched, hands flexing useless in his lap. Every sense screamed to drag you across the table, to taste your lips slick with wine and perfume, to bury himself where the scent clung the strongest. But he held still. Held control. Because you needed him steady, not starved.

The wine softened you, eased the line of your shoulders. You turned back toward him, cheeks a little flushed now, eyes bright in the candlelight.

“Remmick?” you asked, almost shy.

He hummed, lifting his own glass to buy himself a moment, though the liquor did nothing to cool the fire in his chest.

“Am I doing better? I mean…” Your voice dropped.

“Do you think you’re starting to feel like I’m ready?”

The question was innocent, earnest. But the sound of it — the trust, the plea for his approval — nearly undid him. Heat surged, sharp and violent. His hand flexed against the tablecloth, the urge to tear it, to tear you, riding too close to the surface. He dragged in a breath through his nose, slow, steady, nostrils flaring once.

“You’re doing better than I even thought you would,” he said, his voice a touch rougher, though he smoothed it quick.

“Better than I dared to hope.”

Your lips curved, a soft, sweet smile,

“Good. I just… I want to make you proud.”

Remmick swallowed hard, pulse pounding at his throat. He could see the glint of oil at your wrist again as you set your glass down, smell it curling into the air between you. That damned sweetness, clinging to your skin, mocking his restraint. And all he could think was how close he was to dragging you out of that chair, bending you over the table, and burying himself so deep inside you, you’d never doubt how proud he was. Instead, he forced his smirk, leaned back, and gave you a single nod.

“You already do, darlin’.”

He could feel his restraint slipping, he summoned the waiter for the check, eager to be alone to satiate his hunger.

The hotel room had been transformed. While they’d been away, room service had swept through. Candles burned low in pools of gold, roses scattered across polished surfaces. A chilled bottle of champagne gleamed in its silver bucket. The curtains had been drawn wide, moonlight spilling through the tall bay windows to pool across the carpet.

You gasped softly at the sight, eyes shining as you turned toward him, but Remmick only slid a record from its sleeve, setting the needle down with a soft crackle. A slow tune filled the room, warm and aching. He held out his hand. You took it. You moved together in the wide living space, your body against his, his arms wound securely around you.

The music hummed, the candles flickered, the moon painted you hair silver. And for once, there was nothing else. Just the two of you. When the record faded into silence, neither of you moved, still standing before the wide glass, staring at the stars above the city. His chin rested on the crown of your head, arms locked around your waist.

“I’ll be right back,” you whispered at last.

“Need to freshen up a little.”

The dressing room door shut behind you. You slipped out of the powder-blue satin, the fabric pooling at your feet. The necklace — delicate chain, small charm — stayed against your skin, glinting in the dim light. You uncorked the small glass bottle, the perfume oil catching the light like liquid amber. Floral and sweet. The scent rose thick and sweet as you touched it to your fingertips, rubbing it between your thighs, letting it slick over your folds until your breath quickened at your own touch. The necklace gleamed at your collarbones as you stepped back out into the main room — utterly bare, skin glowing with candlelight and moonlight, scent curling into the air.

The door to the dressing room clicked open. You hesitated in the doorway, bare but for the thin glint of the necklace at your throat, skin bathed in moonlight and candle-glow. Your pulse fluttered, breath caught in your chest — bold as this was, it wasn’t how things usually went. Remmick was always the one to strip you bare, to guide each step, to control the pace.

“Remmick,” you whispered, soft and unsure.

His head snapped up. The sound of his name on your lips — the sight of you standing there — gutted him. His hand flexed once at his side before he lifted it, palm open, beckoning.

“Come here, mo ghrá.”

Your steps were small, careful, but when you reached him, the air left your lungs in a rush at the way he looked at you — as though you were something sacred, untouchable, and his all at once.

“You’re beautiful,” he rasped, voice breaking against the weight of it.

His nose brushed the curve of your throat as he inhaled, breath shuddering when the oil’s sweetness hit him full. And you. All of you. 

Your hands shook faintly as you tugged at his suspenders, sliding them from his shoulders. Then your fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt, one by one, slipping each free until you spread the fabric open. He caught the hem, tearing it off in a single motion. You fumbled with his trousers next, pulling them open. He stepped out of them, nothing between you now, the need in him coiled tight as iron wire. Then his hands caught your waist. And he dragged you down with him.

The carpet was soft beneath you, but not forgiving — each shift of your body sent a faint rasp of fibers against your skin, adding another layer to the heat building between you. The necklace glinted at your throat, catching the moonlight as you arched, his weight pressing you down into the plush floor.

Remmick spread you wide with his hands, beard rough against your thighs as he lowered himself. The first swipe of his tongue stole your breath, hot and wet against already-sensitive skin. He worked slow at first, savoring — tongue dipping, teeth grazing your clit, lips dragging over you until you were trembling. The oil clung to your folds, sweet and slick, and he devoured it like a starving man, groaning into your heat as though the taste itself would ruin him.

He licked and lapped, nose pressed tight to you, until you were gasping his name, hips jerking, your nails clawing the carpet. He didn’t stop when you fell apart, didn’t stop when your cry broke into shuddering whimpers. He tongued you through it, deeper, harder, determined — until he was sure every last drop of oil had been pulled from your folds and onto his tongue. By the time he finally lifted his head, your thighs quivered, your body flushed, your chest heaving. His beard was damp, his mouth slick, his eyes blazing with feral hunger.

“Remmick,” you pleaded, voice wrecked.

“Bite me. Please… I want to know what it feels like.”

His breath caught.

“Darlin’, I—”

“Please,” you cut in, wiggling beneath him, need breaking every syllable.

“I need you.”

He hovered above you, eyes dark and searching, chest rising hard against yours. For a moment you thought he might deny you. But then his resolve cracked. His lips brushed your throat, tongue tracing where your pulse pounded. His hips aligned, the heavy press of his cock nudging against you as he murmured,

“God help me.”

The bite and the thrust came together, hard — sharp fangs sliding into your skin as he buried himself deep inside you in one fierce, possessive push. The burn of his bite melted instantly into bliss, a rush of molten fire that spread through your veins, tangled with the stretching fullness of him inside you. You writhed beneath him, lost in the haze, clinging to his back as his groans turned guttural, primal.

Your blood flooded his mouth, thick with the sweetness of oil still on his tongue, and he nearly lost himself completely. His pupils blew wide, his body trembling with the effort not to bite deeper, not to take more than he should.

At the last second, he tore his mouth away, sealing the punctures with his tongue, licking until the wounds closed. But he didn’t pull back. He fucked you harder instead, raw and feral, snarling against your skin as if staking a claim no one could ever undo. His grip was bruising, his possession absolute, every thrust shoving you deeper into the carpet until the fibers burned your skin and you welcomed the sting.

You were gone in the bliss of it, shattered beneath him, body and soul consumed. And all he could think as he held you, as he fucked you into the floor under moonlight and candlelight, was that he’d never let you go. His thrusts grew rougher, sharper, the snarl in his chest vibrating against your skin. You writhed beneath him, lost in the burn and bliss, the carpet biting faintly into your shoulders and back with every shove of his body into yours.

“Fuck—” His voice broke ragged as his grip locked on your hips, pulling you flush to meet him, every movement harder, deeper, hungrier.

His forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping from his brow onto your cheek, into your hair, the taste of salt and blood and oil all tangled between you. Your name tore from his throat as he drove into you one final time, spilling inside you with a guttural groan that bordered on a growl. He stayed there, buried deep, his chest heaving, refusing to let you go. The release shook him, but it wasn’t enough. Couldn’t be.

His hunger demanded more — not sex, not blood, but you. The feel of you wrapped around him, the warmth of your skin under his hands, the way your breath hitched against his throat. He pressed himself tighter, keeping himself inside you even as you trembled, his weight pinning you down. One hand cradled the back of your head, the other sliding down your spine, holding you to him as if he could weld the two of you together by sheer force. Sweat slicked his temples, ran down his back, but he didn’t move. Couldn’t.
The thought of pulling away, even an inch, made his chest ache.

“Mine,” he muttered, voice breaking low as he buried his face in your neck.

His lips brushed the wound he’d left, licking softly, tasting you again, holding onto the last trace of your pulse against his mouth. Even spent, even shaking, his body still trembled with the need to stay touching you, to keep you right there beneath him where the world couldn’t take you. And so he stayed, pressing deeper, his heart pounding hard against your chest, refusing to let you go.

You whimpered softly, not from pain, but from the sheer weight of him, from the way he wouldn’t let you go. Your fingers tangled in his damp hair, stroking gently as your own heartbeat slowed against his chest. Remmick stayed pressed deep inside you, sweat cooling on his brow, his breath still harsh against your neck. His lips moved there, whispering broken things you half caught — curses, endearments, your name like a prayer he couldn’t stop repeating.

When at last his body began to calm, he eased his weight just enough to see your face. The candlelight caught you, flushed and glowing, the charm of your necklace gleaming between your breasts. He brushed a knuckle along your cheekbone, thumb trailing the damp line of sweat on your temple, and bent to kiss you — soft this time, lingering, as though he could pour everything he couldn’t say into that touch. Then his mouth returned to your neck. He licked the bite once more, slower now, savoring, and pressed tiny kisses along the sealed punctures, his stubble scratching but his lips gentle.

“That’s it, mo ghrá,” he whispered, voice hushed, almost reverent.

“Easy now. Got you.”

You melted into him, your body molding to his, your legs still tangled with his. His arms folded around you, dragging you closer until not even air could fit between your bodies. He held you as though the world outside that room didn’t exist, rocking you slightly, murmuring nothing and everything against your hair. For the first time in longer than he could remember, Remmick felt the sharp ache of something bigger than hunger, bigger than lust. It lodged in his chest, heavy and terrifying, undeniable, but knowing them all the same.

He loved you.

The realization rooted itself deep, fierce, terrifying. He hadn’t meant for it, hadn’t thought himself capable anymore. But there it was, so he kissed your temple instead of speaking it. He let his nose rest in your hair, inhaling you one more time. And he whispered softer still, only for himself: “Mine.”

You stirred first, chest rising against his, the sweat cooling between you. Your lips brushed his throat, tasting the salt still clinging to his skin, the faint tang of copper where his teeth had grazed you. He murmured your name, half-asleep, but you pressed a kiss to the hollow of his throat and began to slide lower.

“Darlin’…” His voice was hoarse, warning, but his hands only twitched uselessly at your back as you kissed down the line of his chest.

Your tongue traced the ridges of his stomach, catching the salt of sweat there. Then lower, to where he still twitched, heavy and spent but far from softened. Slowly your tongue lapped along the length of his cock. The taste of you lingered on him, mixed with the faint sweetness of the oil you’d used earlier, and you groaned low in your throat at the decadence of it. Remmick hissed through his teeth when your tongue licked low across his balls. The taste was exquisite, the sweetness of the oil and your juices mixing together. You pressed your nose into him as you suckled them softly, your tongue rubbing across as you felt the heaviness of his balls in your mouth. Your thoughts drifted away, you could only focus on taking him in.

“Christ almighty…”

His head tipped back against the carpet, eyes squeezed shut as your lips wrapped around him. You licked him clean, savoring every part — the mix of salt, oil, and yourself on his skin. Your tongue circled his swollen head before you sank lower, your cheeks hollowing as you drew him deeper. His hand shot to your hair, grip tightening, but not to guide — just to hold on.

“Sweet girl,” he rasped, chest heaving as you worked him, taking him into your mouth, into your throat, until his groans grew louder, harsher.

“Feels so fucking good—”

You hummed around him, the vibration making him buck against your lips. Every flick of your tongue drew another growl, another shudder, his control fraying all over again. When you pulled back just enough to swirl your tongue against him, lips slick and wet, you looked up — his eyes locked on yours, wild and dark, chest rising like he’d run miles.

And in that moment, with you kneeling over him, licking him clean, Remmick swore he’d never survive you. His thighs trembled under your hands, muscles taut like a bowstring drawn too tight. He was fighting it — you could see it in the strain at his throat, the way his teeth ground together, the veins standing out along his forearms where he gripped the carpet.

“Darlin’… fuck, you’re gonna make me—”

His voice broke into a groan as you slid him deeper, your throat stretching, lips sealing tight around him. He tried to hold back. You could feel it in the way his hips jerked, the way his hand in your hair tightened only to loosen again, as if he thought he could control himself if he just willed it hard enough. His jaw clenched, chest rising in ragged bursts as you sucked him down.

“Sweetheart… can’t… Christ, I can’t—”

The words cut off with a harsh growl, his restraint shattering all at once. His hips surged, his release flooding your mouth in hot pulses. His hand tightened in your hair, holding you there, his whole body shaking as he spilled down your throat. You swallowed every drop, licking him clean as he trembled, a raw sound tearing from his chest. His head tipped back, sweat dripping down his temples, breath coming in rough gasps as though you’d undone him more thoroughly than the battle you’d just fought together.
When you finally pulled back, lips glistening, his eyes cracked open to find you watching him with a small, satisfied smile.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, voice wrecked.

“You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Before you could move away, Remmick’s hands were on you, strong but shaking as he pulled you up over him. His lips caught yours in a desperate kiss, tasting himself on your tongue, his growl softening into something tender.He rolled with you, easing you onto your back, not with the feral urgency from before but with care — as though you were made of glass now that the fire had burned out of him. His weight settled beside you, one arm curling under your neck, the other wrapping around your waist to hold you against his chest.

“You’ll undo me one of these nights,” he whispered, pressing his face into your hair. His breath was still ragged, warm against your temple.

“Swear you will.”

You smiled faintly, too spent to answer with more than a soft kiss against his jaw. He tucked you closer, legs tangling with yours, his hand smoothing circles over the small of your back.
For a long while, there was only the hush of your breaths evening out together, the low hum of the record still turning, and the glow of candlelight flickering across the ceiling.
When your body finally stilled completely, he brushed his lips over your hairline and whispered, almost to himself,

“Mine. Always.”

And though he didn’t say the word love — not yet — he held you like it, cradled you like it, and knew deep down that it had already taken root in him, whether he ever spoke it aloud or not.

Morning light filtered through the tall windows, soft and golden, brushing over the rumpled sheets and the tangle of your limbs. For once, there was no rush — no danger at the door, no shadows pressing in. Just the two of you, and the quiet. Room service arrived with silver trays, the scent of eggs, fresh bread, and bacon curling through the room. Remmick carried the plates to the bed himself, setting them between you with a crooked grin.

“Can’t have you wastin’ away, mo ghrá,” he teased, spearing a strip of bacon and holding it up toward your lips.

“Open up.” You swatted lightly at his hand, laughing, but let him feed you anyway. He chuckled when a crumb stuck to your lip, leaning in to kiss it away. Breakfast turned into soft smiles and gentle laughter, a stolen grape flicked at your shoulder, his mock offense when you stole the last bite of toast.

He was playful in a way you’d never seen him before — lighter, easier, though the hunger in his eyes lingered, softer now, tempered with something deeper. Later, you curled up by the window with a book, sunlight warming your skin. Remmick sat nearby, chair tilted back, watching you over the edge of his own paper until you caught him staring. He only smirked, as if he hadn’t been tracing every curve of you with his eyes for the last hour. The day stretched slow, unhurried. The two of you packed in the late afternoon, folding clothes with quiet ease, the occasional kiss stolen between tasks. By the time the sun bled low over the rooftops, you were boarding the train, the city lights fading into the dark behind them.

Chapter Text

You rode in silence most of the way home, the train’s steady rhythm a heartbeat under your thoughts. When you glanced at him, he was watching the dark blur of trees beyond the window, jaw tight, one hand resting over yours where it lay in your lap. By the time the town lights came into view, the air between you had shifted.

The city had been soft, indulgent, almost dreamlike. But as the familiar outline of the general store and your little house on the outskirts rose in the distance, the shadows felt heavier. More watchful.
The train hissed as it pulled away, leaving you and Remmick standing on the quiet platform. The town lay hushed beyond, the streets mostly empty. He carried your bag in one hand, the other laced with yours, steady but tense.

Neither of you spoke as you walked the familiar path home, the air sharper now than it had been in the city. Shadows stretched long under the blood-tinged moon, branches rattling in a restless wind. When your house came into view at last, something in you eased — the shape of the porch, the outline of the windows. Home. But as Remmick mounted the steps, his body went rigid. The front door stood ajar. He dropped your bag without a sound, his hand snapping back to pull you behind him. His voice was a low growl, sharp as broken glass.

“Stay here.”

Your pulse thundered as he pushed the door open with the toe of his boot. The hinges creaked into silence, the dark inside swallowing him whole. You hesitated only a breath before slipping in behind him, the chain at your throat warm against your skin. The living room looked untouched — the blanket still folded, the hearth cold. But the smell hit you first: copper, damp earth, something foul threading the air. A voice slid out of the shadows. Distorted. Layered. Familiar.

“Remmmick…”

Your blood ran cold. The Pale One.

It stood in the center of your living room, impossibly thin, lips cracked wide in a smile too grotesque to be human. Its eyes glowed faint and sickly, and behind it, deeper in the dark, other shapes shifted — not fully seen, but felt. Remmick stepped forward, his body between you and the creature, every line of him coiled and ready to strike.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he growled.

The Pale One tilted its head, jerking unnaturally, its many-voiced words curling like smoke.

“Home sweet home. Did you think we wouldn’t find your little bird’s nest?” Its gaze slid past him, locking on you. The grin widened.

“Pretty thing. Fragile thing. Tainted now… with blood on her hands.”

The Pale One swayed where it stood, the bones beneath its skin shifting like they didn’t quite belong. Its mouth stretched wider, cracked lips pulling too far as it drank in the sight of you.

“Blood,” it hissed, layered voices echoing in the rafters.
“
So sweet, so new. Did you taste it, Remmick? Did you show her how warm it runs?” Your stomach twisted, but you stood your ground, though your fingers curled in the back of Remmick’s shirt.

He didn’t flinch, his voice a low rasp of warning.

“Say her name, and I’ll cut the tongue from your throat.” The Pale One’s laugh was a warbling thing, like broken strings plucked too hard.

“Protect, protect, protect… Always the dutiful son. But what happens when she sees the truth? The graves you’ve dug. The loves you’ve buried. Even your little family that tried to follow you into eternity.”

Remmick stiffened, but he didn’t rise to it. His shoulders were iron, his hand shifting back to press against your hip — steady, protective. The Pale One swayed in the lamplight, its voice curling like smoke through the room.

“She carries the blood of the old tribes,” it crooned, head jerking unnaturally.

“Fire in her veins. Power buried deep. We will take her, Remmick. Strip her from your arms. Not because we want her…” Its grin cracked wider, skin splitting at the edges of its lips.

“…but because you will come crawling after her. And then you’ll be ours again.”

Your breath hitched, the chain at your throat suddenly feeling too heavy. Remmick’s claws flexed, the sound of his growl vibrating low in the floorboards.

“You’ll never touch her.” The Pale One’s gaze slid to you, glowing faint, unreadable.

“Poor little bird. You think he shields you from us. But soon, you’ll see. You’ll see the graves he left behind. The family that withered under his hand. You’ll see him for what he really is.” The Pale One didn’t retreat. It swayed in the center of your living room, its sickly glow fixed on you now, not Remmick.

“You feel it, don’t you?” it whispered, its voices layered and distorted, each word scraping along your spine.

“The way he keeps pieces of himself hidden. The way he shields you with silence. He’s strong, yes… but never honest.”

Your stomach knotted, your throat dry. Still, you didn’t look away. It tilted its head, lips cracked into that grotesque grin.

“How many stood where you stand now, thinking they were special? How many felt his hands on their skin, heard his voice calling them sweet? And where are they now?”

Remmick snarled, stepping forward, but the Pale One jerked toward you with unnatural speed, its form flickering like shadow. Its gaze burned into yours.

“They’re gone. Buried. Burned. Forgotten.” Its voice rose, warbling, every note crawling beneath your skin. “And you will be too.”

“Stop,” Remmick growled, claws sprung fully now, his body trembling with restraint.

“You don’t speak to her.”

But the Pale One didn’t even glance his way. It leaned closer, its words like breath against your ear though it hadn’t crossed the space.

“Sweet little bird,” it crooned. “He tells you he can protect you. But he is the storm. The ruin. One day, you’ll see it — and when you do, you’ll crawl to us yourself. Begging for truth. Begging to be free of him.”

Your chest heaved, your palms clammy against your sides, the words sinking deep like claws. The Pale One leaned closer, its warped voice curling straight into your bones.

“… he’ll ruin you, as he’s ruined all the others. You’ll see it. You’ll beg us to take you when his love becomes your grave.” Your breath caught in your throat, your heart hammering, but something hot and sharp surged through the fear. The chain at your throat burned warm against your skin, a reminder of his hand, his vow.

“Get out.” you said, your voice steady, cutting the silence like a blade.

The Pale One froze — then its head jerked, lips peeling wider into that grotesque smile. A laugh spilled, warbling and broken, echoing through the rafters.

“Ahhh… fire in the little bird after all.” Its eyes glowed faint, sickly, sinking into yours.

“But fire doesn’t last. You’ll come to us, wanting answers. Wanting truth. Wanting to be free of him.”

Your stomach twisted, but you didn’t flinch, even as its words sank deep like hooks. The Pale One straightened, its grin splitting until it looked inhuman.

“We’ll be waiting.”

And then the shadows folded in on themselves, the stench of earth and copper lingering as silence swallowed the room. The house was silent again, but the stink of copper and damp earth still clung to the walls. Your pulse hammered in your ears, you were sure Remmick could hear it. You didn’t speak right away. You just stared at the place where the Pale One had stood, your thoughts circling like carrion birds. There was no safe place. Not here. Not the city. Not anywhere. They could walk into your home, into the center of your life, and twist the air with their voices until the walls themselves seemed to whisper.

How were you supposed to sleep? To eat? To step outside without watching every shadow? Your arms crossed over your chest, rubbing at the skin as if the blood stink might still be on you. Remmick’s voice broke the silence, low and edged.

“Darlin’.” You blinked, turning to him. His claws were gone now, but his eyes still burned, sharp and searching.

“They can just… walk in,” you whispered, your throat tight.

“There’s no door to lock. No bolt to throw. Where are we supposed to go? What are we supposed to do — pretend nothing’s coming while I stock shelves at the store? Sleep at night like I won’t wake up with them in the room?”

Your voice cracked, but you didn’t break. You were rattled, spiraling, your mind tangling in every direction, but you weren’t screaming. Just unraveling, slow and quiet. Remmick stepped in, his hands bracketing your face, forcing your gaze to his. His voice was rough, steady.

“Breathe. You’re not alone in this. You’ve got me. Always.”

But the words the Pale One had left behind still echoed under your skin. Wanting answers. Wanting to be free of him. And for the first time, you didn’t know how to push them away. Your hands still trembled faintly when Remmick’s palms framed your face, his thumbs brushing the corners of your mouth. The fury in his eyes was dimming, giving way to something heavier.

“You hear me?” he said softly, voice low, steady as stone.

“You’re not alone in this. They’ll try to make you doubt me. They’ll twist every shadow ‘til you don’t know what’s real. So I’ll tell you myself. No riddles. No poison.”
Your breath caught, your chest tightening as his gaze searched yours.
“
I had a family once,” he said. His voice wasn’t sharp now, but almost distant — like the words were being dragged from deep scars.

“Blood and bone. A wife and child, Brothers in arms, sisters at the hearth. We were turned together, promised eternity. But eternity don’t keep people whole. Some… couldn’t bear the hunger. Some lost their minds to it. Some, I buried with my own hands.”

The raw edge in his voice cut deeper than any growl.

“I tried to keep them,” he continued, his jaw tight, eyes dark with memory.

“Tried to hold them the way I hold you now. But forever is cruel. I’ve outlived them all. Even the ones who begged me to turn them.” His hand slid to your throat, resting lightly over the chain he’d given you.

“That’s the truth they want to shove down your throat — that I bury everyone I love.”

The words made your stomach twist, but he didn’t flinch. His eyes locked with yours, fierce despite the softness in his touch.

“But you need to know this too: I didn’t love them like I love you. None of them. Not once.”

Silence pressed thick between you, broken only by the creak of the house settling. Your hands rose, covering his where they held your face. His touch was warm, steady — the only thing steady in the storm. Your hands stayed over his, steadying him as much as he steadied you. The silence stretched until the question pressed free, raw and trembling.

“And the others,” you whispered.

“The girls who stood here before me. By your side. What happened to them?”

His eyes closed, just for a breath. When they opened again, they burned with something that wasn’t fury, wasn’t shame — just grief.

“Some left,” he said, his voice gravel rough.

“Couldn’t bear the weight of my world. Couldn’t stand the hunger, the shadows that follow me. They walked away while they still could.” His thumb brushed your cheek, soft, almost reverent.

“And I let them.” Your throat tightened, but you held his gaze.

“And the ones who didn’t?” His jaw flexed, his eyes darkening with memory.

“Others thought they wanted eternity. Begged me for it. But forever… it’s not a gift for everyone. Some turned, and the hunger ate them hollow. Some didn’t survive the bite at all.”

He exhaled slowly, the weight of it heavy.

“And I buried them. One by one.” Your chest ached, the words burning even though you’d braced for them.

“So why would I be different?”

For the first time, his voice cracked. He leaned closer, his forehead pressing to yours, his hands firm against your face as though to hold you there by force if he had to.

“Because I won’t make the same mistakes again,” he rasped.

“Because I’ll bleed myself dry before I let you go unprepared. And because—” His breath shook, his words dropping to a vow. “—you are the only one I’ve ever wanted enough to fight the whole damned world for.”

Your chest tightened, breath catching as his vow wrapped around you. The storm of him — grief, hunger, love — was right there in his eyes, unhidden.
You pressed closer, covering his hands with yours.

“Then you’ll never fight it alone,” you whispered, steady despite the ache in your throat.

“If it’s the whole world, Remmick, then it’s both of us against it.”

For a heartbeat, he only stared. Then his arms crushed you to him, rough and shaking, as if he could bury the world itself between you and keep it out.

Grabbing your hand, he led you upstairs without letting go of your hand. The silence wasn’t heavy — it was binding, a vow sealed without words. In your room, he pulled the sheets back, guiding you beneath them. But when you caught his wrist, whispering,

“Stay,”

Something inside him cracked again. His throat worked as he stripped off his boots, his shirt, his suspenders — each piece discarded carelessly — before climbing in beside you.
The moment you felt his weight dip the mattress, you shifted into him. He pulled you into his chest, arms circling your waist, your legs tangling beneath the covers until there was no space left.
His nose pressed into your hair, his breath warm against your temple.

“Sleep,” he murmured, softer than you’d ever heard him.

“I’ve got you.”

Wrapped together, the two of you finally let the night take you.
And for a moment, the dark outside the windows didn’t feel quite so endless.

Chapter Text

The house was quiet, almost too quiet. Remmick had pulled you against him in bed, his arm a band of iron around your waist, his face buried in your hair. You thought he’d never let go, that he would stand guard over you even in sleep. But then it began. At first it was subtle — his breathing hitched, his fingers flexed like they were searching for something. Then the tremors set in, rippling through him until his whole body jerked as though caught in invisible chains.

“No…” His voice cracked low in his throat, words slurred, broken.

“Not her… don’t touch her…”

You froze, every muscle tight. He wasn’t awake. He was trapped. His grip on you tightened painfully, claws pressing just shy of your skin. His jaw clenched, teeth bared against some phantom enemy.

“Stay back!” he rasped, the sound raw, torn from deep inside.

His voice faltered, dropping into a whisper, desperate, wrecked.

“Please… not her too…”

Your chest ached at the sound. This wasn’t the predator who commanded shadows. This was a man drowning in ghosts. Carefully, you touched his face, brushing sweat-damp hair from his forehead. His eyelids fluttered, but he never surfaced. His breathing stayed ragged, his body caught in the snare of memory. So you held him. You wrapped your arms around his trembling frame, murmured soft words he couldn’t hear, anchoring him as best you could while he thrashed in dreams.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered into the dark.

“You’re safe. You’re not alone.”

But the truth cut deeper with every rough breath he drew. He wasn’t safe. Not from his past. Not from the Pale One’s shadow. Not from the weight of all he carried. And if he wasn’t safe, neither were you. Lying awake with his head heavy against your chest, you made your choice. You couldn’t just cling to his strength anymore. You would have to be strong too. You would learn to fight, to protect, to stand beside him as something more than fragile. By dawn, the decision was carved into you. And when the morning came, you would be gone.

When the first pale threads of dawn began to slip through the cracks of the shutters, you pressed a kiss to his temple. He stilled for a moment, like even in his sleep some part of him recognized the touch, but he didn’t wake. His grip slackened just enough for you to ease yourself free. The house felt colder once you left his side. At the kitchen table, you pulled a scrap of paper toward you, ink trembling faintly as you wrote. I’ll be back. Don’t come for me. Please trust me. I have to do this. You folded the note once and slipped it under the glass perfume oil bottle he’d bought for you in the city — its sweet vanilla-jasmine scent clinging faintly to your hands as if to bind you there. You looked once toward the stairs where he slept, then turned away before your resolve could break.

The morning air was sharp, biting against your skin, but it felt alive. Every sound in the forest, every shift of the wind, pressed sharper than it ever had before. You pulled your sweater tighter and started toward the reservation, toward the cousins who would know how to make you strong enough to protect him. Behind you, Remmick stirred faintly in his sleep. His hand reached across the sheets where you’d been, his brow furrowing as though even in his dreams he knew you were gone.

The sun had burned away the chill of morning by the time you reached the reservation. Dust clung to your skirts and sweat dampened the back of your neck, but you didn’t slow. Every step carried the weight of your choice, the note you’d left behind like a tether pulled taut. The familiar shapes of the cabins came into view, smoke from cooking fires coiling lazily into the sky.
You spotted him first — David, your cousin, his broad frame bent over a workbench where he was oiling a bowstring. His head lifted at the sound of your approach, eyes narrowing before softening with recognition.

“Thought you’d forgotten where we were,” he said, voice rough but not unkind.

“I didn’t forget.” Your throat tightened, but you held steady.

“I need your help.” He studied you a long moment, then jerked his chin toward the tree line.

“Isaiah!”

A younger man stepped from the shadows of the woods, leaner than David but just as steady-eyed. Isaiah carried himself like the forest itself — quiet, deliberate, each movement precise. He wiped bark from his hands as he came closer. David’s gaze returned to you.

“What kind of help are you lookin’ for?” You hesitated only a moment.

“Teach me to survive. To fight. To track. All of it.”

Silence stretched between the three of you, the weight of your request hanging in the air. Then Isaiah’s mouth quirked into something like a grin.

“Finally.” David’s brow furrowed.

“This about the man you’ve been keepin’ company with? The tall one with the eyes too sharp for his own good?” Your stomach flipped, but you didn’t falter.

“It’s about more than him. But yes. I need to be able to protect him — and myself.” David’s expression darkened. “You don’t know what you’re tangling with.”

“Then teach me,” you said, steel threading through your voice.

“Because I can’t just stand by anymore.” Isaiah glanced at David, then back at you.

“Alright then. You’ll learn. But you need to understand something first.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping.

“We’ve been hunting vampires for years. Men like him… creatures like him… they’ll take everything if you let them. Even if you think he’s different.” Your jaw tightened, fingers brushing the necklace at
your throat.

“I know what he is. And I know what I’m asking. But I’m not leaving him.”

The two men exchanged a look heavy with unspoken words, then David finally nodded.

“Then we start now.”

Isaiah motioned to the tree line, his smile sharp as flint. “Hope you’re ready to bleed, cousin. Because hunters don’t stay pretty for long.”

David eyed your blouse and skirt, shaking his head with a sound that was half a scoff. “You’ll shred that to ribbons before sundown.”

Isaiah leaned against the doorframe, one brow arched. “She’ll trip over it before that.”

You crossed your arms, though heat rose in your cheeks. “Then what do you suggest?”

It didn’t take long. They brought you into one of the cabins where trunks and crates held old but sturdy gear. David tossed you a long-sleeved button-down, rough-spun but soft with wear.

“Keeps the branches from tearing you up.”

Isaiah pulled a bundle from a trunk and shook it out: sturdy shorts, patched but functional. His mouth tugged sideways, more knowing than playful. “You’ll need your legs free. Speed matters more than fabric.”

They found lace-up boots, scuffed from use, and a jacket that hung a little heavy on your shoulders but felt protective. Finally, Isaiah placed a coil of leather into your palm, heavy and familiar: a Bowie knife, sheathed but sharp, its handle worn smooth from generations of use. His gaze fixed on you, steady now, serious.
“This one’s not for practice.”

You swallowed hard, nodding. In the mirror nailed crooked to the cabin wall, you barely recognized yourself. Your hair was braided tight against your head, the loose golden strands tamed for once. The clean blouse and skirt of the general store clerk were gone, replaced with the rough-hewn practicality of a hunter.

David dropped a canvas pack at your feet. Inside was a rolled sleeping mat, a tin cup, a canteen, coils of rope, even a small hatchet strapped to the side. He crouched, adjusting the straps until they sat firm on your shoulders. The weight nearly pitched you forward.

“Too heavy?” David asked. You straightened, jaw set.

“No.”

Isaiah gave a low chuckle, crossing his arms. “Good. Because this is the light load.”

They led you to the edge of the reservation, into the wilds that spread out like an unending wall of trees. The air was cooler under the canopy, damp earth filling your lungs, and for the first time you felt the weight of what you’d asked for. No polished floors. No firelit rooms. Just dirt, shadow, and survival.David clapped a hand against your shoulder, firm and grounding.

“First lesson — the wild doesn’t care who you are. It only respects what you can take from it and what you can endure. Ready?”

Your hand brushed the knife at your hip, fingers trembling but steadying as you gripped the handle. “Ready.”

The trees swallowed you quickly, the light dimming until the sky was no more than scraps of gray between the branches. Your pack pulled at your shoulders with every step, biting into your collarbones, the knife bumping your thigh like a reminder of what you’d agreed to.

David moved like smoke ahead of you, silent despite the bulk of his frame. Isaiah hung back, watching the way you stepped, the way you breathed.

“Too loud,” Isaiah said finally, his voice low but cutting. “You stomp like you’re tryin’ to announce yourself.”

You clenched your jaw, adjusting your stride. “Sorry.”

“Don’t say sorry. Fix it,” David called from up ahead without turning.

Isaiah touched two fingers to his ear. “Listen. You hear that?”

You froze, ears straining. There was wind, leaves hissing against each other, a bird trilling faintly. And beneath it—

“Water,” you whispered.

Isaiah’s mouth curved, not quite a smile, more an acknowledgment. “Good. You hear the river, but it ain’t the loudest thing out here.” He pointed at your boots. “That crunch? That’s you. Every step tells the forest exactly where you are.”

Heat flushed your cheeks. You lifted your foot carefully this time, setting it down heel to toe, rolling your weight instead of stamping. The sound softened.

“Better,” Isaiah muttered.

David stopped at the edge of a small clearing, waiting until you caught up. He crouched, pressing his hand flat to the dirt.

“Second lesson,” he said. “The earth always tells the truth. Footprints, broken twigs, the way the moss is bent — it’s all a story. Learn to read it, you know where everything’s been before you. You know if you’re safe.” He brushed his fingers over a faint track in the mud. “Deer. Two, maybe three. Passed through this morning. See how the edges crumble?”

You squinted, nodding slowly. “I think so.”

Isaiah crouched beside him, his eyes narrowing as he studied your face instead of the track.

“You don’t have to think. You have to know. That’s the difference between coming back alive and getting your throat torn out.”

The words landed heavy, but David’s tone softened. “It takes time. Your body will learn before your mind does. That’s why you’re here.” He stood and pointed deeper into the trees. “Come on. We’ll test your ears before we test your hands.”

Your legs already ached under the weight of the pack, your shoulders burning, but you hitched it higher and kept moving. Each step quieter than the last. The trees pressed in tighter the deeper you went, branches snagging at your sleeves, roots clutching at your boots. The pack dug cruelly into your shoulders, every shift of weight a reminder of how soft you’d lived until now.
David stopped suddenly, lifting a hand. Isaiah mirrored him, sinking low, head cocked like he was listening to something you couldn’t yet hear.

“Drop the pack,” David murmured.

You slipped it from your shoulders without a sound this time, setting it onto the moss as gently as if it were glass. His nod was quick. “Better.” Then he pointed toward a tangle of brush at the clearing’s edge.
“Tell me what’s waiting.”

You crouched low, breathing in. The scent of iron lingered faint in the air. On the dirt: a smear of red, still damp.

“Blood,” you said. “Something wounded.”

The brush quivered — and a hare stumbled out, hind leg mangled, breath coming in harsh, shallow bursts. Isaiah crouched beside you, laying his Bowie knife flat across his palms before holding it out. His gaze was steady.

“Third lesson. Mercy.”

You took the knife without flinching. The handle was warm, heavy, but your grip was sure. One clean motion — sharp and certain. The forest went still as the hare slumped, its suffering ended. You wiped the blade on the grass, your face set, breathing even. Not out of coldness, but understanding. Mercy wasn’t hesitation. Mercy was swiftness. David’s expression softened, just a fraction.

“Good.”

Isaiah glanced at his brother, then back at you, a flicker of respect in his eyes.

“You’ve done this before.”

You nodded once.

David rested a hand on your shoulder, firm but brief. “Then tomorrow, we’ll see if you’re ready to take something that doesn’t want to die.”

The following day broke sharp and cold, mist still clinging low over the ground when David shoved a long, curved bow into your hands. The wood was smooth, heavy, its pull taut as iron.

“Draw,” he said simply.

You raised the bow, notched the arrow the way he’d shown you, and pulled. The string bit into your fingers, the weight screaming through your shoulders.

“Hold,” Isaiah barked.

Your arms quivered, fire streaking through the muscles, but you held until David snapped his fingers.

“Loose.” The arrow flew wide, missing the stump by a hand’s breadth.

“Again.”

By the tenth, your arms trembled like water. By the thirtieth, you couldn’t even lift the bow without gritting your teeth. But you didn’t stop. Isaiah’s voice was relentless.

“Pull again. Until you don’t miss.”

The sun slid overhead, shadows shifting, and still they drove you — drawing, loosing, again and again until sweat soaked the back of your shirt, until your fingertips bled raw against the string. Finally,

David held up a hand. “Enough.”

Your chest heaved, but before you could sag, he was in front of you, sliding a knife into your palm.

“Lesson four. A stalker doesn’t just kill. A stalker kills clean. Quiet.”

He caught your wrist, guided the blade toward the hollow beneath his own ribs, pressing just enough for you to feel the exact point. “Here,” he murmured. “Straight through the kidney. No sound but the breath leaving them.”

He shifted your hand higher, pressing the point against the notch of his throat.

“Here — quick. They can’t even scream.”

Isaiah stepped up behind you, his hand clamping briefly over your mouth.

“And if they can? You make sure no one hears.”

He released you, and the air felt sharper, heavier. David’s eyes locked on yours.

“Every fight you walk into has to end before it begins. That’s what keeps you alive. That’s what will keep him alive, too.”

Your grip tightened on the blade, no hesitation now.

By the third day, your body was screaming. Shoulders raw from the bowstring, thighs bruised from the falls they’d forced on you, knuckles split from striking bark and stone until you learned to hit without breaking yourself. Isaiah circled you like a predator, a short blade flashing in his hand. David stood behind, arms folded, eyes sharp.

“Again,” Isaiah said. You lunged. He caught your wrist, twisted — the knife clattered into the dirt. Before you could blink, the flat of his blade touched your throat. “Dead,” he said.
You snarled, shoved him back, scooped the knife, and went at him harder. This time he let you come close, close enough that you thought you had him — until his knee slammed into your ribs and you hit the ground hard.

“Dead again,” he said flatly.

Your lungs burned, but you rolled, came up swinging, dirt in your hair, blood in your mouth. Every part of you hurt, but something wild sparked inside — the refusal to yield. David’s voice cut through the clash.

“Don’t fight like you’re smaller. Fight like you’re meaner.”

So you did. You feinted right, ducked low, and when Isaiah reached for your wrist again, you turned the blade and slashed across his ribs. Not deep, but enough to mark him. He hissed and stepped back, his grin sharp despite the blood staining his shirt.

“Better.”

David clapped once. “Again.”

It went on until your vision blurred, until your shirt clung damp to your back, until you were on your knees in the dirt and Isaiah’s blade hovered just above your chest. But when he pulled it back, there was respect in his eyes now, not just scrutiny.

“You’re learning,” he said. “Fast.”

David hauled you up, steadying you when your legs wobbled. “You’ll be bruised, bloodied, exhausted. But that’s the price. And if you mean to keep him alive, you’ll pay it a hundred times over.”

You spit blood into the dirt, lifted your chin, and nodded. “Then I’ll pay it.”

The morning mist hadn’t even burned off when David pointed at the ground, low and sharp. “Tracks.”

You crouched beside him. Fresh depressions in the damp earth, the shape narrow, claws faintly scoring the soil. A coyote. Isaiah’s voice came from behind you, cool and steady. “This one’s alone. Hungry.

That makes it dangerous.”

Your pulse jumped, but you nodded. This was the test. The trail wound through the woods, faint and fragile. You followed the prints at first, then the scat, then the way the brush bent where the animal had pushed through.

By midday, the sun was high, sweat dripping down your back beneath the jacket, but you didn’t slow. When the tracks vanished on a rocky ridge, you didn’t panic. You dropped low, brushed your fingertips over the stone, and let the earth speak. Tiny flecks of fur snagged against a thornbush. A faint musk on the breeze, sharp and acrid.

“North,” you murmured, pointing. David’s eyes flicked to Isaiah, who gave the barest nod.

You were right. Hours later, your stomach growled, but you ignored it. Hunger was part of the lesson. So was thirst. You kept moving, kept listening. Every sound mattered now — the scrape of claws, the rustle of undergrowth. By late afternoon, you found the kill. A rabbit, torn and half-eaten, still warm. You crouched over it, steadying your breath.

“Close.”

David only grunted. “Then finish it.”

The shadows grew long. Your legs ached, your arms heavy, but you refused to quit. When the brush ahead rustled, you sank, just as Isaiah had drilled into you. The coyote padded out, ribs sharp, fur ragged, lips peeled back in a snarl as it tasted the air. It hadn’t seen you yet. You raised the rifle, every muscle screaming. Drew your breath. Focused until your heartbeat was all you could hear. The coyote’s head lifted. Its eyes found you. You pulled the trigger. The crack split the stillness, the recoil punching your shoulder, but the shot was true.

The coyote stumbled, fell, kicked once — then stilled. Silence returned. You lowered the rifle, chest heaving, throat dry, but your hands didn’t shake. Not this time. You’d tracked it across the whole day, through heat and hunger and exhaustion, and you’d won. David approached first, his face unreadable until he finally said, “Good.”

Isaiah knelt, checked the kill, then gave you the faintest smile. “Clean.”

You only nodded, knife still ready in your hand. You weren’t here for praise. You were here to learn. That night, exhaustion pressed hard as you lay under the stars, the fire guttering low. Smoke and blood clung to your skin. Every muscle screamed. But you didn’t regret a step.

Back at the house, Remmick tried to keep himself busy. He split firewood until his palms split too, blood smearing the handle of the axe. He mended the porch rail, sanded the rough edge of the table, set traps along the treeline that no one but him would know were there. But every task ended the same. Him at the kitchen table, head in his hands, staring at the note you’d left under the perfume oil bottle. He read it until the words blurred, though they’d already burned into his mind. I’ll be back. Don’t come for me. Please trust me. Every night he told himself to trust you. Every night he tried. And every night ended with his chest hollow and his hands shaking, his throat tight enough to choke him.

By the third night, a single tear dropped onto the paper. He didn’t bother wiping it away. On the fourth, he couldn’t stand it anymore. He shoved back from the table, grabbed his coat, and stepped out into the night. He didn’t bother with tracks. Didn’t need to. Your scent clung to the air, sweet even beneath the musk of pine and earth.
Threading through campfire smoke, winding over rivers and ridges, it pulled at him like a tether sunk deep into his ribs. He followed, mile after mile, until the ground softened underfoot, until the stars spread bright and cold overhead. And then he saw you. Curled in your bedroll beneath the open sky, hair braided back, knife resting just a hand’s reach away. The fire burned low beside you, its glow catching on the line of your cheek, the faint rise and fall of your chest.

He stood there a long moment, breath caught in his throat, the ache of longing cutting him sharper than any blade. He had thought you were gone for good. He couldn’t help himself. The sight of you there, chest rising soft and steady in the firelight, tangled hair brushing your cheek, nearly undid him. Remmick lowered himself to his knees beside you, careful, reverent — like if he moved too fast you’d vanish into smoke.

His hand hovered, aching to touch, to reassure himself you were real. But the moment his weight shifted the ground, your eyes snapped open. The knife was in your hand and pressed to his throat before he could draw a breath. The steel kissed his skin. His pulse throbbed hard against the edge of the blade. For a heartbeat, you were feral — all the lessons, all the training, alive in your grip. Then the firelight caught his face.

“Remmick.” Your voice cracked, horror cutting through the haze. You dropped the knife as though it had burned you, your free hand flying to your mouth. He didn’t move away. Didn’t even flinch. He only looked at you, eyes rimmed red from nights without sleep, voice ragged.

“I should be angry,” he rasped. “But all I can think—” His throat bobbed under the fading ghost of your blade. “—is how much I missed you.”

He didn’t back away from the knife, even after you dropped it. Didn’t reach for your hands or for the fire-warmed skin of your cheek. He just stayed there on his knees, every line of him trembling like the weight of the world was breaking across his shoulders.

“I thought you were gone for good,” he said, voice rough, torn raw. His eyes searched yours, frantic and hollow at once. “Every night I told myself you’d come back. Every night I tried to believe it. And still

—” He broke off, jaw tight, throat working. “—all I could see was the empty side of the bed. The note on the table. The coals dying down while I sat alone.”

His hand finally lifted, hovering at your face, trembling like he didn’t deserve to touch you.

“You don’t know what it did to me, darlin’. I can fight an army, I can stare down hell itself—but not you leavin’.”

The fire spat between you, sparks lifting into the night air. His voice dropped, quieter but sharper, confession spilling unguarded. “You’re all I’ve got.”

Your throat burned, the knife still heavy in your hand even though it lay forgotten in the dirt. You reached for him, fingers trembling as they caught his wrist.

“I just wanted to protect you too,” you whispered. The words spilled raw, unpolished, the only truth you had. “You’re always the one holding the line, always the shield. I couldn’t just sit there knowing I was helpless if something came for you. I had to learn. For you. For us.”

His breath stuttered. For a moment he looked away, blinking hard, but when his gaze came back to yours it was wet, broken wide open.

“You don’t get it,” he rasped. “I walk through the dark every night, fight what’s hidin’ in it, and it don’t scare me half as much as the thought of losin’ you. That’s what tears me apart. That’s what hollows me out.”

His hand finally touched your face, thumb dragging clumsy over your cheek as though memorizing you all over again. His voice cracked clean in two.

“I love you.”

The words dropped like stones into the silence, heavy and unshakable. His shoulders sagged with them, like they had been caged in his chest for centuries, waiting. The words hung in the air, heavy enough to choke you. For a heartbeat you could only stare, breath caught, chest aching. Then you moved. You grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and yanked him into you, crushing your mouth to his like you were starving, like every second without him had left you hollow. His hands closed around your waist, desperate, holding you so tight it almost hurt, as though you might slip through his arms if he let go. The kiss broke only when neither of you could breathe, and even then you stayed close, foreheads pressed together, noses brushing, your breaths ragged in the narrow space between you.

“I love you too,” you whispered, the words trembling against his lips.

His eyes closed, his jaw trembling as he let the truth sink in. He exhaled a sound half-broken, half-relieved, and pulled you tighter into him, your hearts hammering against each other in the dark. The words had barely left your lips before his mouth was on yours again, hungrier this time, as though saying it had unleashed something he couldn’t cage anymore. His hands dragged down your back, gripping hard, hauling you flush against him. You gasped into the kiss, and he swallowed the sound, tilting his head to take you deeper. His beard scraped your skin, his tongue tangled with yours, messy and fierce. You clutched him back, nails biting through his shirt, as though you could fuse yourself to him if you just held tight enough. He pulled you down into the bedroll with him, the fire flickering at the edge of your vision, heat licking over both of you. His weight pressed you into the earth, grounding and consuming all at once.

“Say it again,” he growled against your mouth, his breath ragged, his voice shredded with need.

“I love you,” you whispered, desperate, your hips lifting into his. “I love you.”

A sound tore out of him — not quite a groan, not quite a snarl, but something primal, broken loose. His hands found the hem of your shirt, shoving it up, his mouth searing a path down your throat, across your chest, leaving you trembling beneath him. Every kiss was frantic, every touch a vow, as if he needed to prove it with every inch of his body: that he was yours, that you were his, that nothing in the dark would ever take you from him.

The fire popped louder, sparks drifting upward as you tangled together on the earth, lost to the hunger that had been building for days, weeks, lifetimes. Your back hit the bedroll, but you barely felt it with his weight pressing you into the earth. His mouth was everywhere — hot, rough, desperate.
He pulled your shirt up, his hands greedy on your skin, sliding down your sides like he couldn’t decide where to touch first. You tore at his coat, his shirt, anything that separated you from him. Buttons snapped under your fingers, the fabric shoved aside until his chest pressed to yours, bare and burning. When he kissed you again, it was messy, teeth clashing, your whimper swallowed into the rough growl that rumbled in his chest. His hands slid to your shorts, yanking them down hard enough that the seams threatened to rip. You kicked them free, trembling when his fingers traced the inside of your thigh before cupping you, possessive and sure.

“So wet for me already,” he rasped, his lips brushing your ear. “Tell me who this is for.”

“You,” you gasped, arching into his hand. “Always you.”

That was all it took — his control snapped. He pushed inside you in one hard, desperate thrust, filling you so deep you cried out, clutching at him like you’d drown without the anchor of his body. The pace was brutal, raw, the flames beside you throwing restless light, sweat shining along his temples as he drove into you again and again. His grip bruised your hips, his mouth dragged across your jaw, your throat, biting hard enough to make you moan but not break skin. Your cries mingled with his ragged breaths, the restless flick of the fire, the frantic rustle of the bedroll beneath you.
Every thrust tore you apart and remade you, until you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began. Your climax hit hard, wrenching through you with a cry as your nails raked down his back. He snarled against your throat, holding you down as your body spasmed around him. He wasn’t far behind. With one last ragged thrust he spilled inside you, burying himself deep, holding you down as if he could carve the moment into eternity.

For a long moment neither of you moved, just the hush of the night, your breathing tangled. Then he eased down, his forehead pressed to yours, his hands cradling your face like you were fragile even after the way he’d just taken you.

“I love you,” he murmured again, softer now, raw and reverent.

You kissed him, gentle and shaking, and whispered it back. And in the glow of the fire, wrapped together on the earth, you both let exhaustion take you, clinging as if nothing in the world could pry you apart.

Chapter Text

For a long moment neither of you moved, just the hush of the night, your breathing tangled. Then he eased down, his forehead pressed to yours, his hands cradling your face like you were fragile even after the way he’d just taken you.

“I love you,” he murmured again, softer now, raw and reverent.

You kissed him, gentle and shaking, and whispered it back. And in the glow of the fire, wrapped together on the earth, you both let exhaustion take you, clinging as if nothing in the world could pry you apart. The embers glowed low when Remmick finally stirred. He hadn’t slept — not really. He’d lain with you tangled in his arms, your head tucked beneath his chin, listening to every steady breath, pressing each one into memory as if he could live on it. But the sky was paling, that faint gray that came just before dawn. He felt it in his bones, that creeping threat that had hunted him for centuries.
He brushed your hair back from your face and pressed a kiss to your temple.

“It’s near morning,” he murmured, voice low, almost regretful. “I can’t stay.”

Your eyes fluttered open, sleep-heavy, and you clutched at his shirt. “Don’t go yet.”

His thumb stroked over your cheek, tender but firm.

“You know I have to.” He swallowed hard, jaw tight with what he didn’t want to say. “The sun’ll burn me down to ash if I linger.”

Tears pricked hot at the corners of your eyes, but you nodded, biting your lip. He cupped your face between both hands, his gaze fierce in the dim glow.

“Promise me something, mo ghrá. When today’s training is done, you come home. Straight home. Don’t make me hunt you again.”

“I promise,” you whispered.

The words seemed to steady him, though his chest rose and fell like the weight of them pressed deep. He kissed you once more, long and slow, before pulling himself reluctantly away. By the time the first streaks of sunlight broke the horizon, he was gone — melted back into the shadows that kept him alive.

You lay back down, the scent of him still on your skin, the ache of his absence already heavy, but you held fast to your promise. Tonight, after training, you would go home. The coals were low, smoke twisting thin into the fading sky.

The day’s training clung to your muscles, every strike, every pull of the bowstring leaving you aching and alive. David sat cross-legged across the flames, Isaiah leaning back on one arm, the other tossing a twig into the coals. You sat, sore from the day’s drills, while David leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and Isaiah stretched out with one hand propped in the dirt.

“You’ve learned the blade. The bow. How to track and how to strike,” David said. “But that’s only part of survival. There are things older than rifles and knives. Things you need to know if you’re walking into the dark.”

Isaiah’s gaze held yours, steady as stone.

“Nalusa Falaya. The long black one. Bent wrong, thin as bone, whispers your name when no one’s around. You don’t answer. You don’t look. If you do, it takes you.”

A shiver prickled over your arms as the smoke shifted with the breeze. David tossed a stick into the fire.

“Shampe. Big as three men, stinks like rot. You’ll smell it before you see it. Some say it drags women off, some say it just eats ‘em where they fall. Either way, you don’t fight it head-on. You outthink it. Use the land better than it does.”

The logs hissed. Isaiah’s voice dropped lower.

“But the worst is Impa Shilup. The Soul-Eater. No teeth, no claws. It waits inside your head. Fear, grief, doubt — that’s what it feeds on. You let it in, and you’ll waste away until you’re hollow. That’s why you don’t just train your body. You guard your spirit.”

Silence pressed close, broken only by the hiss of sap in the wood. Then David’s voice shifted, harder, like stone striking flint.

“And then there are the vampires.”

Your breath hitched at the word.

“They’re not legends. They’re wounds we remember. They’ve hunted us, stolen from us, fed on our women, our children. They slip into towns and families, then vanish, leaving blood and grief behind.”
His eyes caught yours, sharp and unyielding.

“Our people have buried too many because of them.”

Isaiah leaned forward, his tone quieter but no softer.

“That’s why we hunt. That’s why we still carry these stories. And that’s why you need to be wary, cousin. No matter what face they wear. No matter how soft their voice. Vampires don’t change.”

Your throat tightened. The firelight blurred for a moment before you blinked it back clear. David reached into his pack. From it, he pulled a leather cord strung with carved bone and cedar beads, the scent sharp, grounding. He held it across the fire.

“This won’t stop claws or fangs,” he said. “But it’ll remind you who you are. Where you come from. And that’s how you keep the Soul-Eater out — and the vampires from owning you.”

The weight of it was simple but heavy when you took it, slipping it over your head. The cedar pressed cool against your skin, steadying your pulse. Isaiah’s voice cut the quiet.

“You’re stronger than you think. But strength won’t save you if you forget what he is.”

The words lingered in the smoke, sharp as cedar. The beads rested cool against your chest as the flames sank to embers. Their stories clung heavier than smoke, filling the silence long after they finished.

You rose slowly, brushing dirt from your palms, and looked between them.

“Thank you,” you said at last. The words felt small, but your voice didn’t waver. “For trusting me. For teaching me.”

David’s expression softened, just a hint.

“Don’t waste it,” he said, quiet but steady.

Isaiah stood and reached for the pack at your shoulders, slipping it off before you could stop him. “Leave it,” he said simply. He held your gaze a moment, then pulled the knife from its sheath and pressed it into your hands. His fingers closed around yours, steady.

“This stays with you. You’ll need it.”

The metal was warm from the firelight, heavier now with everything you knew. You nodded, throat tight. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, cousin,” Isaiah answered. David gave a single nod.

The talisman bumped gently against your chest as you turned toward the trees, your steps light without the burden of the pack. The knife at your side felt like the truest weight of all, one you were ready to carry back to the man who waited for you. You didn’t look back.

The woods stretched wide and quiet, the last of the glow falling away behind you. Without the pack on your shoulders, you felt lighter, but the knife at your hip reminded you of its own gravity with every step. Then the air shifted. Not sound. Not sight. Presence.

The shadows between the trees thickened, coalescing into a shape half smoke, half flesh. Gaunt, gray skin stretched tight, black veins twisting up its throat, eyes burning dim and hungry. One of the Pale One’s hive. It hissed, teeth too sharp, and lunged.

You dodged, steel catching its arm in a shallow cut. The shriek that tore from its throat rattled the branches overhead, but it didn’t stop coming. You stumbled back into a clearing, breath ragged, knife clenched tight. The thing circled, crouched low, ready to spring again. That’s when you saw it — a shaft of sunlight still cutting through the treetops, the last dregs of the day lingering at the horizon.
When it leapt, you caught it, twisting with its weight, shoving with every ounce of strength you had. The blade pinned it just long enough to drag its writhing body into the light.

The moment the sun touched it, the creature convulsed, a scream tearing free — warped, inhuman, furious. Its skin split, smoke boiling out, until it disintegrated in your grip, scattering into ash that the wind carried off. Silence returned. Only your uneven breathing filled the clearing. Blood smeared your sleeves, streaked down your wrist, but none of it was yours. You wiped the knife clean on the dirt, hand trembling only after the air was still again. Then you turned toward the faint glow of the farmhouse lantern, throat tight.

Home.

The farmhouse lantern showed faint against the horizon, a promise dragging you through the last stretch of trees. Your legs ached, your arms shook, but the knife was still steady in your hand. Blood streaked your sleeves, spattered across your skin. Not yours.

The steps creaked under your boots as you climbed them. Before you could reach for the door, it swung open. Remmick stood framed in the glow, broad shoulders tense, eyes rimmed red from too many sleepless nights. For a heartbeat, he froze. His gaze swept over you — the blood, the dirt, the wildness in your eyes. His whole body locked like a man struck.

“Don’t worry,” you rasped before he could speak, sliding the knife back into the sheath at your hip. “It’s not mine.”

The words barely reached him before he was moving, crossing the porch in two strides. His hands cupped your face, then skimmed down your arms, over your shoulders, gripping like he had to prove to himself you were still there. Relief carved deep lines into his face, almost pain in the way it twisted him. He pulled you in, crushing you against his chest, his breath rough in your hair. His arms trembled around you, unbreakable and broken all at once. For the first time since you left, the weight of the woods slipped. You felt home.

The night air clung cold to your skin, the blood drying tacky on your arms. Remmick didn’t let go right away. He just held you on the porch, chest rising sharp against your cheek, breath unsteady. When he finally eased back, it wasn’t far — his hand still at the small of your back, guiding you inside. The door shut behind you, the lock dropping with a heavy click.

Upstairs, steam feathered from the bath he drew, the water warm and clean. He peeled your bloodied clothes away piece by piece, his touch reverent, steadying himself in the ritual of it. You sank into the tub, heat swallowing you whole, your body trembling with both exhaustion and the echo of the fight. Remmick crouched beside you, sleeves rolled, a damp cloth in his hand as he wiped the streaks from your skin.

His jaw clenched every time the rag came away red, even though he knew it wasn’t your blood.

“Remmick,” you whispered, breaking the quiet. “Why is the Pale One hunting you?”

His hand stilled, cloth dripping into the water. Vapor misted the mirror, beading on your skin. Remmick wrung the cloth out again, passing it carefully over your shoulder, slow enough that the silence pressed heavier than the heat.

“Why is he hunting you?” you asked again, voice low but steady.

The cloth hung limp, dripping red-tinged water back into the tub.

“Because I walked away,” he said finally. His voice wasn’t raised, but it was cut sharp. “When he bit me, when he tried to pull me under his will like the others, I didn’t break. I kept my soul.”
Your breath caught.

“Most don’t,” he continued, eyes fixed on the water as though he couldn’t bear to meet yours. “The Pale One hollows them out. Leaves nothin’ but hunger. A hive that moves when he whispers. Mindless. But me?”

His jaw flexed, a muscle ticking there.

“I slipped his chain. And that… that makes me dangerous. And unfinished business.”

The cloth trembled in his hand before he set it aside. For the first time, his eyes found yours, dark and burning. Steam clung to the room. Remmick’s cloth drew one last line of warmth across your skin before he stilled, his hand braced on the rim of the tub, shoulders rigid.

“He doesn’t just want me back,” he said finally, voice low, ragged. “He wants what I am.”

Your brows drew together.

“What are you?”

His jaw worked.

“The anchor. He made me, same as he made the rest of my kin. But when he tried to pull me into the hive, I fought him. I kept my soul. That kind of power—holding yourself in the bite—it isn’t common. And he wants it. To twist it. To make it his.”

The words sank heavy, but you pressed.

“You said he made your kin. What happened to them?”

Remmick’s eyes darkened, not with anger but with grief so sharp it looked like fury. “

The Pale One wasn’t always alone. He belonged to a clan once—ancient, ruthless. They wanted power above all else, clawed for it until it hollowed them. And in the end, he betrayed them too. Fed on them, one by one, until he was the last left standing.”

He paused, his throat working. When he spoke again, his voice was raw.

“But my kin… they weren’t his brothers. They were my blood. My family. He turned them into part of his hive, stripped them of their souls until nothing remained but hunger. They weren’t the same people anymore. Just shadows wearing faces I loved.”

He swallowed hard. “That’s why he’ll never stop, darlin’. I’m the last piece he wants. My soul. My power. Me.”

The warmth of the room did nothing to soften the chill in your chest. His words echoed, jagged and sharp — consumed them, the last of them now. Your voice was barely more than a whisper.

“You didn’t just bury them… did you?”

Remmick’s head bowed, shadow cutting deep over his face. He didn’t answer at once, and the silence between you was louder than any scream. Finally, his hand dragged down his jaw, eyes closing like the weight of centuries pressed behind them.

“No,” he said hoarsely. “When the hunger took them—when they turned mindless, hollow—I had to put ‘em down. Every one.”

The water rippled as your breath caught. His gaze lifted to yours then, raw and unguarded.

“Brothers. Cousins. Blood I’d grown up with. My father. My mother. I buried what was left after I killed them, because there weren’t enough prayers in this world to call it mercy.”

His hand flexed against the tub’s edge, knuckles white.

“Not to Christ. Not to the old gods I was raised on. No power heard me. No power answered.”

Silence pressed heavier after that. You reached out, brushing damp hair back from his temple, anchoring him before the grief could swallow him whole.

“So how do we stop him?” you asked softly.

Remmick’s gaze slid away, jaw tightening before he answered.

“Not here. Not on this soil. He’s too strong in the shadows he’s carved. We’d have to go back… across the sea.”

“Ireland,” you breathed.

His eyes flicked back to yours. Grief there. And dread. “Aye. Ireland. The place I swore I’d never return to. The place he’ll never stop feeding from unless someone tears him out by the root.”

You shifted, turning to face him fully. “And you think we can do it?”

“I know it won’t be easy,” .

“The Pale One is swollen with every soul he’s taken. But I’m not empty-handed either. Some escaped his bite — old friends, old kin, still walking in the dark. If they’ve survived this long… they’ll stand with us.”

The words hung heavy, like the air before a storm. You swallowed.

“So we go to Ireland. Together.”

His hand brushed water from your shoulder, lingering there, firm.

“If you want this path, darlin’, there’s no turnin’ back. Once we set foot on that soil, it’ll be war.”

“And if we don’t?”

“Then he comes here. To us. To you.”

You drew a breath, steady despite the crawl of cold up your spine.

“Then we go.”

For a long moment, he only looked at you — then his forehead tipped against yours, heavy, reverent.

“God help me, I don’t deserve you.”

Chapter Text

The night was still until it wasn’t. A low rumble outside, boots on gravel, the distant flicker of lanterns. You and Remmick moved to the front window together, the room hushed save for the creak of floorboards. Figures gathered at the yard’s edge — neighbors, townsfolk you knew by name. At their head, holding a torch like a man on a mission, was Tom.

Your breath caught.

“I thought he was with you.”

Remmick’s jaw worked, eyes narrowing.

“Look at his eyes.”

You did. Your stomach twisted. The warmth you remembered — gone. His gaze glowed faint, unfocused, like it wasn’t his at all. Hollow. Claimed.

“The Pale One’s got him,” Remmick said, voice a rasp. “Got them all, most likely. Puppets on strings.”

The crowd shifted, muttering, anger swelling as Tom raised the torch higher. “Out with her!” someone barked. “She’s cursed!” another hissed. “She brought him here!”

Flames licked the torch as Tom stepped forward, voice flat, too flat.

“Burn it down.”

Your chest tightened. “Remmick—”

He already had a hand at your back.

“We’re leaving. Now.”

You slipped toward the rear of the house, every movement swift and quiet. The mob’s noise swelled, wood splintered as someone smashed a front window. The stink of oil, the first tongues of fire — it was happening fast. On the back porch, Remmick pushed you toward the trees.

“Run.”

Your eyes darted to the kitchen table. The bottle of perfume glimmered faint in lamplight, glass catching the fire already rising. A stupid, fragile thing — but yours. The last piece you hadn’t lost. You bolted for it, heat crawling up the walls. The glass shimmered, ridiculous and delicate against a growing blaze.

“Darlin’, no—” Remmick’s voice cut through the smoke, but you were already clutching the bottle to your chest, coughing as the curtains caught. He reached you in two strides, hauling you back with a grip like iron. The front windows blew inward with a crash, flames lifting. He spun you toward the door, fury and fear flushed across his face.
“
Really?” His voice was sharp, disbelief threaded through a growl.

“We’re about to burn alive and you risk yourself for soap water in a fancy jar?”

“It’s perfume,” you shot back, clutching it tighter.

His jaw clenched, nostrils flaring — for half a heartbeat he looked like he might throttle you himself. Then he exhaled hard through his nose, dragging you into his chest as the blaze roared behind you.

“Perfume,” he muttered, shoving you toward the back door. “Next time you want to die over a bottle, let it be whiskey.”

You two slipped into the trees, the roar behind you devouring the only home you’d known. The mob’s shouting dulled to a distant storm, and still Remmick didn’t ease his grip, pulling you through brambles and roots until the fire was only a smudge on the night. By the time you reached the next town over, dawn brushed the horizon.

The train station stood quiet and gray in early light, soot from last night still clinging to your clothes. Remmick guided you into the shadow of a side street, jaw set tight. “Stay close,” he murmured, pulling his coat around you.

“Don’t look anyone in the eye.”

Before you could ask what he was doing, he vanished into the bank’s tall doors like he belonged there. He reemerged not ten minutes later, a leather satchel in his hand, shoulders looser now but eyes sharper than ever.

“Enough to get us to New York,” he said low. “The rest will wait there. I don’t open every vault unless I have to.”

It hit you then—the way he thought in centuries, not weeks. Always careful, always dividing himself into pieces hidden across the world. Safety nets. Escape routes. Different names to wear when one burned to ash. He caught the look on your face and only shrugged, tugging you toward the general store.

“You’ll get used to it, mo ghrá. Comes with survivin’.”

By the time you stepped onto the platform, smoke from the fire still clung to your hair, but you were both cleaned up: you in a plain traveling dress and sturdy shoes; him in a fresh shirt with rolled sleeves, suspenders set firm over broad shoulders.

The train hissed. Remmick leaned close, the rasp of his beard warm against your temple.

“Once we reach New York, I’ll take care of the rest. But for now—” his voice roughened with promise, “—for now, you’re mine to protect. No looking back.” He drew you up into the carriage as the rails carried you forward.

The rhythm of the wheels thudded like a heartbeat through the floorboards. Pine woods and little towns slipped past in streaks of shadow and lamplight. In the dim compartment, you shared a narrow seat, his arm slung warm across your shoulders. For a long while you said nothing, letting the hum of the rails fill the silence.

“What happens when we get to New York?” you asked at last.

“From there, we sail,” he said, eyes on the dark glass. “Ireland.”

Ireland. Another ocean. Another world.

“And then what? We find him—the Pale One?”

“Aye.” His gaze cut to you, sharp even in the soft light. “But Ireland’s not only where he waits. It’s where I began. That land stirs old things—old gods, old curses. He’ll be strongest there. And it’ll test you.”

“And if I’m not ready?”

His hand rose to the back of your neck, thumb brushing slow.

“Then I keep you alive until you are. That’s my vow. You’re learnin’ faster than I thought. You’ll be ready.”

The lantern swayed as the train jolted over a crossing. Outside, a whistle cried long into the night. You rested your head against the window, countryside blurring by.

“When we get to Ireland,” you said softly, “won’t he already be there? Waiting?”

Remmick shook his head once.

“No. He’ll follow—always follow—but he won’t beat us to the shore. That’s his way. He stalks. He circles. But he’s never ahead. Never bold enough for that.”

“So he’ll come after us.”

“Yes.” His eyes burned in the lamplight.

“He doesn’t let go—not of me, not of anything he sets his teeth into. If he wants me in Ireland, he’ll have to step into the open. And that’s where we end it.”

That night he coaxed you to the dining car. The room clattered with silverware and smoke, full of traveling salesmen, soldiers on leave, families corralling restless children. You sat across from him at a bolted table under a swinging light.

“Need to eat sweetheart, can't have you going hungry,” he said, mouth tipping toward a smile.

By the second day the compartment air had gone stale with dust and coal, but you hardly noticed. You were tucked against him, your hand tangled in his shirt so he couldn’t move without you knowing. The vow between you thrummed low beneath the rails.

“New York,” the conductor called down the corridor.

You stirred, blinking awake to shouts, laughter, car horns—the restless pulse of the city. Remmick brushed a hand down your arm. “On your feet, mo ghrá. We’ve ground to cover.”

Chapter Text

You stepped off the train into the roar of Grand Central—marble, echoes, painted stars high overhead. Remmick kept a steady hand at the small of your back, guiding you through the crush and out to a waiting cab. Neither of you spoke. You were both bone-tired.

The hotel room was quiet, the city’s pulse muted to a distant thrum. He locked the door, drew the curtains, and pressed a kiss to your hairline.

“Sleep, mo ghrá.”

You slid beneath the covers with the smell of coal and rain still on your skin. He lay behind you, an arm over your waist, holding you like a vow.

Morning came gray and close. Rain threaded the air, slicking the streets, turning the sky to pewter. Remmick rolled his sleeves with deliberate care and angled the curtain a fraction.

“Cloud cover holds,” he murmured. “We’ll move while it lasts.”

Daylight shopping felt almost daring. He kept close—palm warm at the small of your back—steering you across wet avenues and into a department store glowing like a lantern against the gloom. A doorman tipped his cap; warm air kissed your face, scented with polish, soap, and perfume. Brass cages lifted shoppers in humming elevators. Salesgirls in neat uniforms glided past with armfuls of silk.

“Pick what you want,” he said.

“I don’t need—”

“Not need,” he corrected gently, fingers brushing the curve of your hip.

“Deserve. Everything you lost, I’ll replace. And more.”

The fitting rooms became their own world. You stepped out in pale lilac chiffon; he forgot to breathe. Red satin drew a quiet curse he tried to swallow and failed. Powder-blue silk with a scandalous slit made him go utterly still, knuckles whitening where his hands gripped the arm of a chair.

“Turn,” he said, voice low.

You spun, skirts whispering around your knees.

“Walk toward me.”

You did, and his throat worked. “That one will be the end of me.”

“You can’t say that about every dress,” you laughed.

“Watch me.”

You reached for practicality: a cream blouse, a sensible skirt. He dragged a hand over his jaw, eyes gone molten.

“That one’s the most dangerous.”

“It’s a skirt.”

“Looks like a woman I could come home to,” he said, the words rough and unguarded.

You emerged in high-waisted trousers and a fitted shirt, a joke meant to make him roll his eyes. He didn’t. He stood like he’d been struck, the chair scraping backward an inch.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he said, half-ruined. “I’ll buy out the floor.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

He tipped his head at the hovering attendant. “Bring three sizes, every color.”

“Remmick,” you hissed, fighting a smile.

“Argue later. Try the shorts now.”

He’d already greased the wheels; the attendant kept arriving with armfuls before you could finish protesting. Between changes he caught your wrist, thumb finding your pulse.

“For me,” he said, almost pleading and almost command.

“At least pretend to be sensible,” you said, cheeks warm.

“I’m being very sensible. I’m preventing a riot,” he murmured. “If any of these leave this room on your body, men will walk into lampposts.”

At the lingerie counter—lace slips and whisper-thin stockings laid out like sin in daylight—you lifted a pair with two fingers, scandalized and amused.

“Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes,” he told the clerk without looking away from you.

“We’ll take the set.” He bent to your ear. “I’ll spend all night showing you how they tear.”

Your breath hitched; his smile turned slow and wicked.

He didn’t forget himself entirely. Shirts and suspenders for him. A new coat cut to the shoulder. You insisted on choosing his ties: deep navy, a sober forest green, one wine-dark that made his eyes go almost black. He stood still while you smoothed the silk against his collar, pretending patience and failing; his hands bracketed your waist the second the clerk glanced away.

“If you keep touching me like that, the staff will have cause to ring a bell.”

“Behave,” you whispered.

“I am,” he said, absolutely not behaving.

At the luggage cases he tested handles, buckles, the sound of clasps catching true. He chose a stacked set in rich leather, then added a small vanity case and ran a thumb over the smooth lid.

“Yours,” he said. “For the pretty things you’re pretending you don’t want.” He paused at the counter.

“Can you stamp her initials?” he asked the clerk, voice gone cool and businesslike. “Here.” When the heated die hissed and lifted, he nodded, satisfied.

By late afternoon the bellhop could barely see over the stack. The rain had softened to a fine mist, threading silver through the streetlamps. Back at the hotel, Remmick tipped generously, shut the door on the city, and leaned his back to it, watching you in the spill of boxes.

“You didn’t have to—” you began.

He lifted a brow.

“I had to stop myself from buying the shop outright.” His gaze dragged over you with shameless hunger.

“Every time you walked out, I thought I’d lose my mind.”

You laid the gowns side by side—blue, red, lilac—and hesitated, then chose the simplest: a dainty cream dress that skimmed your collarbone and fell soft at the knee. While you dressed, you heard him shrug into a dark waistcoat and crisp trousers, tie left loose like a secret.

“How do I look?” you asked from the doorway, smoothing the skirt.

He crossed the space in two strides, took your hand, and kissed your knuckles.

“Like trouble I’ll thank God for,” he said. “Now let me feed you before I ruin that dress myself.”

He led you into a velvet-draped restaurant where candlelight turned the rain to gold on the windows. The room blurred—laughter, glass, low music—until there was only his thumb tracing your pulse and the steady warmth of his gaze.

“Eat,” he murmured. “Drink. Sparkle for me.”

“Sparkle?”

“Like a jewel I should never have been allowed to keep,” he said, smiling without looking away.

He tilted his chin toward a corner table.

“All right—read the room.”

You followed his line of sight.

“The pair by the window aren’t married. She keeps touching her bare ring finger. He keeps glancing at the clock.”

“Good,” he said, pleased.

“The man at the bar is watching the door, not his drink. Security for somebody important.”

A quiet hum of approval. “And the older gentleman?”

“Second bottle,” you said softly. “He’s waiting for someone who isn’t coming.”

He reached across and brushed your knuckles again, pride banked low in his eyes. “Dangerous,” he murmured. “You’re getting dangerous.”

“Then keep teaching me.”

“I plan to,” he said, voice dropping to a promise only you could hear.

Chapter Text

Back at the hotel, the warmth of the restaurant still clung to you, but as soon as the door closed behind you, exhaustion hit like a wave. Your body sagged, the weight of days without true rest finally catching you. You toed off your shoes, set your clutch on the desk, and turned toward Remmick, your voice quiet.

“Can we… just go to bed early tonight?”

For a moment he only studied you, his sharp eyes softening as he took in the faint slump of your shoulders, the way you swayed on your feet.

“Course, darlin’.” His voice was steady, no tease, no demand—just warm with understanding.

He crossed the room in two strides, hands brushing down your arms as if to gather you up.

“You’ve been burning both ends of the candle. Even the fiercest little hunter needs sleep.”

You gave him a faint smile, leaning into his chest. “Don’t make fun.”

He kissed the crown of your head. “Never. Just proud.”

Without another word, he helped you out of your dress, his touch unhurried, reverent instead of hungry tonight. He draped it carefully over a chair, then guided you beneath the cool sheets. The mattress dipped as he slid in beside you, his arm winding around your waist, pulling you against the steady line of him.

Your eyes fluttered shut almost instantly, the quiet thrum of his chest beneath your ear lulling you deeper. The last thing you felt before sleep claimed you was the press of his lips against your temple and his whisper—low, meant only for you.

“Sleep, sweet girl"

The night crept on as you slept, peacefully.

You woke to warmth. Too much warmth.

Blinking in the dark, you shifted — and froze. The sheets beneath you were wet, sticky. When your hand slid down, it came away red.

Your breath caught, chest clenching as you sat up fast. The white linens were streaked, blooming with crimson under you like some horrible painting.

“Oh God…” Your voice cracked. “No, no, no—”

Panic surged, your hands clawing at the sheets, trying to fold them, hide the stains, anything to cover the evidence. Hot tears blurred your vision as the truth sank deeper. You’d ruined everything.

“I can’t—” You hiccupped, your throat raw. The hotel bed, the crisp linen, the perfection of the night — all of it was spoiled. “I ruined it—”

Your sobs grew harder, your body shaking with the weight of shame. You pressed your face into your hands, shoulders curled, trying to make yourself small, invisible.

That’s when you felt it.

The shift of the mattress. The sudden presence.

“Darlin’?” Remmick’s voice was hoarse with sleep, with something deeper. His hand came to your shoulder, steady, grounding. But then he paused, inhaled — and stilled.

The black swallowed the color of his eyes, hunger flashing across his face before he caged it down. His hand slid from your shoulder to your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear.

“What’s all this now?”

“I—I ruined it.” The words fell broken from your lips. “The bed, the sheets—look at it—”

He did look. But not with disgust. His jaw clenched, his throat working as if every breath was a fight. The copper scent was thick in the air, and it took everything in him not to give in.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, lifting your chin so you’d meet his eyes. “You think I care for linen? I care for you. And you…” His voice dropped, a rasp barely controlled. “…are not ruined.”

You tried to turn away, ashamed, but his hand held you there. Then he lowered, slow, deliberate, toward the heat still damp between your thighs.

“Remmick, don’t—” Your plea shook, but your body betrayed you, arching into the promise of his mouth.

“Don’t what?” he growled softly, hunger and devotion tangling in his tone. “Don’t worship you? Don’t take what’s mine?”

“Mine,” he muttered into you between licks, voice muffled, reverent and feral all at once. “Every part of you.”

"Remmick-no," you whimpered trying to close your legs.

"Quiet, let me." the command was firm, his eyes dark, narrowed, boring into you. 

Something in you broke at that tone — not fear, but surrender. Your hands fell limp against the sheets, your chest heaving, your body obeying before your mind could catch up.
Then his mouth was on you, hot and desperate, tongue stroking through blood and slick like he’d been waiting lifetimes for this. A groan rumbled from deep in his chest, vibrating against you, pulling a shuddering cry from your throat.

He devoured you.

There was no other word for it — his mouth frantic, messy, his growls muffled against your flesh. Every lick, every pull of his tongue was desperate, starved, as though the taste of you had burned away whatever restraint he once had. Your thighs shook against his shoulders, but his grip was iron, claws dimpling into your skin to hold you open, spread wide for him. He didn’t let you shy away. Didn’t let you hide.

The sheets you’d tried to protect were ruined, soaked through, and he didn’t care. His face was slick with your blood, smeared across his lips and jaw as he buried himself deeper, drinking, lapping, claiming every drop for himself. Your body writhed beneath him, lost in the rawness of it, the unholy blend of hunger and worship. You moaned his name, high and broken, your nails clawing at the sheets as he pulled you apart again and again.

“Remmick—” you gasped, but his voice cut through, hoarse and sharp between strokes of his tongue:

“Mine.”

He growled it, snarled it, breathed it like a vow. Each word sank into you as much as his mouth did, leaving you trembling, undone. Your climax hit hard, ripping through you, but still he didn’t stop. His mouth moved greedily, licking, sucking, drinking like he was starved, blood covering his mouth and chin, dark crimson streaked down his throat where it had run over. He was drunk on you, feral with need, but every movement screamed devotion, like you were a feast meant only for him.

When he finally pulled back, his face was a ruin of blood and hunger. His lips, wet and glistening, curved into something dark but almost reverent. He leaned up, pressing his blood-smeared mouth to your trembling thigh, your hip, your stomach, worship in every kiss. And when his gaze found yours — raw with need and something deeper — his voice was nothing but a ragged vow:

“You’ll never understand what you do to me.”

His mouth tore away, blood dripping down his chin, but he didn’t retreat. Not yet.

Instead, his hand slid between your thighs, two fingers dipping into you without warning. Fingers curling into that spot. You gasped, hips jolting, your body still trembling from the waves he’d pulled out of you. He drew them out slow, glistening red in the low lamplight, and for a breath his expression was something you’d never seen before — sharp, hungry, almost wicked. But beneath it, you saw it too: devotion, adoration so fierce it hurt. His tongue darted out, licking the first smear from his knuckles, then he slid his fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean with a groan that shook through his whole frame. His eyes closed, his throat worked, and the sound was so vulgar, so desperate, you felt your own body clench at the sight.

When his gaze snapped open again, it wasn’t the careful, controlled Remmick who’d held you steady all these weeks. His pupils were blown wide, his chest heaving, his jaw tight with restraint that was quickly slipping.

“I can’t—” He broke off, dragging the pads of his now-clean fingers down your thigh, leaving streaks of crimson. His voice was hoarse, frantic.

“Sweetheart, I can’t stop. Not from you.”

You should have been afraid. But instead, your heart hammered with something hotter, darker. Because even as bloodlust overtook him, every touch, every look was branded with love.
He lowered himself back to you, but this time there was no restraint left. His mouth was savage, consuming, his tongue plunging deep while his fingers held you open, his growls rumbling against your flesh like a predator drunk on the kill.

You cried out, body arching, lost in the rawness of it, in the way his hunger owned you, claimed you, worshipped you. The bloodlust had him now. And you could only cling to him as he tore you apart all over again. He tore himself from between your thighs only long enough to climb over you, blood slicking his mouth and chin, his eyes burning like wildfire. His breath came ragged, animal, as though even speaking cost him.

“You don’t know,” he rasped, the words half-snarl. “What it does to me. The taste of you—” His hips ground against yours, the hard length of him sliding hot against your belly, sticky with your blood where it smeared between you. “—I’ll go mad without it.”

You gasped, reaching for him, nails dragging down his shoulders as though you could anchor him to you. His control snapped.

In one brutal thrust he was inside you, the stretch sharp, tearing a cry from your throat. He groaned low, forehead pressing to yours as he sank deeper, as though he could bury himself so far inside he’d never come out.

“Mine,” he snarled, hips driving hard, his hands gripping your thighs tight enough to bruise. “All of you. Blood, body, soul — mine.”

The sound of him was obscene — the wet slide of blood and slick, the guttural growls torn from his chest, the slap of skin on skin. His jaw was slick, streaked red where it dripped from his chin onto your breasts, smearing across your skin as he bent to bite, to lick, to kiss like he couldn’t decide what he wanted more. You writhed beneath him, lost in the haze, every thrust sparking through you raw and blinding. His mouth found your throat, teeth grazing, his growl vibrating against your pulse. For a breath you thought he’d bite — thought he’d take everything — but instead he pulled back just enough to rasp,

“Say it.”

Your voice was broken, breathless. “Yours.”

His smile curved sharp, wicked, his eyes black pools of want. For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Feral. Starved. Gone.

And then — your soft, broken sob, half from pleasure, the other exhaustion.

It cracked something in him.

He froze mid-thrust, chest rising and falling like he’d just been pulled from drowning. His hand braced on the mattress beside your head trembled, claws half-unsheathed, jaw clenched tight. His lips dragged down your stomach, smearing red as he breathed you in, trying to ground himself.

“Christ… darlin’,” he rasped, voice shredded, his forehead pressing to your skin. “Nearly—” He cut himself off, growl vibrating against you. He’d nearly drained you dry. Nearly ruined everything.

Slowly, carefully, he pulled back, gathering you into his arms like you were glass. His teeth still ached, eyes gone dark, but he held you close, whispering,

“You’re spent, mo ghrá. Let me… let me take care of you.”

He carried you into the bath, ran the water warm, and eased you down into it. His big hands are careful, wiping you clean with a damp cloth, licking at your neck when you shiver but forcing himself to stop, to be tender. His eyes never leave yours, burning still but steadier, steadier every second.

When you’re washed and wrapped in clean towels, he calls room service in that gravelly midnight voice, asking for hot tea, more linens, extra towels. It’s near two in the morning, but his tone brooks no refusal.

By the time he tucks you into fresh sheets, the tea steaming gently on the nightstand, his body curls around yours. One hand strokes through your hair, the other holding you close as though he’s afraid you’ll vanish into the dark.

“I love you,” he murmured, low, over and over. A chant to lull you to sleep

Only when he was sure that you were lost to dreams, did he rise for your side.

Remmick braced himself against the porcelain bathroom sink, head bowed. His chest rose and fell like a man starved, though he’d fed — too much, nearly too much.

When he lifted his gaze, the mirror threw back not just his reflection, but the darker shape lurking beneath it — the thing he fought so hard to cage. His face streaked with blood, the black swallowed the color of his eyes, feral, hungry. The monster stared back at him, daring him to admit what he’d become.

He growled low, slamming a fist into the mirror hard enough that the glass cracked under his hand. But it wasn’t enough. The hunger still clawed at him, gnawing, demanding.

His hand slid down, blood still wet against his palm as he wrapped it around his cock, throbbing, drenched in your blood . The first stroke had him gasping, his forehead pressed to the mirror, the slick sound filling the air. Your blood smeared down the length of him, sliding warm, and he swore he could still taste you on his tongue.

“Christ—” His voice broke, guttural, as he pumped harder, the smell of copper and your sweetness filling his head until there was nothing else. He stroked himself into frenzy, his teeth bared, the monster in the mirror grinning back, wickedly mocking him.

Release tore from him violent and shuddering, spilling across his fist, streaking the porcelain beneath. He kept stroking through it, unwilling to stop, until he was trembling from the edge of it, chest heaving, sweat dripping into the cracks of the mirror.

Only then did he let go, his knuckles white against the sink. He dragged in ragged breaths, his face a mask of shame and need, the echo of her scent still clinging to him.

And he knew — he wasn’t sure who he hated more. The monster in the mirror, or himself for letting it win.

He cleaned his hands on a rag, but the blood lingered — in the cracks of his knuckles, beneath his nails, in the heat still pulsing through his veins. No amount of scrubbing would wash it out.

He dragged himself back into the bedroom. You were curled beneath the fresh white sheets, your face soft in sleep, your breath steady. For a moment, he just stood there, staring — his chest tight, his throat burning.

He eased down onto the mattress beside you, careful not to wake you, his arm hovering over your waist before he finally let it settle. But even with you warm against him, even with your scent cocooning him, his body refused rest.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw red. The taste of you on his tongue. The monster in the mirror grinning.

He pressed his face into your hair, inhaling, desperate to ground himself. But still his pulse thrashed, restless, starving, feral.

Hours bled toward dawn. You slept, safe in the circle of his arm.

Remmick never closed his eyes.

Chapter Text

The room held the color of ash just before dawn, rain needling the windows softly. Remmick sat in the armchair opposite the bed in nothing but sleep pants, elbows on his knees, hands laced so hard old scars blanched. He was counting dangers like beads—the hive’s reach, every prying eye, every thin door between you and the dark—and then the thought that cut through all the rest and would not let go. A baby. One missed moon, one soft miscalculation, and there’d be a heartbeat under your palm that wasn’t just yours. Something small and bright the world could steal. He saw you slowed and sick with mornings, skin gone delicate while the thing hunting him never tired. He saw himself hovering, helpless; one more thing for the Pale One to take from him.

Worse than the picture was the taste still ghosting his tongue. Blood, sweet and clean, had hit his mouth and the monster in him had sung—loud, wild, a chain yanked hard enough to bruise. He’d dragged himself off you by will alone, and still the room had tilted black at the edges, that old hunger pleading to finish what it started. Shame sat like iron in his gut. He flexed his hands and dried red hid in the cracks of his knuckles, proof of a line he’d almost crossed. He didn’t move.

You stirred. He didn’t look away. He just watched you wake.

You pushed upright naked, tugged the comforter around your shoulders, and padded across the carpet. When you reached him, you swung one knee and then the other into his lap, facing him, dragging the blanket wide to cocoon you both. His hands hovered uselessly at your waist like he wasn’t sure he deserved to touch you.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted, voice raw. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—” His jaw locked. “God, I nearly—”

“Hey.” You framed his face, pressing your forehead to his. “I’m still here.”

His eyes shuttered. “That’s the problem, sweetheart. I don’t ever want ‘still’ to be luck.”

You kissed him—soft, steady, a promise instead of a demand. When he chased it, you smiled against his mouth and kept it gentle.

“So… is it going to be like that every time I’m on my period?”

The corner of his mouth kicked, wrecked and wicked at once. “Next time,” he murmured, “I’ll bathe in it.”

You huffed a laugh, swatted his shoulder, and laced your fingers with his. You lifted his knuckles to your lips, kissing each ridge. Dried crimson threaded the lines there, caught under nails and in the roughness of work and war.

“You’re filthy,” you said, inspecting him like evidence. “You need a bath anyway.”

“Come on.”

You tugged him to the tiled bath, steam already ghosting from the tap. He stepped in first; you knelt on a folded towel beside the tub. Soap bloomed in your palms. You worked it over him slowly, deliberately—wrists, fingers, the valleys between each knuckle where the blood clung; along the tendons of his forearms; up the cut of his biceps. He watched you like he didn’t have a name for what you were doing to him.

“Head back,” you whispered.

He tipped his face; you poured warm water through his hair, slicking it from his brow. Lather foamed under your nails; you massaged his scalp until the line of his shoulders loosened by inches. You rinsed him clean, towel moving in patient passes—over collarbone, across the thick plane of his chest, down the ladder of his ribs where old scars lived. Soap tracked lower; you swerved past the hunger that twitched at the edge of your vision and kept to the map of him: hips, thighs, the rope and knot of calves..

By the time you finished, the mirror had fogged to white and his breathing had gone quiet, not because he hid it but because something inside him had finally unclenched.

He sat there, stunned. “I’ve never…” He shook his head once, helpless. “Not like this.”

You kissed the hollow at his temple. “Get used to it.”

The rain held. The room stayed dim and safe. You toweled him dry, sliding fabric slow over muscle and scar, then laced your fingers with his and drew him back to the bed.

“Face down,” you said—gentle, but not a suggestion.

He obeyed. You straddled the backs of his thighs and set your palms at his shoulders. Slow pressure, small circles, then long strokes down the length of his back. Knots gave under your thumbs with reluctant little twitches. He groaned into the pillow, the sound low and unguarded.

“Breathe,” you murmured.

You kissed the hinge of his neck, then trailed down his spine—press, release, press—your mouth a counterpoint to your hands. You skimmed his sides, the cut of his ribs, the notch above his hip. When your path veered lower he tensed, warning and want tangled, and you smiled against warm skin and detoured. No mercy in the patience today. You worked his hamstrings, calves, the arches of his feet until he swore softly and tried to pull away from the tickle
.
“Be still,” you said, laughing into his skin. “I’m not done.”

You turned him carefully onto his back. His eyes were heavy, edges softened by rainlight and trust. You kneaded his forearms, the thick cords of tendon at his wrists; you kissed each palm; you mapped his chest with the heel of your hand, rib by rib. Your mouth followed—throat, sternum, the trail down to his stomach—hovering scandalously close to his cock slowly rousing before sliding past. He sucked a breath in through his teeth.

“Tease,” he accused, voice gone rough velvet.

“Recovery,” you corrected, and kept moving. You stretched one arm over his head to work the shoulder and he went boneless under your touch, the kind of surrender that isn’t small—a man who doesn’t sleep, sleeping in your hands.

The next time you looked up, his breathing had evened. Out cold. Not dead. Just finally… done.

You pressed a kiss to his wrist so soft he didn’t stir, slid off the bed, and padded to the vanity. Rain feathered the glass beyond the curtain. The city mumbled on the other side of the window.

You did your makeup by that gray light—quiet strokes, a soft mouth, a line fine enough to please a man who notices everything. Then you crossed to the little desk, hooked a finger in the phone cord, and made the world fall into place: a quiet, romantic restaurant with two seats at the best table—both of them yours— and the finest seats at a Broadway show to follow.

When you hung up, he was still sleeping, exhausted and wrecked and absolutely yours. You tucked the sheet over his hips, drew the curtains tighter against the pale morning, and let the rain keep its lullaby while you sat beside him and watched the thorn loosen its hold on his chest.

The rain was still threading the window when he woke, the room washed in the slow gray of afternoon. You’d curled on the suite’s little couch with a book, one knee tucked under, hair loose over your shoulder. He crossed to you quietly, almost reverent, and bent to kiss the crown of your head.

“What are you reading, sweetheart?”

You didn’t look up. “How to kill a sleeping vampire.”

He huffed a laugh against your hair. “Very funny.”

You slid a ribbon between the pages and stood. “Up. We need to get dressed. I’ve got us a table for two and seats for a show.”

One brow lifted. “And here I thought I was the one in charge.”

“You are,” you said, stepping into his space to straighten the line of his waistband. “I just filled in while you were… incapacitated.”

His hands found your waist and hauled you closer. “Is that right?” His mouth brushed your neck, teasing more than biting, breath warm where your pulse beat. You laughed and tried to twist away.

“Remmick—stop, that tickles.”

At once he stilled, forehead leaning into yours, the smile still caught at the corner of his mouth. “I love you,” he said—simple, unarmored.

You kissed the tip of his nose. “I love you too.” Then you tapped his chest and tipped your chin toward the wardrobe. “Now go get dressed.”

He flashed teeth and softened it with a grin. “Yes, ma’am.”

By the time you reached the restaurant, the rain had rinsed the city clean and night had taken the streets. Pavement held a soft sheen, lamps throwing small moons in every puddle. Inside, the room was all hush and velvet: low music, crystal catching candlelight, a single table set just for two near a bank of tall windows. Exquisite. Intimate. Expensive.

“Don’t worry—I’m buying,” you said as the maître d’ drew out your chair.

He arched a brow while you smoothed the dark red satin over your knees, the off-shoulder neckline gleaming against your skin. “Oh yeah? With whose money?”

“Yours,” you deadpanned, settling in with a small smile. “You’re letting me spend it.”

He slid into his seat with a flicker of a grin—charcoal suit, waistcoat, cuffs winking silver—sharp enough to belong in any room. But he couldn’t stop looking at you. The red on your skin felt like a private taunt from the night before, a flash of heat he’d almost let swallow him. Over it came the steadier truth: he was lucky to sit across from you at all. He’d thought this kind of life was gone for good.

Between courses, you toyed with your glass. “What’s Ireland like?”

His gaze went somewhere farther than the window. “Green that bites after winter. Bog and stone. Fields stitched with walls older than memory. Sea that never shuts up.” A beat softened his mouth. “And places where the land remembers what walked it before men. You feel it in the bones.”

“And are you ready to go back?” you asked.

He studied you instead. “Better question—are you ready to leave America?”

You didn’t blink. “I want to be wherever you are.”

He reached across linen and threaded your fingers with his, thumb tracing once over your knuckles like he was memorizing a vow. The waiter arrived; you teased the sommelier’s solemnity; he pretended not to care and then ordered exactly what would make you smile. The dress kept catching the light, throwing wounds of color across the white cloth; he thought of blood, of promises, of the way your laugh opened a door in a house he’d bricked shut.

After dinner, the marquee spilled gold down the block and the theater swallowed you whole. Plush velvet, gilt trim, the hush before the overture. You took his arm, program hugged to your chest, eyes bright in the dark like the world had briefly decided to be kind. He sat shoulder to shoulder with you as the music rose, and it was surreal—the two of you in public like husband and wife. Not hunters and hunted. Not bargaining with night and hunger. Just… ordinary. Almost.

He watched the show, but mostly he watched you. Entranced. Having the best time. For a long stretch of songs and light he let the fantasy be true: that this could be your everyday—dinners, theater, sidewalks shining after rain—instead of knives and shadows and the things that whisper from trees. He turned your hand palm-up and kissed your knuckles in the dark; when you glanced over, smiling like he’d given you a secret, he let himself believe it might be possible.

The city had gone quiet by the time you slipped between the sheets, bags lined like sentries by the door. The last of the streetlight bled through the curtains, laying a thin ribbon of gold across the bed. He lay on his side facing you, one hand at your hip as if to prove you were real.

“I don’t know what I’m about to throw you into,” he said, voice low, eyes on your mouth instead of the dark. “But the thought of walking into it without you—” He broke off, jaw tight. “That’s the only thing that scares me more.”

You slid closer until your foreheads touched. “Then don’t.”

His breath left him in a shaky laugh. “Sweetheart,” he whispered, like a vow and a warning at once.

You took his hand and tucked it under your cheek. “I’m coming. Wherever it is.”

He nodded, something in him settling even as fear kept its teeth. “At first light,” he said.

“Together,” you answered.

He pulled you in until there was no space left to argue, holding you as if the night could change its mind. Beyond the curtains the city breathed, the bags waited, and morning crept toward you both like a tide you’d chosen to meet.

Chapter Text

Ireland smelled like rain before you saw it.

The pilot boat knocked along the liner’s flank and a harbor slid out of the gray: painted fronts, slate roofs slick with drizzle, a bell somewhere marking the hour. The ship’s horn let loose a long, mournful note and the sound rolled over the water to stone, to hills, to something older that was listening.

Remmick stood at your shoulder at the rail, hat pulled low. The skin at his jaw tensed the way it did when he was pretending to be calm for you. When the mooring lines sang and the gangway clanged into place, he touched the small of your back. Not hurry—just contact. Proof.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he said softly. “Feet on the ground.”

You went down together with the slow river of passengers. A gull screamed overhead. A porter shouted in Irish you didn’t catch. The wet boards took your weight and a pulse ran under your soles like the island was alive and had noticed.

Remmick’s eyes lifted to the hills, to the lines of old walls cutting green into squares. “Fáilte abhaile,” he murmured; welcome home. It wasn’t said to you. Or maybe it was, a little.

His hand found yours and squeezed once. Then he let go, like a man steeling himself to carry a thing that would be heavy for a long time.

The customs man glanced over your papers without curiosity; the rain at the harbor’s mouth thinned to a fine mist that laced your lashes. Porters shouldered trunks; stevedores sang something rude under their breath. Remmick stood in his old country like a man at the edge of a grave he’d dug himself.

“What now?” you asked, voice low for him alone.

He nodded toward the station where smoke from an engine smudged the sky. “We go inland. Fewer eyes.” A beat. “Kin first, if they’ve kept breath. If not—places that owe me. Either way, we don’t linger on the coast.”

You reached for his hand again and he let you take it. The contact grounded the yaw in him. He looked down at the red satin scarf you’d tied over your hair against the damp and something unreadable moved across his face—last night’s ache, tonight’s vow, the impossible luck that you were here to have either.

“Travel face on,” he said, mouth quirking. “Pretend we belong.”

“We do belong,” you answered, daring the land to argue.

A motorcar coughed to life at the curb; a driver tipped his cap. Remmick guided you in with a palm at your waist. The door thunked shut like a decision.

The car pulled away from the harbor and the streets narrowed, climbing. Laundry lines. Peat smoke. A woman at a door watching the world pass with her arms folded and her judgment older than the church. You saw words painted in Irish and English both, and hills beyond the houses like the backs of sleeping beasts.

As the last of the town fell behind, the country opened—green in a dozen tempers, stone fences stitched across it in impossible lines, sheep like dropped clouds. Rain came and went as if the sky was thinking aloud. Remmick was quiet, but it wasn’t the quiet of fear; it was the quiet of listening. The bones he carried had their own map. You felt him following it.

“Tell me when we’re close,” you said.

“You’ll feel it,” he answered. “The ground’ll tell you.”

“Does it like us?”

He considered. “It likes truth. We’ll give it that.”

The lane bent past a wayside cross and a hawthorn knit with faded ribbons that raised the skin on your arms. Smoke smudged the sky ahead—peat, warm and sweet—and the driver turned down a narrow boreen hemmed by stone walls shagged with moss. A slate-roofed farmhouse came into view with a long byre stitched to it, hens fussing under a cart, two black cows staring like magistrates. Fields climbed away behind it in squares of wet green.

“Here,” Remmick said, tapping the glass. “Let us out.”

The motorcar hissed to a stop. As you swung down, the cottage door opened and a man stepped into the gray. He looked thirty at most and older by a century at the eyes. Broad through the shoulders, coat unbuttoned, collar up against the damp. He took you both in, and his mouth went crooked.

“Well look here, you sorry sack of shit,” he drawled, accent a rough Dublin rubbed thin by the countryside. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

Remmick’s grin hit fast and genuine. “Ciarán,” he said, and they met halfway across the yard—arms around each other, a thump of backs that said they’d bled and laughed in the same places. When they broke, Ciarán flicked a glance to you, quick and sharp.

“And who’s this thorn you’ve brought to stick in our side?”

“She’s with me,” Remmick said simply.

Ciarán’s gaze softened a fraction. Up close, you saw the tells: the stillness under the easy stance, the way he kept to the eaves though the day was only pewter light.

“What are you doing back, then?” he asked, the joke sliding out of his voice. “You swore off these fields.”

“I’ve come to take down the Pale One,” Remmick said. “I need help.”

Ciarán’s jaw worked once. He looked past you to the hedges, to the hill that shouldered the sky, as if listening for something under the rain. “Won’t be easy,” he said at last. “He’s fat on years and fear. But I’ll see if I can round up the boys—kin, a couple old debts that still breathe. Give me a day.” He shoved the door wide with his shoulder. “’Til then, my roof is yours. Kitchen’s warm, back room’s dark as a priest’s pocket. You’ll sleep safe here.”

He caught your satchel before you could lift it and shouldered it without ceremony. “Mind the step,” he added, half to you, half to the house itself. “She’s old and cranky.”

Remmick brushed his fingers at the small of your back, guiding you over the threshold. Behind you, the yard held its breath, and somewhere in the far field a rook called once, like a bell struck with a bone.

Ciarán shouldered the last of your bags inside and kicked the door shut on the damp. The house was bigger than it looked from the lane—thick walls, broad hearth throwing peat heat, rafters black with age. Not cramped; it breathed. A settle ran under the window, a long scrubbed table claimed the middle, blue-and-white plates lined a dresser like a choir. The smell of stew and brown bread made your stomach remember itself.

“Coats there,” Ciarán said, nodding to a peg rail. “Boots by the hearth. Warm yourselves.”

You sank onto the settle while Remmick stacked luggage in the back room Ciarán pointed out—dark as promised, cool and safe. When he came back, there was steam curling from a kettle and a loaf torn open on a board. Butter the color of straw softened in its crock. Ciarán ladled stew into deep bowls and slid one in front of you like you belonged at that table.

By full dark, the latch lifted and two men shouldered in, shaking rain from their caps. They saw Remmick and stopped short, surprise cracking into wide grins.

“Holy God, would you look who’s crawled back,” Eoin said, crossing the room in three strides to haul Remmick into a rib-cracking hug, cap knocked askew. “Thought you’d forgotten the way to a decent door.”

Tomas was right behind him, catching Remmick’s forearm and then pulling him in tight. “Welcome home, cousin,” he murmured, warmth plain in his voice.

For a heartbeat Remmick looked younger—laughing, thumping their backs, holding on like he’d been missing the weight of them.

“Didn’t forget,” he said, breathless and glad. “Just took the long road.”

They shook off the rain and took chairs. Bowls made a soft clatter. Conversation came low at first, trades of news: who’d married, who’d died, which fields had gone to gorse. Then the table leaned in as one and the talk turned.

“How long before he crosses?” Eoin asked, rolling a sleeve to reveal a forearm latticed with old burns he didn’t explain.

Remmick’s jaw worked. “He circles. Never runs ahead. A month and a half… three at the outside.”

“And what about her?” Ciarán asked, eyes darting towards you.

The room cooled a notch. Chairs creaked.

“She’s not like us, not turned. Not tied. What’s the plan there?”

“We’re going to sort that out,” Remmick said, steady.

Ciarán’s brow arched. “Is that wise?”

Remmick didn’t flinch. “Nothing about this is. But leaving her soft while he’s hunting me? That’s the foolish choice.”

Ciarán’s mouth thinned. “Two months isn’t long to get her under control.”

Your spoon paused. “Under control how?”

“First weeks are loud,” Eoin said, turning the word like a coin. “Strength jumps before sense does. You’ll hear every hinge breathe, smell the bread three houses down, feel tempers like weather. Doors come off. Crockery dies tragic.”

Tomas nodded. “And the hunger sings. Even if you keep your soul—and not everyone does—everybody smells like food until you learn the difference.”

Ciarán looked between you and Remmick. “If you’re going to do it, best you do it soon. Better she learns here with hands to catch her than in some port with strangers.”

Remmick didn’t blink. “I can keep her in check. She trusts me. With all of you around—eyes at her back—it’ll go easier.”

You set the spoon down. “If it happens, it happens on our terms,” you said, even. “Not because he forces it.”

Ciarán drummed two fingers once, twice, then let them still. “Then the clock’s started. We train and we watch. We keep you out of trouble until the bones learn the rules.”

He drew a breath, business sliding back in. “Ports, roads, and the small places—Cobh, Galway, Derry, and every cove that isn’t on a map. We’ll put boys on all of ’em. Word runs fast if anything smells wrong.”

“Smells wrong how?” you asked, leaning in.

“Church incense and grave dirt, both at once,” Eoin said lightly, though his mouth tightened. “You’ll know it when it finds you.”

Remmick’s hand came to your knee under the table—a quiet anchor.

“So,” Ciarán went on, spoon forgotten beside his bowl, “we warn the old places, set watchers, and make sure no one goes walking alone after dark if they’ve a mind to keep their soul. Training starts tomorrow. Steel, shadow, and what waits between.”

He pushed back his chair and stood. “He’s swollen on time and terror,” he said, voice gone practical. “I’ll set word traveling—kin first, then a few favors that still breathe. By tomorrow night we’ll know who stands with us.” He tipped his head toward the passage. “Use what’s mine. Fire’s banked, and the back room keeps the sun out like a vault. Sleep while you can.”

He looked to you again, something like respect in the set of his mouth. “You’ll be safe here tonight. Not because you’re breakable,” he added, “but because you’re ours for the keepin’, if you’ll have it.”

Remmick’s hand found yours under the table. “We’ll have it,” he said.

“Good,” Ciarán replied. “Then welcome home to the fight.”

The farmhouse had gone still—rain ticking at the eaves, peat settling to a red heart in the grate. In the back room Ciarán gave you, Remmick sat you on the edge of the bed and stayed standing a moment, hands braced on his thighs like a man about to lift something heavy.

“We have to talk,” he said, voice low. “Properly.”

You nodded. “All right.”

He dropped to a knee so you were eye to eye. “If I’m going to turn you, it can’t be someday. It has to be soon. Two nights to think.” He drew a breath. “At first light on the third morning, we decide. No drift, no maybe.”

You held his gaze. “I know what first light means.”

His mouth tightened, then eased. “I know you do.” He squeezed your knees once, steadying himself as much as you. “I’ll fast. We’ll black the room tight. The boys will sit the hall. If we choose it, I take just enough and give back, and we meet the morning the way we intend. If we don’t, you stay human and I keep the dark off you the old way.”

“What scares you most?” you asked.

“Not the fight,” he said. “Losing the reins. Taking too much. Or you waking in that first week and hating what I’ve made of you.” He made himself look at you straight on. “If you say no, I’ll wear it without a word. If you say yes, I’ll shoulder it with you, every breath.”

You slid your hands to his face, smoothing the furrow between his brows with your thumbs. “Then we use the time.”

“Every minute, mo ghrá.” He rested his forehead to yours. “Tonight we sleep. Tomorrow we line up the anchors—who watches, where you run if it gets loud, what holds you steady. When the sky thinks about breaking on the third day, we answer it.”

“Together,".

“Together, darlin'.”

Chapter Text

Morning came pewter and close. Tomas slipped in behind Ciarán, cap pushed back, eyes on the window.

“If we’re to be back before the day is wasted, we’d best get moving,” he said.

You blinked at the window, then at Tomas standing easy in the gray light. “Shouldn’t that… hurt?”

Tomas thumbed the inside of his wrist, where a thin crescent scar rode the vein. “Used to.”

Ciarán tipped his chin, matter-of-fact. “Dawn bond. Willing bite at first light. Doesn’t have to be lovers—just chosen. Sun walks with you after that.”

“Chosen how?” you asked.

“Consent,” Tomas said simply. “And nerve.” He nodded toward Ciarán. “We tied at sunrise, years back.”

Ciarán added, “Price is a tether. If one of us loses the reins—goes feral—the other’s dragged with him. So we don’t.” His mouth flicked, not quite a smile. “Keeps a man honest.”

“Why risk it?”

“Daylight’s when the work gets done,” Tomas said. “Fields, rivets, watching doors others can’t.” He shrugged. “And some of us just wanted to walk free at noon like anyone else.

Remmick drew you to the table and set out small, ordinary things: the cedar-and-rosary cord, a smooth river stone, a handkerchief that smelled faintly of his shirt. “Anchors,” he said. “Build them before you ever need them.”

“Hands—the cord. Mouth—salt. Mind—your voice.”

He tied the cord snug at your wrist so the knot sat over your pulse. “If the noise climbs, rub and count back from five. Taste the salt. If I say your name, you look at me—every time.”

“Every time.”

Ciarán tipped his chin. “We’ll bring her back by noon.”

Remmick brushed two fingers along your cheek, quick and grounding. “If I whistle twice, you come home.”

“You think I’ll hear it from the square?”

“You will.”

Daylight work stayed easy and sure. In the boreen, Ciarán had you walk heel-toe until your steps softened.

“First anchor’s your feet,” he said. “Not the ground—your feet on it.” He picked a gate-latch at the field’s edge. “Eyes there while I talk rubbish.” You kept it steady while he listed clouds and cart ruts and the price of bread.

Tomas pressed a pine sprig into your hand. “In for four, hold two, out for four. Say your own name on the breath.”

They took you to the village lane and stood you ten paces off the square while life made its ordinary clatter—coal cart, bicycle bell, the radio shop fizzing behind glass. Ciarán tapped the bead.

“Use it now, not because you need it—because you’re teaching your body what to do.” You touched the bead, breathed the count, let the bustle sit at the edge of your attention.

“Now motion,” he said.

They walked you through the margin of the crowd—matching pace to the street, slipping a half step behind a woman’s basket, letting a man’s folded newspaper pass before you. At set points, Tomas murmured, “Bead,” and you touched it; “Salt,” and you tasted a grain—drills, not rescues.

By the time you curved home along the hedge, the square’s noise was just part of the day. Five things you could see, four you could touch, three you could hear, two you could smell, one you could taste—steady, untroubled.

“Anchors hold,” Tomas said. “We’ll layer more.”

You found Remmick in the kitchen with two others.

The woman was all clean lines and economy of motion. Early thirties, freckles across sharp cheekbones, her braid pinned beneath a plain headscarf. Gray-green eyes lifted quick, coolly assessing, and then moved on as if she’d already taken your measure.

The man beside her was taller than Remmick, lean and wiry under a worn tweed jacket. Cap in one hand, mug in the other, his scarred knuckles and frayed cuffs spoke of hard years.

Remmick rose. “This is her,” he said, pride plain. “Maeve. Seamus.”

Maeve’s handshake was warm. “Good to have you here.”

Seamus’s mouth tipped. “About time you brought someone who’ll tell you no.”

They made room at the table, traded a minute of easy talk—weather, the crackling radio in the village, sipping tea.

Then Remmick touched your wrist. “Walk with me.”

He led you into the hall, keeping to the cool side of the room. His thumbs found the knot at your pulse like he’d tied it—which he had.

“How was the lane?”

“Feet, eyes, breath,” you said. “Bead, salt. It holds.”

He nodded once. The play left his face. “

“When it breaks,” he said—the words hard-earned—“you do what I tell you. There won’t be time for debate. If I say down, you drop. If I say home, you run to this room and slam the bolt. If I say eyes, you look at me.” He held your gaze. I’ll be the cruelest thing you’ve ever loved if it keeps you alive”.

“Do you understand?”

You let the truth of it clear your face. “Yes.”

“Good.” His thumbs stroked once along your cheekbones; then he stepped back, iron again. “Say it back to me.”

“Down. Home. Eyes.”

“Good girl,” he murmured.

His breath shuddered out. He tipped his forehead to yours, not quite a kiss.

“I’m going out tonight.”

Your stomach dipped. “Where?”

“My home,” he said.

His gaze cut to the dim window, calculating. “I want you to stay here.”

“Take me.” Your tone carried the edge of a pout.

“It isn’t a tour, sweetheart. Old ground remembers. If it turns, I won’t have time to watch out for you.”

“Pleaseee”

He rolled his eyes, but his hand found yours and pressed your palm to the back of his coat. “You come. Stay where I can see you. Do as I say. Understand?”

“Understand,” you answered, playfully solemn.

He hummed once. “Good girl.”

The bog opened into stone and shadow. Mist clung to the ground, pale in the moonlight, and the ruins rose up like bones—walls broken to their knees, hearths gone cold centuries past.

Remmick walked ahead of you, slow, deliberate, his shoulders squared as if the very earth pressed down on him here.

“This was home,” he said at last, voice low enough you almost mistook it for the wind. “What’s left of it.”

Your eyes caught the circle of standing stones beyond the village’s remains, moss crawling over their carved faces, their crowns bowed toward the sky. The air between them pulsed strange, alive, as though something still listened.

Remmick’s gaze lingered there, and memory rose unbidden—himself as a boy, bare feet in the dirt, racing the other children between huts while smoke curled from the hearths. His mother’s hands, calloused and sure, showing him how to tie reeds for a roof. His father’s voice, low and steady, speaking of gods that demanded respect and sacrifice.

The images shifted—fires burning high for the solstice, chants carrying through the dark, the sting of blood on his tongue when the rites demanded it. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t turn away.

And then the memories darkened further. Not childhood, but manhood. He remembered standing shoulder to shoulder with his kin, his beard still black, axe bright in his hands. The night the Pale One came. Pale-painted warriors crashing through the palisade, their screams louder than the horns of warning. The clash of steel, the stench of burning hides, the circle of standing stones lit in firelight as if mocking the gods themselves.

Remmick’s breath caught—the image of the Pale One stepping through smoke, tall and terrible, his blade dripping red. He saw again the moment his father staggered, brought to his knees. The Pale One seized him, teeth sinking deep into his throat, drinking the life from him as though it were triumph itself. His father’s voice was silenced in a wet gurgle, his strength stolen in an instant, leaving only an empty shell.

The memory burned—steel in his hand, helpless rage in his chest—the moment his clan broke.

He let his hand brush one of the stones now, moss damp beneath his palm. The cold of it seeped into him, as if the past were reaching up from the earth itself to claim him.

Your hand slid into his, fingers warm against his chilled skin.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

He didn’t answer, but he held your hand tightly, the only anchor in a place where ghosts pressed so close.

You sat together at the edge of the ruins, moonlight spilling pale across the broken stone. For a long while there was only silence—his memories, your presence, the earth between you both.

Then you spoke, soft but steady. “I’m glad I got my period.”

His head turned, eyes narrowing faintly at your words.

“Little feet don’t deserve this life,” you said, staring at the mist curling low over the ground.

He exhaled, long and quiet, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You’re right. This world—this war—it isn’t something to drag a child into.” He paused, voice lower now, almost reverent. “But still… it’s a lovely thought.”

You leaned into him, shoulder pressing his arm. “We’ve got forever to decide.”

For the first time since stepping into the ruins, the hard line of his shoulders eased. He drew you close, the both of you wrapped in the hush of stone and moonlight, the weight of past and future balanced only by the warmth of each other’s hands.

You came home by the hedge lanes in a damp hush, boots picking the high stones, the sea breathing somewhere past the fields. Inside, Remmick hung his coat on the peg and shook rain from his hair. No talk; just the small work of doors latched, kettle topped, lamps turned down.

Upstairs, the room felt close with weather. You stripped out of wet things and slid under the covers; he joined you a beat later, warm from the hearth, arm hooking around your waist like it had a will of its own. Scratchy wool, narrow mattress, the steady press of his chest at your back.

For a while there was only the rain ticking and his breath against your shoulder. Then he said, quiet, almost like he wished he didn’t have to:

“Mo ghrá… there’s somethin’ you should know. Not about the bite. About after.”

You rolled to face him. His gaze stayed on the ceiling beam, jaw tight.

“It isn’t claws or sun that break you,” he said. “It’s time. Days blur. People thin out of your head until you can’t keep their faces straight. The quiet gets loud. If you don’t hold on—to something, to someone—it hollows you.”

Your fingers found his, lacing without thinking. He let out a breath he’d been holding.

“I won’t sell you a soft story,” he went on. “It’s heavy. Different than you expect. I’ll tell you the truth and stand in it with you. That’s what I can promise.”

You touched his cheek; the muscle eased under your thumb. He kissed you once—slow, certain—no heat pressed for, just the weight of him choosing to stay. You held him there until the rain softened and the house settled.

“I’ll take it,” you said into the hush. “All of it—if I do it with you.”

He closed his eyes for a beat, hand tightening around yours.

When he drew back, his mouth brushed your temple. “Close your eyes,” he murmured.

You did. The room went quiet but for rain and breath, and the steadiness of his hold carried you under.

Chapter Text

The day was blue, the kind that made the mountains look near, but a quilt of cloud kept the sun soft. It meant he could walk beside you instead of shadowing the walls, hands in his pockets, watching the hedges breathe.

“You all right?” he asked, voice low. “Nervous?”

You glanced up at the blank, bright sky. “Is anyone ever ready?”

He huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh.

“No. But that’s what makes you ready—bein’ scared and goin’ anyway.” A beat. “Anything you want before tomorrow?”

“No, just town,” you said. “With you. All day.”

So you went. Down the boreen to the square where the carts rattled and the butcher’s awning snapped in the wind. You wandered the draper’s for the feel of it—bolts of lawn and wool stacked like quiet promises—let a haberdasher fuss over hatpins you didn’t need, stood shoulder to shoulder at the radio shop while a crooner ghosted through the glass. Every door gave you a small, ordinary hour. Every hour, his palm found the small of your back as if to count it.

At midday he steered you into a pub with a carved bar polished by generations of elbows. The air was brown with peat smoke and laughter. He ordered you a plate—ham, cheese, a slab of bread still warm—and a lemonade that made your nose sting. For himself: a small whiskey he only lifted, not drained. “To an easy crossing,” he said, and tapped his glass to the lemonade as if it were crystal.
You talked in the way you do when you’re saving the bigger talk for later. Which church bell sounded like a scold, which lane had the best blackberries in August. He asked once more, soft as the inside of a wrist,

“You sure?” and you answered by threading your fingers through his under the table. His mouth eased.

Back out, the wind had teeth. You walked close. In a narrow window between a cobbler and a seed merchant, a dress stopped you. Tea-length, deep green, bias-cut with a small cowl that would lie like water at the collarbone. Simple, but it felt like a future.

He followed your gaze, saw your breath catch, and was through the door before you’d named it. The bell rang; a minute later he came back with a wrapped parcel and a look that said don’t argue.

“Remmick—”

“Try tellin’ me no,” he said mildly, and tucked the string into your hand. “Humor me.”

You did. In the dressmaker’s little mirror he stood behind you while you held the parcel to your front like you could see through paper. His eyes met yours in the glass—something fierce gone warm.

“Wear it when the ground’s ours,” he murmured. “I’d like to remember this street when I see you in it.”

They left the dressmaker in the afternoon with the parcel snug under your arm and turned for home. The clouds held—bright but merciful—so he walked in the open beside you, one hand in his pocket, the other finding the small of your back whenever the lane narrowed.

At the rise above the farmhouse, the world changed. Smoke curled from a spit where a pig turned slow over peat. A half-barrel sat on a trestle with a tap hammered in; tin cups stacked beside it. Fiddles and a bodhrán lay in a tangle on a blanket. Someone had strung bunting from gatepost to hawthorn; someone else hammered stakes for lanterns that would mean light once the sky went to ink.

Remmick stopped. “What’s all this?”

Ciarán straightened from the keg with a mallet in his fist and a grin that had too many years in it. “Welcome home,” he said. “Figured we’d mark it proper.”

Remmick’s mouth twitched like he didn’t trust it to smile. “You’re a damned menace.”

“Guilty,” Ciarán said, pleased. He jerked his chin toward the house. “Go on—wash the road off. Be back when the sun’s down.”

He clapped Remmick’s shoulder once, rough and fond, then turned back to the tap. You felt Remmick’s hand find your waist again, light, as if to steady the sudden tilt of the day. He nodded toward the door, voice low.

“Come on, mo ghrá. Let’s get clean and come back shining.”

You washed the day off and dressed while the light thinned.

You slipped into a cotton dress—thin straps, a high slit that flashed thigh when you moved. It sat easy on your hips, summer-plain and a little reckless. You left your hair down, soft against your shoulders, and slid the cord back into place at your wrist.

Remmick took the chair by the window and watched you like a man memorizing. He’d pulled on a button-down—sleeves rolled, throat open three buttons—dark trousers that fit like he meant trouble. When you turned, his mouth went crooked.

“You’ll start fights in that,” he said, not sounding sorry.

“You can finish them,” you answered, smoothing the skirt.

He stood, straightened your strap with a knuckle, then tucked your hand into the crook of his arm. “Come on. Let’s go be neighborly.”

By the time you reached the hill, lanterns were winking to life and the spit turned slow, sweet smoke drifting. Fiddles tuned. Ciarán lifted a hand in greeting and tipped his chin toward the keg. Remmick’s palm settled warm at your back.

“Shine for me,” he murmured, and led you into the evening.

The hill shook with it—fiddle sawing bright, drums thumping like a second heartbeat, boots drumming the grass. Someone pressed a tin cup into your hand. Whiskey kissed your mouth hot and sharp; you coughed, laughed, and it came back again from another grin, another hand.

“Come on!” two girls called, catching your fingers before Remmick could blink. They pulled you into the ring by the fire, skirts flashing, hair flying. “It’s only a reel—one-two-three, turn—mind your toes!” You stumbled once, then found it, the steps stitching to the drum. Heat licked your shins; your dress slit flashed as you spun; you were laughing so hard your ribs ached.

Remmick sat at the edge, sleeves rolled, collar open, that half-smile he didn’t trust tugging at his mouth. He clapped with the beat when the music demanded it; mostly he just tracked you—who touched your hand, who swung you close—eyes dark and fond and a little feral. Another cup came at you and he slipped in long enough to trade it for his, gentler stuff, and a heel of bread pressed to your palm.
The girls pulled you back into the firelight with laughing hands, spinning you until you were flushed and breathless. Fiddles soared, sparks raced the dark, whiskey made everything bright and easy—the sweet-fat smoke of the roast drifting through the music like a second tune.

Remmick watched at first—pleased, patient—until your strap slipped and the heat turned the cotton of your dress gauzy. The outline of your body shone through the fabric. Your thigh flashed with every turn. No one would dare with him there, but he felt their eyes. That was enough.

He rose, caught your wrist, and drew you into his lap. You pouted, wriggling. “I was having fun.”

“Not like that. Not tonight,” he said low at your ear. “Big day tomorrow.”

You whined—soft, insistent. He relented with a crooked smirk, stood, and pulled you up with him. “Then dance with me.”

He spun you once, then brought you in close at the edge of the circle where the light thinned—one hand at the small of your back, the other claiming your fingers. His thigh slid between yours; he set the pace, a slow sway that looked harmless from ten feet away and felt like trouble where your bodies met. The bow bit down; he tightened his hold and you rose onto your toes without thinking, breath catching as heat rushed to your cunt, wet blooming quick and helpless.

“ Can we go inside, please.” You whispered, hurriedly.

His lips brushed your temple, mocking. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

You bit your lip, eyes darting away.

He caught your chin between thumb and forefinger, tilting you back to him, his thigh pressing harder.

“No hiding. Say it.”

Your face burned, mortification and heat tangling in your chest.

Your chest heaved, the words fighting your throat. His thigh shifted just enough to remind you, to make the ache sharper.

“Remmick…”

His hand tightened at your chin, his eyes catching yours in the firelight. “Say it.”

Shame and want burned hotter than the flames behind you. Finally, the words broke free, ragged, trembling:

“It’s—dripping down my thighs.”

The sound he made was low, feral, like a promise breaking in his chest. His mouth curved in that dangerous way, part hunger, part triumph. The moment the words left your lips, his hand closed hard around your wrist. No more coaxing, no more play. He pulled you through the crowd with a dark purpose, the music and fire snapping behind you. No one dared ask. No one dared follow.

Your back hit the bedroom door with a thud, the wood cool against your spine. Remmick’s body caged you in, heat radiating, but his hands stayed at your sides, not touching where you wanted him most.

“Show me.”

Your breath snagged, but his eyes didn’t waver. He wasn’t going to help you. Shaking, you gathered the skirt in your fists, dragging the thin cotton higher, baring yourself inch by inch. The hem caught at your thighs, then slid up past your hips. Firelight from the hill danced through the shutters, catching the slick that ran down your skin.

His gaze dropped, sharp and unyielding. “Higher.”

You pulled the dress to your waist, cheeks burning, pulse hammering, trapped in his stare. The wet between your thighs glistened, undeniable.

Remmick’s jaw flexed, his chest rising hard against yours, but his voice stayed steady, cruel with restraint.

“Soaked,” he muttered. “My poor baby, drippin’ down her legs like she can’t keep herself together.”

One hand braced beside your head, pinning you in place. The other finally touched—just the edge of a finger tracing the shine down your inner thigh. He brought it up slow, not giving relief, only proof.

“You feel that?” His lips brushed your ear, breath hot. “That’s mine. Every drop.”

You shuddered, dress bunched at your waist, back pressed to the door as his finger hovered just shy of your clit.

His mouth curved, sharp with mockery. “Look at you—soaked through, beggin’ without a word.”

The tip of his finger finally slid over your cunt, slow, deliberate. You gasped, hips jerking, but the door and his weight gave you nowhere to go.

“Quiet now,” he rasped, pressing harder, circling your clit in cruel, lazy strokes. “Wouldn’t want the whole house knowin’ how desperate my girl is.”

Your breath came ragged, fists still clutching the fabric at your waist, baring yourself while he played you apart. His free hand caught your wrist and pinned it above your head, holding you there with ease.

“Drippin’ down your thighs and still greedy for more.” He pushed two fingers inside you, stretching you full, curling just right until your knees buckled. His body kept you upright, pinned tight, unrelenting.

Every thrust was measured, slow at first, then harder, deeper, the slick sound obscene in the quiet. Your head hit the door, eyes fluttering shut, but his growl snapped them open.

“Don’t you dare look away from me.” His forehead pressed to yours, his fingers moving faster now, dragging over that spot again and again until you were shaking apart.

It built sharp and unbearable, his thumb circling your clit as his fingers drove deeper, faster. You cried out, the sound muffled against his mouth when he kissed you rough, swallowing it whole.
Release tore through you, hot and violent, your body clenching around his fingers. He held you through it, fucking you through every wave until you were wrecked, trembling against the door, your thighs slick and spent.

When it finally broke, his fingers stayed buried, a low satisfied growl in his chest.

“That’s it,” he murmured against your lips, smug and tender all at once. “My girl, comin’ apart just where I want her

Your legs were still trembling, clenching around his hand when he dropped to his knees before you, never letting you slip from the door.

“Don’t move,” he muttered, voice gone dark, and slid your skirt higher until it bunched around your hips. His palms spread over your thighs, holding them wide, pressing you firm to the wood. You couldn’t have closed your legs even if you tried.

Then his mouth was on you. Slow at first, tongue dragging through the wetness he’d just coaxed from you, tasting you with a growl like he’d been starving for it. Your fingers scrambled at the paneling, nails digging into the wood, but there was nowhere to run—his grip was iron, pinning you open for him.

“Sweet Christ,” he rasped against your skin, breath hot, tongue circling your clit before sucking it hard. “You’re pourin’ for me.”

Your cry broke sharp, but he didn’t let you muffle it—he kept you there, kept you exposed, his tongue working you mercilessly. When you tried to twist away from the intensity, his hands pinned you harder, holding you to his mouth, forcing you to take every flick, every drag. The pleasure was unbearable, building and breaking and building again until your legs gave out, but he was already there—shoulder to your thigh, hand fisted at your hip—keeping you upright as he devoured you.

You begged, breathless, words tumbling, but he only hummed, the vibration shooting through your clit until tears blurred your vision. The second release hit harder than the first, ripping through you, and he drank it down, tongue relentless, licking until you whimpered from overstimulation.

Only then did he pull back, chin wet, eyes dark and feral as he looked up at you. He grinned like a wolf with its kill.

“You can’t run from me, sweetheart,” he drawled, voice thick. “Not when you taste like this.”

You were still shaking when his mouth left you, chin slick, breath ragged against your thigh. Before you could catch air, his hands hooked beneath you, hauling you up.
A startled gasp broke from your lips as your back slammed gently against the door, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. He pinned you there with the sheer weight of him, every hard line pressing into your softness.

“Mine,” he rasped, low and guttural, grinding his hips forward so you could feel the full, aching length of his cock straining against the fabric of his pants.

“Drippin’ down your thighs, beggin’ for me—now you’ll take me.”

His mouth claimed yours, kiss brutal and hungry, swallowing the whimper that escaped when he pushed into you in one deep stroke. The stretch burned sweet, your nails clawing at his shoulders as he filled you to the hilt, holding you pinned tight to the door.

Each thrust drove you higher, the wood rattling behind your spine, the solid press of his body keeping you from slipping down. He fucked you raw and relentless, hips slamming up into the slick heat that had already drenched him, his growl breaking into something closer to a snarl every time you clenched tighter around him.
Your head tipped back, lips parted in a helpless cry, and he buried his face in your throat, teeth scraping skin like he might bite just to mark you.

“So wet for me,” he gritted, his voice half-broken, half-mocking. “Couldn’t wait ‘til we got inside, could you?”

Your answer came out shattered—his name, nothing else—and he groaned like it was the only prayer he’d ever believe in. He slammed into you harder, faster, until the world collapsed into heat, wood, skin, and the sharp edge of need.

And when you finally broke, falling apart around him, he crushed you closer, driving through your release, chasing his own with a raw sound that shook against your chest.
The last thrust shuddered through him as he spilled deep inside you, his hips pressing tight to yours, grinding every drop into you like he couldn’t bear to let go. His forehead dropped against your shoulder, breath sawing harsh, damp hair clinging to his brow.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Just the sound of your gasps, the echo of the door rattling faintly on its hinges. His hands clenched hard on your thighs before softening, rubbing circles into your skin as if to soothe where his grip had bruised.

“Christ…” he muttered against your neck, voice wrecked, reverent. He kissed the salt-slick hollow beneath your jaw, slower now, gentler, whispering as though the words were only meant for your skin. “My girl. My sweet girl.”

You sagged into him, legs still trembling around his waist, arms looped loose at his neck. He held you steady, strong as stone, but softer now—cradling you against the door like you might vanish if he eased too soon.

Finally, he slid you down, careful, your feet touching the floor though his body never left yours. One big hand stayed at your hip, the other brushing sweaty strands of hair from your face. His eyes, still dark with the remnants of hunger, softened when they caught the wetness glinting at your lashes. He bent to kiss you slow, unhurried, nothing mocking left in it. Just a vow pressed to your lips.

“I’ve got you. Always.”

The wood at your back was cool now, the storm of moments ago fading into the steady warmth of his arms. He nuzzled his nose against your temple, inhaling like he needed to breathe you back into himself. Then, with a low sound that was more plea than command, he gathered you up again—this time not to claim, but to carry.

“Bed time, baby. Dawn is coming early.” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple.

And without waiting for your protest, he lifted you from the door, strong and sure, carrying you deeper into the quiet of the room where only the two of you existed. The bed creaked when he lowered you down, and he followed, covering you with his body, not to claim but to shelter.

His hands tucked the sheets around your bare skin, his mouth brushing over your damp hair, your temple, the edge of your jaw. “Sleep now,” he murmured, voice breaking low and tender.
You curled against him, his heartbeat steady under your ear. He held you close, his thumb stroking the back of your hand, whispering quiet vows into the dark until your breathing evened and sleep claimed you.

Chapter Text

The room was still dark when you stirred, warmth cocooned in Remmick’s arms. His hand smoothed once down your side, not to wake you gently but to anchor you.

“Mo ghrá,” his voice was low, hushed, carrying the weight of the hour. “It’s time.”

You blinked against the dark, heart tripping. “Already?”

His mouth pressed to your hair, his breath uneven. “An hour till dawn. I’ve got to take you out—has to be soon.”

The seriousness in his tone stole the last haze of sleep from your body. You rolled toward him, searching his face in the dim light. The strain was there—lines cut deep at his brow, the faint tremor of control riding his jaw.

“Remmick…” Your hand cupped his cheek. He leaned into it like a man starved.

“I’ll keep you with me,” he promised, rough and certain. “Every second. You don’t leave my sight. You don’t leave my arms.”

You nodded, throat thick, even as your pulse raced.

He kissed you then, slow, almost desperate, his lips moving against yours like he could breathe his steadiness into you. When he pulled back, his thumb traced your lower lip, lingering as though he was memorizing it.

“Dress warm,” he murmured. “The ground’ll be cold.”

You swallowed hard, fingers curling into his shirt. “And after?”

“After…” He hesitated, eyes burning into yours. “After, it’s you and me. Dawn or damnation. I don’t care which—so long as it’s with you.”

He pressed another kiss to your forehead, then slipped from the bed, pulling on his shirt. Already the room felt different—charged, alive, the nearness of the hour pressing against the walls.

The grass was wet with dew, silvering your bare feet as Remmick led you out into the field. The horizon was just beginning to pale, the sky a breath away from breaking.
You stood facing each other in the open, hands interlocked, foreheads pressed together. His breath shook against your cheek, his thumb rubbing frantic circles over your knuckles like he couldn’t stop moving, couldn’t let go.

Then his hands rose to cradle your face, rough palms trembling as though the whole weight of forever sat in them. His eyes burned, not with hunger, but with something deeper—terrifying in its honesty.

“I love you,” he said, voice breaking like he was giving the words away for the last time.

You nodded, almost frantic, your own hands gripping his wrists.

“I love you too,” you whispered, shaking your head as though the words weren’t enough.

The rim of the sun split the horizon. Heat spilled into the field. Remmick pulled you in, teeth bared—not cruel, not hesitant, but certain—and bit deep into your neck.
The pierce was sharp, savage. Your body arched against him, muscles seizing, a strangled cry breaking from your throat. You jerked once, twice—instinct screaming to push him off, to escape the iron grip of his bite. But his arms locked you tight, his teeth clamped harder, unyielding.

Blood welled hot into his mouth, flooding his tongue. Copper and salt, bright and wild—it rushed through him like a drug he hadn’t tasted in centuries. He swallowed once, then again, pulling deep, your pulse a frantic drum against his lips. You convulsed in his hold, fingers clawing at his shirt, your legs trembling. Every nerve screamed fire, the sun’s first rays branding your skin as the bite dragged it deeper.

He groaned against your throat, a sound of hunger and anguish both, and forced himself to hold on, to stay in control. The blood coated his tongue, hot and endless, and still he kept his teeth buried until the work was done.

Smoke rose from his own skin where the light touched, the edge of his collar smoldering, the line of his jaw burning. He gritted through it, every muscle straining to keep his mouth locked at your throat, to finish what had to be finished.You writhed against him, a violent shudder running through your body, but he only tightened his arms, crushing you to his chest.

“Hold,” he rasped against your skin without lifting his mouth. “Hold on to me.”

Your whole body shook. Every muscle seized like you’d been struck by lightning. Your lungs burned, refusing to draw a full breath; your skin crawled as though it was peeling from bone. A high ringing filled your ears, drowning out the world.

Remmick tore himself back, your blood hot on his tongue, his own chest heaving. He caught you as your knees buckled, arms wrapping hard around you, and dropped with you to the ground.

“Easy, easy, sweetheart—” His voice was ragged, frantic. He hauled you into his lap, one hand braced at the back of your head, the other locking your trembling body to his chest.

You gasped, jerking, every sound strangled in your throat. Your nails dug into him, desperate, blind.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered hoarsely, rocking you against him, though his own skin smoked under the sun.

“Stay with me. Breathe if you can. Just breathe.”

He could feel your heart racing like it meant to burst, your breath shuddering ragged and broken. His own body burned under the sun, flesh blistering, but he didn’t shift an inch. He held you tighter, as if sheer force could keep your soul tethered.

The sun was merciless, climbing higher, every ray searing his skin. He gritted his teeth, holding you tighter, the smell of singed flesh thick in his nose. He couldn’t stay here in the open. Not like this.
Adjusting his hold, he pulled you up against his chest, your head lolling against his shoulder. Your skin was fever-hot, twitching now and again with the violence of the change. He kissed your temple once, a fleeting press, then pushed to his feet.

Every step was fire. His boots sank in the damp grass, the light eating at his back and shoulders, but he forced himself forward, toward the shadow at the edge of the field.
The tree line was close. Darker there, cooler, the canopy just thick enough to cut the worst of the blaze. He staggered beneath the first oaks, relief hitting like a wave as the shade wrapped around them.
It wasn’t perfect—his skin still burned, his veins still screamed—but it was bearable. He sank to his knees at the base of a tree, cradling you across his lap. The air was damp, moss and soil and bark grounding him.

For the first time since dawn, he exhaled. His thumb traced the curve of your cheek, his other hand smoothing your hair back, damp with sweat. Your lips parted on a shallow breath, your chest rising in fragile rhythm. The shade dulled the worst of it, but the ache lingered, deep and gnawing in his bones. His skin still stung, the phantom bite of sunlight crawling under the surface, but with you pressed against him, the pain dulled into something he could bear.

He sat with his back to the tree, your weight curled soft in his lap, your breath shallow but steady. His hand never left you—cupping your cheek, stroking through your damp hair, feeling for every fragile rise and fall of your chest. The hours stretched, heavy and unrelenting. Birds stirred in the branches overhead, the forest shifting from gold to gray as clouds dragged across the sky. His eyes burned as much from exhaustion as the sun, his body begging him to rest.

At last, his head tipped back against the bark. Just for a moment, he told himself. Just long enough to breathe. His arms cinched around you tighter as though even in sleep he’d never let you go.
And there, with you burning through your change in the safety of his hold, Remmick drifted into half-sleep—one ear tuned to the forest, one hand clinging to you like an anchor, refusing to surrender more than that small slip of consciousness.

When your eyes finally fluttered open, the world was stained in amber and indigo. The sun had fallen low, shadows spilling long across the grass, the air cooler now, almost sweet.
You stirred, groggy, and felt the solid cage of arms around you. Remmick’s chest rose slow beneath your cheek, his head slumped back against the tree, his face worn and unguarded in the hush of sleep.

“Remmick,” you whispered, voice cracked and raw.

His arms tightened instantly, his eyes snapping open, still sharp even in the fog of half-rest. Relief broke across his face, fierce and raw, and his hand cupped your jaw like he might never let go.

“You’re awake.” His voice was wrecked, low and rasping with more than fatigue.

You drifted in and out against his chest, never sinking into real rest. Every time you closed your eyes, strange visions clawed their way through the dark—flashes of teeth, blood, voices that weren’t yours whispering in tongues you didn’t know. When you startled awake, Remmick’s hold only tightened, his voice low in your hair:

“I’ve got you. Just a little further.”

By the time he shouldered the farmhouse door open, sweat clung to his brow, the faintest burns tracing his cheekbones. He laid you on the bed in Ciarán’s back room, tucking the blanket close around you like he could shield you from the whole world. He stayed there, perched at the edge, until your breathing eased into something near sleep

It wasn’t restful.

Your body tossed beneath the blanket, shivers running through you, skin burning hot one moment and ice-cold the next. Your dreams twisted, tangled, and left you gasping each time you clawed toward the surface. When your eyes finally opened again, the light filtering through the window was brighter than you’d ever seen it, sharper, piercing. Midday. The world outside was painted in blue sky with clouds stretched thin across it, just enough to soften the edges.

Your lashes fluttered, the world coming back slow—the cool linen beneath your cheek, the faint ache in your limbs, the sharpness of every sound around you. You turned your head and found him there, sitting in the chair at your bedside like he’d never moved.

Remmick’s eyes caught yours at once. Red rimmed from fatigue, but steady. Waiting. The corner of his mouth tugged in something caught between relief and exhaustion.

“There’s my girl,” he said, voice low, warm.

You swallowed, your throat dry, your body still humming with strange new fire.

The air tasted alive. Different.

He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, watching every flicker across your face. “Told you,” he murmured, a rough smile breaking through. “It’s one hell of a trip.”

You pushed yourself up on shaky elbows, the blanket sliding from your shoulders. The room tilted, too bright, too loud—every creak of the farmhouse, every gust of wind rattling the shutters crashing through you like thunder. Even the smell of woodsmoke and damp earth outside pressed in heavy, almost choking.

Your breath caught. You swayed.

Remmick was there in a heartbeat, his hand bracing your back, the other catching your wrist before you could topple. You clung to him, your fingers knotting in his shirt like a lifeline.

“It’s too much,” you whispered, eyes wide, chest heaving.

“I know.” His voice was calm, steady, the same tone he’d use to soothe a spooked horse. “Breathe with me, darlin’. Right here.”

You felt it—the steady rhythm of his chest rising and falling, the warmth of his palm pressed firm at your back. He didn’t let you drift, didn’t let you drown in the tide of sensation. Each breath you stole was tethered to his, each wild rush of sound and smell narrowed down to the grounding anchor of him.

Your forehead pressed against his collarbone, your body shaking. “Don’t let go.”

“Never,” he said, rough but certain. His hand slid up into your hair, cradling you close. “Eyes on me. Nothin’ else matters. Just me.”

Your grip on his shirt was desperate, knuckles white, every sound and scent crowding in until it felt like the world itself was pressing too close.

Remmick cupped your face, forcing your gaze up to his.

“Easy,” he murmured. “You’re stackin’ it all on at once. That’ll drown you.” His thumb brushed your cheekbone, steady, commanding. “Separate it. Start with what you hear.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, breath ragged. The noise crashed in first—the wind against the shutters, the groan of the farmhouse beams, a distant crow. Beneath it all, the low thrum of his heartbeat, closer than anything else.

“That’s it,” he said softly. “Now open your eyes. Just what you see.”

The blur sharpened into shape. The lines of his face, too close to mistake. The candle guttering on the bedside table. The way dust drifted like gold through the muted light leaking past the curtains.

“Good,” he coaxed. “Now—what you feel.”

Your fingers flexed in his shirt. The heat of his body against yours. The solid weight of his palm at your spine.

Your lips parted. “You,” you whispered. “I feel you.”

His mouth curved, a fleeting, pained kind of smile, and he leaned his brow to yours

“You’re doing so good darlin'.”

You nodded under the blanket, legs still trembling.

“You need to eat.”

Your stomach tightened. The thought that had been gnawing at you since you woke pushed out.

“Eat… what?” Your voice broke. “Blood?”

His brows lifted, the faintest glint of amusement tugging his mouth. “Sort of.”

He slipped out and came back a minute later, something balanced carefully in his hands. The smell hit first—metallic, warm. He set the plate on the bedside table: a thick cut of meat, barely seared, the center red.

You stared. “You’re serious.”

“Deadly,” he said, gaze steady. “Start with this. It’ll sit better. Give your body what it’s beggin’ for without breakin’ you in half.” He leaned closer, low and sure. “It won’t taste the same to you now. Try it.”
He didn’t push. He just sat on the mattress’s edge and took up the knife, carving off a thick slice. He lifted it to his own mouth first, biting in like it was nothing, catching the red at his lip with his tongue.
Your eyes widened.

“You’re… eating it too?”

A crooked half-smile. “You think I’d let you do it alone?”

Something in your chest unclenched. You pulled the plate into your lap, hands still shaking, and cut a piece for yourself. The first bite made you flinch—then the rush hit, wild and primal, everything in you
exhaling at once.

“See?” he murmured, pleased. “Not so bad.”

The last bite settled heavy in your stomach, but instead of dragging you down, it steadied you. Heat rippled through your limbs, your skin no longer thrumming with unbearable noise. When you swung your legs over the side of the bed, the room didn’t spin this time. Remmick’s hand was there instantly, steady under your elbow. You expected the burn of his skin to unsettle you, but it was grounding instead—like he was a stake driven into earth, something you could hold onto while the rest of the world spun.

You blinked at him. “I think I can stand.”

“Then stand, darlin’,” he said, voice low but proud.

And you did. Tentative at first, then firmer, straighter. The farmhouse seemed sharper, alive—wood grain vivid, the crackle of the fire like thunder. Every scent layered: smoke, damp earth beyond the window, the iron tang of the meat still on your tongue, and beneath it all, Remmick. You followed him to the doorway, slow but steady. His frame filled the hall in front of you, every step measured. You caught the slight stiffening of his shoulders when the gray light from the window touched him. His skin prickled faintly, raw, though nothing like the blaze that had torn through you at dawn.

“You’re burning too,” you whispered.

He glanced over, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Not near as bad. I’ve had centuries to practice.”

“You make it look easy.”

His laugh was soft, cracked with wear.

“That’s ‘cause I’ve been doin’ this for—” He waved a hand vaguely, teasing. “—oh, just a thousand years or so.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging your lips wouldn’t be smothered. You reached the front door, your hand still hooked in Remmick’s as if your legs might betray you at any second. He pushed the door open, the hinges creaking, and the Irish morning spilled in—warm light, the kind that made everything feel close and endless at once.

The wind hit you first. Not gentle, not cruel, just alive. It wrapped around you, lifted your hair, tugged at the hem of Remmick’s shirt. Salt rode on it, sharp and clean, like the sea had come to find you itself. You sucked in a breath and nearly staggered at the weight of it. Every note of the air unfolded—wet stone, turned earth, distant peat smoke, brine, the faint musk of animals in the fields. It wasn’t just wind. It was the whole world at once, pressing into your lungs, into your veins.

Your fingers clutched tighter around Remmick’s. “It’s… it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt.”

His eyes caught yours, dark and knowing. “That’s ‘cause it isn’t just feelin’ anymore. It’s bein’.”

You stepped out, bare feet touching the cold stone threshold, and the ground hummed beneath you as though it recognized your weight. The wind roared again, carrying gull cries from the distant cliffs, and for the first time since the bite you didn’t feel like you were drowning in the noise. You felt tethered—anchored by his hand, but alive in a way that stole your breath. Remmick watched you, the faintest smile cutting through the weariness still etched in his face.

You stepped off the stone threshold into the grass, cool and wet with dew. The blades bent under your bare feet, slick against your skin, and you stilled as the sensation climbed up your legs like a shiver.
It wasn’t just grass. It was every blade. A thousand delicate touches at once, each whispering its own story — green, alive, damp with the breath of the morning. You curled your toes into it, grounding yourself, and a low sound of wonder slipped from your throat before you could catch it.

Remmick’s hand stayed at your back, steady, though his eyes were on you, not the fields. Watching the way you bent down just slightly, fingers brushing the earth, your face softening as if the world had finally opened itself to you.

“I love this,” you murmured, breathless. “The grass… it’s like I’ve never felt it before.”

His mouth twitched, the faintest ghost of a smile. “That’s because you haven’t. Not like this.”

The wind moved again, sweeping your hair across your cheek, and you pressed your toes deeper into the soil, into the wet roots. It felt like standing on the heart of the earth itself, and for the first time since the bite, you didn’t feel strange in your skin. You felt home. You didn’t try to run. You couldn’t have if you wanted to—your body still thrummed, too raw, every nerve stretched thin from the turn. But standing there, the wet grass curling around your toes, the earth cool and solid beneath you… it was enough.

You lifted your face into the breeze, eyelids fluttering shut. Every shift of the wind carried something new—the tang of salt from the sea, peat smoke from a fire far off, even the faint musk of animals hidden in the hedgerows. It all wove together, sharper than any memory, painting the air in color and shape you’d never known before. Remmick stayed a half step behind, close enough you could feel his heat—his burn still lingering, though he hid it well. His hand brushed the small of your back, anchoring you without pressing, letting you drink in the world on your own terms.

“Feels like too much, doesn’t it?” he asked softly.

You opened your eyes, exhaling a shaky laugh. “Yes. But it’s beautiful.”

His eyes softened, dark and full as they swept over you, hair tousled by the sea wind, bare feet pressing into the soil like roots. “It is.” he said, voice low. 

And you weren’t sure if he meant the world, or you.

Chapter Text

Your first week was hell. And a blur.

Every sound came sharp enough to cut. Every smell slammed into you, layered and tangled until you thought you’d drown in it. Light burned in ways you couldn’t describe, even under cloud cover, even in shadows. By the end of it, though—when the noise and heat began to dull into something you could live inside—you were on your feet, moving without clinging to Remmick’s hand at every step.
But the hunger.

The hunger was a beast of its own.

Remmick didn’t coddle you. He never would. Rabbits. Pheasants. Easy things, he said. The first few slipped through your hands, your body too fast, too loud. But each miss tempered you. By the end of the week, you struck clean, sure, blood hot on your tongue. It steadied you, but never filled you.

Then came the deer.

Remmick led you into the trees, his voice low, guiding without giving. You tracked it for hours, the rhythm of its hooves through the earth thrumming up your bones. When you took it down, it wasn’t clumsy—it was instinct. You fed until the body cooled in your arms, and for the first time since the bite, the world sharpened into focus instead of chaos.
You drank.

The blood was hot, metallic, wild on your tongue. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough. But it was something.

Strength hummed in your veins, every muscle alive. The hunger still lingered—always would—but for the first time, you felt more than just hollow. You felt like you could bear it. And Remmick’s eyes on you, proud and steady, told you he thought so too.

Afterward, he wiped your mouth with the hem of his sleeve and walked you out of the trees the long way, letting the strength settle instead of spike. You rinsed at the pump, swallowed broth Ciarán shoved into your hands, and slept like a stone with Remmick by your side. By morning the edge was back but aimed; the yard was waiting—mist on the flags, steel laid out, faces watchful

The courtyard behind the farmhouse was slick with mist, stones damp underfoot. Ciarán had dragged out a rack of old weapons — staves, dulled blades, even a pair of weighted chains. Eoin circled you first, teaching you rhythm and distance, the way to read breath before a strike. Tomas pushed harder, faster, testing your reflexes until your skin hummed with tension.
It wasn’t long before the hum became something else.

The rush came quick — the new strength, the speed, the heady sense that nothing could touch you. Each strike landed with more force than you meant, each breath came sharper. You could feel the feral in your veins, a coil of hunger that didn’t care for drills or control. It wanted to tear, to break.

You bared your teeth in something too close to a grin as Tomas lunged. He stumbled when your counter cracked harder than it should have, and you went for him again—fast, reckless.

A hand seized your arm. In the next heartbeat your back hit the ground, hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. Remmick loomed over you, pinning both wrists in one hand, his knee braced at your hip. His face was shadowed, sharp, his voice cutting low and dangerous.

“Enough.”

You thrashed once, still wound tight, but his grip didn’t budge. His eyes burned into yours, steady and unyielding.

“Feel that?” His chest pressed down, immovable. “That’s me stopping you before you tear someone apart. That’s me holdin’ you still because you lost the reins.”

Your breath came ragged, the feral still clawing at the edges of your ribs.

“Breathe.” He gave your wrists a sharp squeeze. “Anchor in. You hear me? You don’t let that hunger make the choices. You do.”

For a moment the whole yard was silent but for your breaths and the rain ticking at the eaves. Slowly, you felt the heat in your veins ease, the wildness tamping back under the weight of his voice, his hands, the command in him.

His face softened, just barely. “Good girl,” he muttered, releasing one wrist so he could brush damp hair from your cheek. “That’s control. That’s what keeps you alive.”

Your chest heaved as the feral slowly ebbed, wrists still tingling from his grip. Remmick studied you a moment longer, then eased back, letting you sit up on the wet stones.

“I’m sorry,” you breathed, eyes dropping to your hands. “I—lost it.”

No one moved to fill the silence.

Then Eoin let out a short laugh, rough but not unkind. “We all did, the first weeks. I near tore down a door because the hinge creaked at me.”

Tomas chuckled dark, shaking his head. “Slaughtered half a flock of sheep before I could tell the hunger from rage. Thought I was a god for a minute—Ciarán nearly took my head for it.”

Ciarán just shrugged, arms folded as he leaned against the post. “You learn. Or you don’t last.”

You glanced between them, shame prickling, but the weight of it lessened. They weren’t surprised. They weren’t horrified. They’d been here before.

You nodded, swallowing hard. “I’ll learn.”

His mouth quirked faint at one corner. “I know you will.”

Remmick crouched in front of you, voice firm but gentler now.

“I’m sorry,” you managed.

The shame eased, just a fraction. 

Your chest heaved as the feral slowly ebbed, wrists still tingling from Remmick’s grip. He stayed crouched in front of you a moment longer, eyes sharp, pinning you with the weight of his calm until the haze broke.

“Don’t waste breath on sorry. You lost it. Fine. What matters is learnin’ to leash it before it owns you.” He held your gaze. “Understand?”

“Yes,” you said, firmer this time.

“Good.” His hand clapped your shoulder once, sharp. “On your feet.”

Before you could think, before the adrenaline had even cooled, they sent you straight back into the circle—testing you, forcing you to breathe, to control, to strike without giving in to the frenzy. Every missed cue earned correction. Every flare of hunger was cut down by Remmick’s command and the others’ steady, unflinching eyes.

The training yard felt smaller when the blood opened in front of you.

You’d moved faster than you thought you could—too fast, a perfect strike that landed on the soft meat of Eoin’s forearm. He swore; a thin line split the skin and dark red welled. For a stunned second everything went very, very quiet. The thump of your heart, the scrape of your boot on gravel, the dull drop of rain from the eaves—all of it fell to the background like someone had turned the world down.
Then the scent hit you: iron, sharp and bright. It came up in a hot ribbon and wrapped itself around your throat. You tasted it on the air before it even touched your lips.

Eoin clapped a hand over the wound and gaped at you.

“Christ—” He spat the word, more shocked than hurt, and the others circled instinctively.

The blood was stupidly bright in the gray yard. It pooled at Eoin’s fingers and then slicked down his sleeve. Your knees trembled in a way that had nothing to do with cold. You felt the feral coil in your ribs like a spring being wound tight, and the world narrowed to that wet, glinting line and the drum of your pulse. For a beat—one long, terrible beat—the hunger wasn’t the terrible part. The hunger sang with a filthy, ecstatic note under it: sharp, pure, and promising. Your hand floated toward Eoin like it had a mind of its own. Your breath came fast, and laughter—a small, unhinged thing—caught at the back of your throat.

“Don’t.”

The word cracked over your head as Remmick stepped in behind you. His palm clamped the back of your neck and shoved you straight down; your knees hit wet stone hard. You thrashed toward the shine of the blood, and he answered with a fist tangled tight in your hair, yanking your head back until the sky filled your vision and the hunger had nowhere to land. The gravel rasped your shins; his body crowded yours from behind, heat and weight and command. You jerked once more for the scent—instinct, tide—but his grip didn’t give. The yard shrank to his hand at your nape, the pull in your hair, the weight of his stance hemming you in.

“You hear me?” Remmick’s breath was a rasp at your ear. He pressed his forehead to the back of your head, forcing your face toward the cool stone.

“You don’t take what you want when it glints. You don’t prove you’re ‘strong’ by going feral in front of men who don’t know you from a fieldstone.”

Remmick was pissed.

You could see it in the way his shoulders went hard, in the single sharp breath he took before he stepped forward. The yard tightened around you; even the rain seemed to hush.

“Don’t.” He repeated. His voice wasn’t a plea. It snapped like a line.

You flared back, snappy before you thought. “I wasn’t going to—”

“You were,” he cut in, low and cold. “You were grinning like it was a show.” He looked briefly to Eoin—who’d clapped a hand over the cut and was squeezing blood between his fingers, more annoyed than anything—then back to you. “He’ll live. Sheep mend quicker than men, and you’ll have to wash it out of his sleeve. He’ll be fine; it’ll heal. You’re done for the day.”

Before you could argue he had your arm at his elbow and was steering you through the crowd away from the others, the farmhouse door shutting with a dry click behind you. The men in the yard went back to their work with the careful silence of people who’d just watched a line get crossed and didn’t want to test the snap again.

Inside, the back room smelled of peat and damp wool. Remmick shut the door with a flat push and let it thud home. For a heartbeat he just stood there, boots planted, jaw working, eyes raking over you like a man trying to leash something barely inside himself.

“You’ve got an attitude,” he said, voice low but hard.

“Oh, now you notice?” you snapped, still buzzing, still half‑feral. The taste of blood was still in your mouth; your pupils were wide, breath coming in sharp little bursts. You weren’t ready to be tamed yet.

That’s when he moved.

His hand was at your throat in a blink—not choking, but firm enough to shove you back until the door thumped your spine. The air left your lungs in a gasp. He didn’t raise his voice; he didn’t need to. The anger was in the way his fingers flexed, in the tremor at his jaw, in the heat rolling off him like a furnace barely banked.

“Enough,” he growled, eyes black as pitch. “You don’t risk blood in front of them. You don’t risk me having to put you down like an animal in my own yard.” His thumb slid up under your chin, tilting your face up until his glare pinned you. “Say it.”

You twisted, still shaking, still clawing at the last edge of the hunger. “I—”

“Say. It.” The steel under the rasp was unmistakable. “You lost control.”

Your breath hitched, but you still fought. Remmick saw it—saw the feral glint—and his patience snapped with a sharp breath through his teeth. He spun you, slammed your palms to the wall and caught both wrists in one big hand, holding them high above your head.

“You think you’ve still got bite left in you?” His voice was a snarl at your ear now, a sound that wasn’t all control. “Then I’ll take it out of you.”

The first crack of his hand across your ass made you jolt forward with a cry. Not playful; not light. Measured, punishing. Another followed, harder. Each strike dragged the wildness down, stripping the coil of hunger from your ribs, bleeding it out through heat and sting until the fight turned into something else. Shame. Need.

By the third, you were trembling, forehead to the wall, breath shuddering. His chest pressed to your back, his mouth close enough for you to feel the words scrape against your skin.

“There it is,” he muttered darkly. “That’s you coming back to me. That’s you remembering who holds you when you lose yourself.”

Another punishing smack landed lower, sharp enough to make your knees go soft. A whimper broke loose before you could stop it. The feral was gone; in its place was a new hunger, sharp and pointed only at him. You felt the wetness between your thighs, humiliating and hot.

He felt it too. His grip on your wrists tightened, his body pinning you harder to the wall, voice a low, rough taunt at your ear. “Thought you were going to tear through the yard. Look at you now—shaking, soaked, all bark gone. My wild girl.”

By the time his hand stilled, you were trembling in earnest, forehead pressed to the wood, breath ragged on his name. Remmick stayed there a beat, chest heaving against your back, the anger in him still a live wire under his skin. 

He didn’t give you time to catch your breath. The second he felt your body sag, trembling and wet, he shoved your legs wider with his knee and ground his cock against you through your clothes, rough, deliberate.

“Still think you can mouth off?” His teeth scraped your neck; you jolted, the sting and heat coiling tight. He let go of your wrists only long enough to yank your shorts down, the fabric biting your thighs.

"Remmick, no, please I can't." you whimpered 

You gasped, twisting on instinct, but his palm caught your jaw and pressed your cheek back to the wall. “No. You take it. You wanted to play strong in front of them? Now you learn.”

He slid his cock against your soaked folds, heavy and hot, rubbing his length where you were slickest until you were panting. Then he pressed at your tightest hole, spreading your wetness over it, and thrust in with one hard push that made you cry out, nails clawing uselessly at the wood. The sting of punishment still burned across your ass; the pain blurred into the raw stretch of him filling you. He gave you no slow easing. Just a relentless rhythm, hips snapping hard, grinding you into the wall with every thrust. His hand returned to your wrists, pinning them high again; you were open and taken, forced to feel every inch.

Every sound you made—every gasp, every broken moan—he caught with a growl of his own, driving harder each time your body clenched around him.

“That’s it,” he rasped, voice jagged with hunger and fury both. “My sweet girl, all soaked and shaking. You’ll remember who owns you when you think about showing out again.”

And when you came, it ripped through you raw and helpless, your legs trembling, your body spasming around him while he kept driving deep, chasing his own release. He spilled inside you with a snarl, grinding you against the wall until every drop was buried in you. Only then did he ease his grip, but not his hold—you were still caged against him, his breath hot and uneven at your neck.

“Good girl,” he rasped, still buried deep. “That’s where you belong. Every time.”

He stayed there a moment, chest heaving against your back, the anger finally cooling, before dragging you from the wall without giving you a chance to catch your breath. He hauled your shorts back up, not bothering to fix them properly, and steered you to the bed with his hand firm around your wrist.

“Sit,” he ordered.

You winced as your sore ass hit the edge of the bed, the sting blooming hot where his hand had left its mark. Your chest heaved, tears streaking your face, but he crouched in front of you anyway, one rough hand gripping your knee, the other brushing the wetness from your cheek.

“You think I like puttin’ my hand on you that way?” His voice cut sharp, but there was a rawness under it now. His thumb swiped another tear, slower this time. “I’ll do it again if you show out, but you’re mine, darlin’. And mine doesn’t lose control in front of men who’d cut her down without a second thought.”

You opened your mouth to argue, the ember of pride still flickering, but his palm came up under your chin, forcing your gaze to lock with his. “Say it,” he demanded, voice still low but steady. “What did you do wrong?”

Your throat worked, the words catching, but he didn’t let you look away.

“I…lost control,” you whispered.

His brow arched, sharp. “And?”

“And I put you at risk.” The words cracked but they came out true.

“Good girl.” His grip eased, the edge giving way to something heavier—possession and protectiveness tangled tight. He kissed the corner of your wet eye, then your temple, rough lips softening just for you. “You’ll remember it now. Next time you feel that feral snap in you, you’ll hear me instead. You’ll hold the line for me.”

You nodded, small and trembling, your forehead pressed to his. “Yes, Remmick.”

“Mo ghrá,” he breathed, his thumb smoothing away the last trace of tears

He didn’t rush you into anything. The door closed with a quiet click and the world narrowed to the two of you in the small bathroom

First, a clean cloth — warm, not hot — to wipe you. He worked slow, methodical: away the wetness at your thighs, the salt of tears, the grit from the wall. His fingers were sure, considerate; you felt yourself unclench under the ministrations. He murmured nothing at first, just the soft rasp of breath and the small sounds of cloth on skin.

When he found the red impressions on your cheekbone and the bruise blooming across your hip, he tucked the cloth into the warm water and pressed it there for a moment, careful.

“That’ll calm,” he told you. He dabbed where he’d struck, not hiding it, owning it. You let him tend you — the sting eased by the cool and the steadiness of his hands.

“Say the word if it’s too much,” he reminded in a low voice, thumb stroking the pad of your palm. The safeword felt carved into the space between you; neither of you needed to say it. You shook your head and offered a crooked, exhausted smile.

He lifted you in his arms and carried you to the bedroom, setting you gently down on the bed.

After, he pulled a soft shirt over your shoulders, not trying to be coy about the fact you were sore, and then made you lie back. He sat beside you and ran his thumbs along the small of your back, pressing warmth into the places that had gone tight. His hands smoothed your hair away from your face and caught your cheek in one hand.

“You did what needed doin’,” he said, not as a justification but as a tether. “You learned. You’ll learn faster with them watchin’ than without. But you don’t show. Not like that.”

You met his eyes, the fierceness in them softened by the vigil he’d kept. “I know,” you whispered. “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you first.”

“Good.” He bent and kissed the place behind your ear, slow, careful, the kind of kiss that heals the rawness of a night. “You were brave. Stupid, but brave.”

You laughed, a little, and it was a small, fragile thing that he caught and held as if it were glass. He reached to the kettle and poured two cups of tea; the steam fogged in the small room. You drank it while he sat close, fingers finding yours, thumb rubbing lazy, circular paths on your wrist.

He talked then, quietly: practical things about the yard, the drills you’d run tomorrow, who would watch which post. No lectures. Mostly plans, maps of safety and places where his reach could find you fast. Every so often he’d slide an arm around you, a possessive, protective pressure that meant one thing only — he was there.

When you shifted, uneasy, he hushed you with his palm, and you let your head rest against his chest. He smelled of peat and iron and something that was, impossibly, home. You could hear his heartbeat slow under your ear; it steadied you in a way the drills and the knife work could not.

“Are you—” he started, then stopped, searching your face.

“Okay,” you said. It wasn’t whole; it wasn’t fine. But it was true enough for now.

“I love you,” he said into your hair, voice low and roughened by the night. “We’ll work through it. Every bit.”

He kissed the crown of your head and the space between your brows, slow as a benediction.

“Sleep,”

Chapter Text

You woke to pale light spilling through the shutters, the ache in your limbs dulled but not gone. The house was quiet—just the creak of beams and the low murmur of voices somewhere beyond the door.
You pulled the trunk open, fingers brushing over worn linen and wool, and tugged out a pair of shorts. Familiar, easy. You were halfway into them when Remmick’s voice cut across the room.

“No.”

You looked up. He stood in the doorway, arms folded, the sunlight at his back haloing him in gold. For the first time you could remember, it didn’t scorch him. Didn’t smoke. It painted him instead, touched his cheekbones, the curve of his jaw.

“What?” you asked, frowning.

“No shorts.” He crossed the room in a few strides, plucked the fabric from your hands, and tossed it back into the trunk. His hand lingered there a moment, then pulled free a cotton dress—butter yellow, soft, the one that clung to you when the light hit.

“Remmick—” you started, half protest, half plea.

He shook his head, mouth curving just faint at the corner.

“Humor me, sweetheart. Today’s for air and sun, not fightin’ leather and dirt. Put this on.”

You huffed, but his gaze didn’t budge. The fight drained fast, leaving only the flutter of something else as he slipped the dress over your head himself, smoothing the fabric down your sides with rough, careful hands.

When you glanced up, his expression had softened, though his voice stayed firm.

“Good. Now we’re takin’ the day. Cliffs first, then the beach. After, maybe a village lunch if you can stomach it.”

Your brows lifted. “We’re… not training?”

“Not today,” he said simply, and his hand found yours. “You’ve earned more than bruises.”

Together, you stepped through the door into the light. The sun spilled over both of you, rich and golden, no smoke, no fire. Just heat on skin. For a long moment, you stood there hand in hand, almost afraid to breathe. Then the wind rose from the cliffs, carrying salt and grass, and you laughed.

The path west wound through fields that rolled straight to stone. By the time you reached the cliffs, the sea spread endless below, slate-gray and glittering where the sun struck. The wind was wilder here, tangling your hair, filling your lungs until you thought you might burst with it.

You edged close to the drop, toes biting at the turf, your dress whipping around your legs. The waves crashed so far down they sounded like thunder rolling in another world.

“Beautiful,” you breathed.

Remmick stayed half a step back, hands shoved into his pockets, his eyes never leaving you. “It is.”

He didn’t say whether he meant the sea or you.He guided you down the narrow switchback path carved into the cliffside, his hand steady at your back whenever the stones slicked with spray threatened your footing. The beach below was wide and dark, the tide curling in white seams across its surface. You kicked off your shoes without thinking, the damp sand cool under your feet, grounding and alive.
The first wave lapped your ankles and you gasped, then laughed, bright and unguarded, throwing your head back at the shock of cold. You waded deeper, the water climbing to your calves, swirling around your legs like something alive.

Remmick leaned on a driftwood log at the edge of the tide, watching you with an expression caught somewhere between fondness and awe. The sun played on his face, salt wind tugging his hair loose, and you realized he wasn’t just letting you take it in—he was memorizing you in it.

You spun once, hair plastered damp to your cheek, and shouted over the surf, “It’s incredible!”

His smile, slow and crooked, was answer enough.

The sand gave under your feet, cool and damp, grains clinging between your toes. Each wave curled in, frothing white, rushing around your ankles before retreating with a low hiss. The water was cold enough to sting, but it made you laugh anyway, bright and unguarded, the sound carrying over the roar of the tide. Remmick walked beside you, boots leaving heavier prints alongside your lighter ones. He didn’t rush you, didn’t tug you forward, just let you wander at the edge where water met sand, his hand wrapped steady around yours.

You stopped where the tide slid in shallow, foam curling white around your ankles. The water stung cold but it rooted you, the whole horizon open and glittering.
Remmick turned you toward him, your hands still linked, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as if he couldn’t stop moving. The wind tossed your hair across your face, and he reached up, slow and careful, to tuck it behind your ear. His fingers lingered there, warm against your cheek.

For a moment he just looked at you, his eyes dark and steady, sun cutting deep into the lines at their corners. Then his voice came low, almost reverent.

“I love you. More than I’ve ever managed to say.”

The sea sang, the gulls wheeled, but all you could hear was the rough edge of his words. Your chest tightened, your breath catching in your throat.

“I love you too,” you whispered, almost desperate with the need for him to know it.

His hand slid to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing soft beneath your lip. He leaned in until his forehead pressed to yours, breath mixing with salt and sea air.

“You’re everything, mo ghrá,” he murmured, as if the waves themselves needed to carry the truth of it away.

The world narrowed to that touch—his hand at your face, the steady heat of him in the sunlight, the tide rolling in and out around your legs as if time had slowed just for you both.
His forehead pressed to yours, breath warm, steady. For a long moment he just held you there, letting the waves and the gulls carry the silence. Then, softer, like he was admitting something he’d never thought possible:

“I never thought I’d have a day like this. Sun on my face. You in my arms. Not burnin’, not runnin’—just… here. With you.”

Your chest ached, the truth of it sinking deeper than the tide could ever reach.

The tide curled higher, foam licking at your knees, but neither of you moved. His words hung between you, heavy and raw, the sun gilding the line of his jaw where once it would have burned.
You reached up, fingers brushing his cheek, thumb smoothing the rough line of his beard.

“This isn’t the life I imagined,” you admitted, voice trembling with the weight of it. “But now—I don’t want anything else.”

His eyes closed, the smallest exhale shuddering out of him, like your words had undone something he’d carried for centuries. When he looked at you again, the dark in his gaze was stripped down to something unguarded, vulnerable.

He kissed you then—slow, reverent, nothing hurried in it. The crash of the waves, the salt on your lips, the sunlight warm and steady on your skin—all of it folded into that kiss, into the truth you’d just given him.

When he pulled back, his thumb was still at your cheek, his forehead resting against yours.

“Then we’ll keep it,” he murmured. “No matter what comes, we’ll keep this.”

His lips lingered a breath from yours, the tide rushing around your ankles like it meant to bind you there forever. For a while neither of you spoke, only the sound of the sea filling the space between heartbeats.

Then Remmick pulled back just enough to look at you proper, thumb still brushing over your cheekbone.

“Sweetheart,” he said softly, careful, “you want to try somethin’ harder? A village up the coast—small place. Just folk eatin’, laughin’, carryin’ on. Nothin’ dangerous, not if we don’t linger.”
You caught the flicker of tension at the edge of his mouth, the way his eyes searched yours as if weighing if you were ready. His hand tightened on your waist, steady but cautious.

“It’ll be crowded enough you’ll feel it,” he admitted. “But I’ll be right there. Every breath.”

The waves hissed and withdrew, leaving your toes buried in wet sand. Your pulse beat hard, not with fear exactly, but with the thought of all those voices, scents, heartbeats. Still, the promise in his grip, the certainty in his eyes—it steadied you.

Your throat worked as you searched his face. You could already imagine it—the noise, the smells, the press of people—and part of you flinched. But the other part, the part that had learned to anchor on him, lifted its chin.

“I want to try,” you said, voice quiet but steady.

His brows lifted slightly, like he’d been expecting you to falter. Then his mouth curved, proud and tender all at once. He tucked another strand of hair behind your ear, fingers trailing a moment longer against your jaw.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured. “We’ll take it slow. Lunch, a walk, then out again before anyone’s the wiser. And if it’s too much…” His hand squeezed yours, grounding. “You tell me, and we’re gone.”
The breeze whipped your dress around your legs, salt sharp in the air, and you nodded.

“As long as you’re with me, I can handle it.”

His chest eased with a long breath, relief cutting through the worry in his eyes.

“Always with you,” he said simply, and kissed your forehead before leading you up the sand toward the road.

The seaside village wasn’t much more than a few streets that bent toward the harbor, but to you it felt like a storm. Stone cottages shouldered close, whitewashed walls glaring under the sun. Laundry snapped like sails from lines overhead, and everywhere—everywhere—there were people.

The moment your feet touched cobble, it hit you.

The air broke into layers: bread fresh from ovens, fat sizzling on iron, malt and hops sharp from an open tavern door. Beneath it all, sharper still, the living thrum of bodies—blood coursing through veins, heartbeats pounding like a hundred little drums. Each one distinct. Each one too close.

You staggered, hand flying to your temple.

“Easy.” Remmick’s grip closed over your hand, steady, strong. His voice came low, a tether right at your ear. “Don’t fight it all at once. Separate it, sweetheart. Use your bead.”

Your breath stuttered, but you tried. One heartbeat. Then another. Then the crackle of roasting meat, the creak of cart wheels.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his thumb brushing the back of your hand as he walked you forward.

“That’s my girl. Salt and bead—sort it, don’t stack it. Don’t let it drown you.”

Someone jostled past, the thrum of their pulse so close it made your mouth water. You flinched, but Remmick leaned in, his lips brushing the edge of your hairline.

“With me. Just me. You’ve got this.”

The words burrowed under the chaos, anchoring you. His scent—peat smoke, sea salt, the faint metallic edge of his own blood—rose above the riot of smells, grounding. His body heat pressed against your side, unshakable.

Bit by bit, the storm dulled into something you could walk inside. The crowd didn’t vanish, the hunger didn’t fade, but the tether held—you held. By the time he steered you to a small inn with tables under a striped awning, your chest was still heaving, but you were upright. You let him guide you into a chair, your hand still clenched in his.

His mouth quirked, dark eyes studying you. “Knew you could do it.”

You huffed a shaky laugh. “Barely.”

“Barely counts,” he said, lifting two fingers for the innkeep. “And next time, it’ll be more.”

The innkeep set down two heavy mugs, foam cresting over the rim. The smell of roasted meat drifted out with the open door, sharp enough to make your stomach knot and your throat tighten.
Remmick slid one of the mugs toward you, steady fingers brushing yours.

“Go on. Take a swallow. Won’t cure it, but it’ll sand the edges.”

The first sip bit cold and bitter across your tongue, but the second went down smoother. The hum under your skin didn’t vanish, but it loosened, the hunger dulled just enough that you could breathe again.

Remmick leaned back in his chair, watching you over the rim of his own mug.

“Tell me what you’re feelin’.”

You hesitated, the noise of the street pressing in—the scrape of boots, the hiss of frying fat, the thump of barrels rolled over stone. But his gaze held you, calm and patient.

“Everything,” you admitted at last. “The blood, the food, the air—it’s all too much. Like every sense is screaming at once.”

He nodded once, slow.

“That’s the hunger talkin’. Wants to trick you into thinkin’ you can’t sort it.” He reached across the table, catching your wrist, grounding you with the weight of his palm. “But you can. Breathe. Stack it like we did in the yard. What’s first?”

You closed your eyes, pulling in a careful breath.

“Bread.” The word came halting, but true. “Brown crust, fresh.”

“Good.” His thumb stroked the inside of your wrist. “Now the beer. Then the sea. Layer it. Build it right.”

You obeyed, naming each thread as it hit your senses—the tang of salt air, the smoke from a peat fire, the heartbeat of the innkeep moving between tables. With each word, the edge dulled a little more, the chaos shaping itself into something you could hold.

When you opened your eyes again, Remmick was still watching you. Not tense, not worried—proud.

“There you are,” he said softly. “See? You’re not drownin’. You’re swimmin’.”

You huffed a shaky laugh and lifted the mug again, foam catching your lip.

“Feels like I’m just keeping my head above water.”

Remmick’s grin tugged crooked, soft at the edges.

“Then call it swimmin’. Doesn’t matter if it’s clumsy—you’re still movin’ forward.”

Remmick’s thumb brushed along your knuckles under the table, grounding you. His voice dropped lower, meant for you alone.

“I’m proud of you.”

The words hit harder than the beer, heat stinging your eyes. You swallowed, tried to keep your voice steady.

“Thank you. I’m… I’m doing my best. And thank you for thinking I’m worth it.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “I don’t just think it. I know it.”

You ducked your head, cheeks burning, then glanced back up through your lashes.

“How did you even… decide on me?”

For a moment his mouth curved, but there was nothing mocking in it. Just memory.

“First night I saw you,” he said. “In that little store. You were spinning through the aisles like you had a storm in your veins, putting things away faster than your feet could keep up. Hair kept fallin’ in your face—you’d tuck it behind your ear without even noticing. Tried lifting boxes you had no business lifting, too heavy by half, but you wouldn’t ask for help. Stubborn. Independent.”

Your lips parted, breath caught at the rough fondness in his voice.

“And then,” he went on, softer, “you smiled at me. Just a small thing, a hello, but it damn near gutted me. Like you’d looked straight through me and still thought I was worth greeting.”

You blinked fast. “Remmick—”

He shook his head, squeezing your hand. “Didn’t need to decide, darlin’. I was already gone.”

“That’s awfully sentimental for a man who pretends he’s all stone and steel.”

His mouth crooked. “Don’t go spreadin’ that around. Ruin my reputation.”

You leaned closer, teasing soft.

“What, that you’re a softie who fell in love with the girl struggling with boxes in the canned goods aisle?”

His growl was low, playful, his thumb pressing into your palm.

“Careful. I’ll show you just how hard I can be.”

Your laugh slipped out before you could bite it back. You tipped your chin up and pressed your mouth to his, tasting the faint trace of beer and the steadiness he always carried. His hand slid to the back of your neck, anchoring you in close, the kiss slow, unhurried, like he meant to prove every word he’d just confessed.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, your forehead lingered against his.

“Still sentimental,” you whispered.

“Only for you,” he answered, voice rough but certain.

The stew bowls were nearly empty, bread torn into soft crumbs between you. The din of the tavern pressed close—laughter, boots scuffing, mugs clinking—but all you felt was Remmick’s hand resting warm over yours on the table.

He leaned in, voice low so only you could hear. “We need to set some rules darlin'.”

Your brows lifted. “Rules?”

His thumb rubbed lazy circles over your knuckles, though his gaze was sharp.

“On blood. On takin’ it.”

Your stomach tightened at the words. He felt it, gave your hand a squeeze.

“First,” he said, steady, “you stick to animals. Rabbits, deer, birds—easy things. They’ll teach you control. Teach you to feel the line without crossin’ it.”

You nodded slowly, chewing the inside of your cheek.

“Second,” he went on, softer now but no less firm, “if you ever take from people—it’s only the ones who’ve earned it. Bad men. Violence, rape, murder, the sort that walk with rot already in their bones.
You’ll feel it when you’re close. And when you do, you make damn sure no one sees.”

Your pulse stuttered, the weight of it all pressing close.

“And if I…can’t tell? If I make a mistake?”

His eyes softened, but his tone stayed iron.

“Then you don’t take. Ever. Not unless you’re certain. You wait, you walk away, you come to me. You don’t risk yourself for hunger.”

You looked down at your fingers tangled in his, the truth of it settling hard in your chest.

“So—animals first. Only bad men. Only when it’s safe.”

“That’s right.” He leaned in close enough that his breath brushed your ear. “You follow those, you’ll live clean. You’ll live long.”

You swallowed, then managed a small, wry smile.

“And here I thought you just liked bossing me around.”

His mouth curved, rough and fond. “That too.”

You toyed with the rim of your mug, lips quirking.

“And you? Do you always follow those rules?”

Remmick’s grin was slow, crooked, the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners.

“Most days. I’ve had a thousand years to learn patience, darlin’. You, though—” he tipped his head, studying you like you were a puzzle he already loved solving—“you burn hotter. You’ll need the rules more than I ever did.”

You narrowed your eyes, feigning suspicion.

“So basically you’re saying you’re perfect and I’m a disaster.”

He laughed, low and warm, then leaned in until his nose brushed yours.

“I’m sayin’ I’m proud of you already. And you’ll learn faster than you think.” His mouth brushed yours in a kiss that tasted of beer and bread, soft but lingering.

After the meal they step back out into the street. The village is smaller as the afternoon loosens into early evening—people putter about, a child chases a dog, the smell of baking and peat smoke hangs sweet and close. The noise is a rich, complicated thing; your shoulders tighten for a second, every sense humming. Remmick notices and slides his hand into yours.

He buys you another beer at a tiny counter where the barkeep grins at the sight of you two. You lift it like a talisman, the foam catching at your lip; it calms the edges. Remmick prompts you gently—what do you smell, what do you hear—and you answer, voice steadying as you catalog the bread, the hearth smoke, the clink of mugs. He praises you quietly, proud without show.

“You’re doing better than you think,” he says, and there’s no teasing in it, only the sure warmth of a man who watches you learn.

You walk the lane back toward the cliffs, bags and small purchases tucked between you. Remmick keeps catching your eye and smiling in a way that makes your stomach flip. When the path opens to the salt air again you stop, barefoot in the sand.

He wraps his arms around you like you’re the only treasure he ever wanted, and he draws you close enough for the heat of him to press along your spine. You both stand in the wind for a long moment, hands laced, the world big and sharp and belonging to you for the first time in a while.

The cliffs dropped sheer into the sea, the waves catching light and breaking like glass. Wind tugged at your dress, whipped Remmick’s coat around his legs. His hand was warm around yours, grounding, but there was a heaviness in the way he carried his shoulders that told you before he even spoke.

“I’ll have to go,” he said finally, gaze fixed on the horizon. “A night, maybe two. Ciarán and I—we need to go back to the Pale One’s ground. His first hunting place. If there’s a weakness, that’s where it’ll show.”

Your fingers tightened in his.

“Take me with you.” The words came faster than you meant, thin and raw under the wind.

He turned you, cupping your cheek with his free hand. His thumb brushed your skin, steady, though his eyes were clouded.

“Sweetheart, listen. Tomas, Eoin, even Mauve and Seamus—they’ll be here. You won’t be alone. Not for a heartbeat.”

You shook your head, heart pounding. “I don’t care. If you go where it’s dangerous, then I go too.”

He sighed, forehead resting briefly to yours, the salt wind cutting between you.

“I can’t. I don’t know what waits there. The ground itself might bite. If it turns bad, I won’t have time to guard you and fight him both.” His hand slid down to your shoulder, firm. “You’ve just found your feet, mo ghrá. If I drag you into this too soon, it’ll cost us both.”

The sea roared, gulls wheeled overhead, and the silence stretched. His thumb traced the edge of your jaw as if memorizing it.

“It kills me to leave you, even for a night,” he admitted, voice low. “But I need to come back with the way to end him. And I will.”

The wind pulled at the cliff grass, carrying the salt and spray of the sea. You still had his coat sleeve gripped in both hands, refusing to let go even as he tried to soothe you.

“It’s going to be all right,” Remmick murmured, steady as the rock beneath your feet. “I’ll be back before you’ve time to miss me proper.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow, grounding. Then his mouth quirked, a little nervous, a little tender. “And before I go—I want to ask you something.”

You blinked up at him, heart already caught in your throat.

He let go of your hand just long enough to reach into his coat pocket. When his fist came out, he uncurled it between you. A ring rested there—simple gold, worn smooth at the edges, but it gleamed against his rough palm.

Your breath stuttered. “Remmick—”

His eyes locked on yours, rough voice low. “Marry me?”

Tears stung your lashes, your laugh breaking. “I thought I was going to spend forever with you anyway.”

“Sure,” his mouth quirked, soft and certain. “But now it’ll be official.”

You nodded, breathless. “Yes.”

He slipped the ring onto your finger with hands that shook just slightly, then caught you against him, kissing you hard enough the whole sea could’ve fallen away.

The walk back to the farmhouse felt different with the ring on your finger, his hand wrapped tight around yours. The cliffs still roared with the sea, but every sound seemed distant now, dulled by the thrum of your heartbeat and the warmth of his touch.

By the time you reached the courtyard, the others were already gathered. Ciarán stood at the head of the table, maps and rough sketches laid out, his voice clipped and firm as he gave orders.

“Tomas, you and Eoin will take the north edge of the farm—watch the treeline. Seamus, the lower fields. Mauve, the ridge path. You see anything you can’t manage, you fall back and you don’t wait.”

His eyes swept the group, the weight of command pressing down heavy.

“If we don’t come back, you don’t linger. You burn the farm and scatter. Understood?”

A ripple of silence followed, then quiet nods.

Remmick’s hand never left yours, but when Ciarán’s words fell still, he bent close, his mouth brushing your ear.

“You hear him. You stay with them. Don’t go rushin’ out lookin’ for me, no matter what you feel.”

Your throat closed. “Remmick—”

His thumb stroked your jaw, rough but gentle. “Be good. If it goes south, you run with the others. You don’t try to be a hero, you don’t try to fight alone. You keep yourself alive, and I’ll come back to you.”

Tears burned, but you nodded, fingers curling tighter around his coat.

“Promise me.”

“I’ll be back,” he said, steady as stone, though you could feel the strain in his voice. His forehead dropped to yours, one last press, one last tether before he had to let go. “I’ll always come back to you.”

Tomas caught your eye as the room broke apart, each of them moving to their tasks. His hand, broad and warm, settled heavy on your shoulder.

“Don’t fret,” he said gruffly, though his gaze softened. “I’ll watch your back ‘til he comes home.”

You tried to smile, the weight in your chest easing only a little. “Thank you.”

Remmick’s hand lingered on yours a final moment before he pulled away to stand beside Ciarán. Together, they stepped out into the gray morning, the farmhouse shrinking behind them as the fields opened wide.

Chapter Text

Night stretched wide across the fields, the air damp and cold. A low mist clung to the grass, silvering the hedgerows, and every sound carried further than it should.

“By scent,” Ciarán murmured, his voice low and grim. “It’ll leave a trail—faint, but there.”

Remmick’s jaw tightened, his breath clouding pale in the chill. “Then we follow.”

The night smelled of salt from the sea and turned earth after rain, but beneath it wound something fouler, sharp and acrid as rot. They moved fast, boots striking quiet against the stony path, their eyes adjusting easily to the dark. The trail pulled them into the hills, over twisted lanes and broken walls, until at last a silhouette loomed against the starlight.

A church. Or what had once been one.

Its steeple sagged like a broken neck, roof torn open to the sky. Ivy crawled thick up the walls, choking the stone, and the bell tower hung silent, its cross splintered, bent like it had tried to wrench itself away.

The doors groaned when they pushed them open, iron hinges screeching like a scream caught in rust. The air that spilled out was colder than the night, thick with damp stone and something older—something foul.

Inside, moonlight dripped through holes in the sagging roof, pooling silver on the floor. It touched skeletal remains slumped along the pews, twisted together in the attitudes of prayer. Jawbones still hung open, as if frozen mid-hymn.

The first thing they saw was the skeletons.

A dozen at least, sprawled where they’d fallen, ribs cracked open, skulls tilted back in silent screams. Rusted shackles still clung to some of the wrist bones, chains bolted into the stone floor. A few still had scraps of fabric clinging to them — dresses, lace, once bright colors now dulled to dust.

Remmick’s stomach turned, his fangs pricking sharp without his bidding. “Girls,” he muttered. “Young.”

Ciarán crouched, running his hand over the pitted floor where the stone was stained dark.

“Blood, layered deep. Not days. Not months. Years of it.” His eyes flicked upward. “This place was fed like a trough.”

As if summoned, the air thickened. Shadows pressed long against the walls, and both men stilled as a whisper slid through the rafters. It wasn’t words, not at first — more like the scrape of nails on wood, the hiss of breath dragged too long. But then images struck, fast and cruel:

A girl dragged screaming across the nave, her hair fisted in a pale hand. The glint of a knife at her throat, the rush of blood down the altar’s sides. A chant rising, not in Latin but in something twisted, guttural, praising no god either man knew.

Remmick jerked his head aside, breaking the vision, his hand flexing like he could tear the memory from the stone itself.

Ciarán spat into the dirt, his face pale. “He defiled the Mass. Bent it to his hunger. A ritual, over and over, until the stones themselves drank their screams.”

Remmick’s boot crunched on something brittle. He looked down to see a rosary—beads strung with knotted sinew instead of cord, bone shards for crosses.

“Christ preserve us,” Ciarán muttered, though the words sounded empty in a place like this.

From deeper within the church, a sound stirred—a faint hiss, like voices whispering in unison. But there was no one there. Only shadows shifting, and the weight of centuries watching.

They moved deeper. The altar slab was blackened and split down the center, the edges carved with sigils that seemed to writhe if you stared too long. Wax dripped thick on the steps, melted into grotesque shapes — hands, faces, mouths stretched wide in silent howls.

Behind the altar, half-hidden in the shadows, was a pit.

They leaned over, and the smell hit first — rot, damp earth, and bones long since hollowed out. The pit was filled with skeletal remains, dozens upon dozens, all tangled together. Some small. Too small. Infants.

Remmick’s throat closed tight. He gripped the stone so hard it cracked beneath his palm. “Monstrous bastard.”

The whispers surged again — flashes of pale hands pressing girls down, teeth tearing, their blood slicking the slab until it ran like a river.

At the altar, the wood had blackened, warped into shapes that looked melted. Stains ran down the steps—not wax, not paint, but dried rivulets the color of rusted iron. The reek of old blood clung even after centuries.

Remmick reached out, his fingers brushing along the surface where scripture should have lain. Instead, someone had carved letters deep into the wood. He wiped away grime and dust until the words emerged.

ABADDON.

An Fuil-Dhia.

The names cut jagged, gouged into the grain with such violence the grooves still wept darkness.

“Abaddon,” Remmick said aloud, the name dragging through his teeth like a curse. His throat went tight, and he could almost hear it echoed—whispered by a thousand mouths long dead.

Ciarán crouched by a collapsed lectern, prying free a leather-bound book swollen with damp. He opened it carefully. Pages peeled apart with a sucking sound, ink blurred, words half-erased. But some fragments survived.

“…the Blood-God… he drank the child first, that the wife might suffer longer…”
“…we offered them to him at the tree, as he commanded…”
“…to speak his name is to feed him…”

Ciarán snapped it shut, knuckles pale on the cover. “This isn’t worship,” he said hoarsely. “It’s rot. It’s reverence for horror.”

Remmick’s jaw locked. His skin prickled with the memory of screams not his own, carried on air that still tasted of iron. “Not just horror,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the gouged names. “History. His first name. His god-name.”

“I’ve seen enough,” Ciarán snapped, forcing the visions back with a guttural growl. His knuckles were white on the hilt of his blade. “This isn’t his nest. It’s just where he fed.”

Remmick’s gaze lingered on the altar, on the bones strewn like kindling around it. “Aye,” he said, voice rough. “And shrines lead to temples. We follow it. To the roots.”

They left the altar behind as the whispers rose higher, mocking, the ruin echoing with laughter that wasn’t laughter.

They turned to leave, the whispers following them, hungry, as if speaking Abaddon’s name had woken something that had only been sleeping.

The church doors shuddered closed behind them, but the air outside felt no cleaner. It clung to their skin, damp and heavy, as though the ruin had marked them for trespass.

They moved in silence for a while, boots crunching on the gravel path, the wind carrying the faint stink of peat. Only when the church had shrunk to a silhouette against the moon did Ciarán finally speak.

“You felt it, didn’t you? The weight of the name.” His voice was low, cautious, as though the shadows might be listening still. “Abaddon. He wasn’t just a man who turned. He was—something else. Something that begged the dark to take him.”

Remmick’s jaw tightened. “And the dark answered.”

They walked on, the land softening underfoot, stone giving way to sodden earth. The smell of peat and stagnant water thickened with every step. Mist curled low, wrapping the ground in gray.

“Where does it lead?” Remmick asked.

“The bog,” Ciarán answered. “Old maps show it marked as cursed ground. Crops won’t grow, cattle vanish. And once—” His mouth twisted. “Once they hanged men there. And women. Called it justice. But at the roots, it was sacrifice. An altar under the hanging tree.”

The word hung heavy between them. Sacrifice.

Remmick’s gaze fixed on the horizon, where the mist pooled darkest. “If he spilled the first blood there, we’ll find what’s left of it.” His tone was iron. “And when we do, we’ll know the path to the place he began.”

The ground grew wetter, each step sucking, pulling at their boots. The whispers of the church still clung in the back of their skulls, but ahead the fog thickened, darker than any night should allow.

Ciarán lifted his chin toward it. “That’s it.

Remmick’s lips thinned, eyes narrowing into the mist. “Then let’s see what horrors are waitin’ for us there.”

The bog breathed like a thing alive. Mist shifted low across the ground, rippling as if stirred by unseen hands. Every step sank into wet earth that sucked at their boots, each pull free louder than the silence pressing around them. No birds. No frogs. Not even the hum of insects. Just the soft gurgle of water moving where no water should.

Ciarán held the lantern high. Its glow barely reached past his elbow before the fog devoured it whole.

“Places like this remember,” he muttered, voice tight. “Every drop of blood ever spilled here sinks into the peat, and it never rots. It just… waits.”

Remmick said nothing. He’d already smelled it—iron and decay laced through the damp air. His hand flexed near the hilt at his belt, though steel would do no good against memories.

Shapes emerged from the fog—low mounds that might’ve been earth, until bone gleamed pale beneath the peat. Jawbones. Fingers. Skulls with sockets choked full of moss. They lay half-sunken, as if the bog itself had swallowed them slowly and spit them back up just to mock the living.

The mist thickened around a hollow. The ground here was darker, slick, glistening as though the peat itself bled. In the center, a tree rose crooked and black, its bark split and oozing dark resin. Its branches hung low, skeletal arms stretched wide. And at its base—stone. An altar slab, crooked, carved with symbols that pulsed faint in the lantern glow.

Remmick’s gut turned. The grooves weren’t Christian. They weren’t even druidic. They writhed, jagged, as if the chisel had bitten into the stone at random angles—but looking at them too long made his temples throb, like they carried rhythm. A chant frozen in rock.

Ciarán swallowed hard, his voice nearly lost in the fog.

“The hanging tree. They called it judgment. But it wasn’t.” He pointed to the altar, his hand shaking despite the lantern’s steadiness. “They dragged the condemned here. Strung them up like cattle. And when their bodies broke, the blood was bled down—”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. The stone still glistened faintly, as if centuries hadn’t dried it.
Remmick crouched low, brushing moss back with two fingers. The symbols curved into a name, half-erased, but still legible. ABADDON. The letters clawed into the stone with such depth they’d outlast the tree itself.

The mist stirred. A sound carried on it—low, mournful. Not quite a moan, not quite a whistle. Both men froze. It threaded between the trees, thin and hollow, like a breath escaping a thousand mouths at once.

Ciarán’s knuckles whitened on the lantern handle.

“He was worshiped here.” His voice was hoarse. “Even after he turned. Sacrifice fed him, sacrifice bound him. The people kept coming, kept giving. They named him their blood god. An Fuil-Dhia.”
The wind rose then, sharp through the branches, and for the briefest moment, the nooses still dangling from the limbs above swayed—as if something had just cut them free.
The fog thickened as they neared the altar. It curled up their legs, wrapped their shoulders, breathed damp against their skin. Ciarán lifted the lantern higher, but the light warped, bent, like it was trying to escape.

Then came the sound. Not the wind this time — voices. Thin, ragged, carried on the mist. A woman’s sob. A man’s scream. The creak of rope straining under weight.

Remmick froze. His breath clouded in front of him, though the air was not cold.

Figures shifted in the fog. Visions. Half-formed, wavering — men dragging bound shapes to the tree. Girls clawing at the ground as they were hauled by their hair. A priest-like figure in dark robes, face hidden, raising a knife high before plunging it down into pale throats. The blood fell thick and black, but it didn’t sink into the earth — it streamed toward the altar, filling its grooves, making the carved name pulse red.

Ciarán hissed through his teeth. “Jesus Christ…”

The lantern light guttered, flaring once as if the bog itself exhaled. The visions sharpened for a heartbeat. Men and women hung from the branches, their eyes wide and glassy, mouths still moving as though begging. Children crouched in the roots, silent and hollow-eyed, their skin already gray. And always, the robed figure at the center, feeding on their blood, his mouth painted crimson.

“Abaddon,” Remmick whisperedd, the name burning on his tongue. The visions jolted at it — heads snapping toward him, empty sockets gaping.

The tree groaned. The nooses above swayed in unison, though no wind stirred.

Ciarán grabbed Remmick’s arm hard, dragging his eyes back from the mist. “Don’t look too long. He’ll draw you in. That’s how he’s kept his strength — centuries of fear, faith, and blood. The bog remembers because he wants it to.”

The voices rose then, layered — chanting, pleading, screaming — until it pressed like a weight in their skulls. The lantern sputtered. The altar glowed faint with a sick red pulse.

Remmick’s jaw tightened. He spat into the peat, iron bitter in his mouth.

The altar loomed darker the closer they came, slick with moss and something older that hadn’t rotted. The grooves cut into its stone still held a faint sheen, as if blood had only just dried there.

Remmick reached out, slow, testing. His fingertips brushed the surface.

Cold. Not the damp chill of bogstone — deeper. A cold that bit bone-deep, the kind that carried whispers with it. For a heartbeat he saw his hand not as it was but skeletal, skin split and peeling, blood dripping into the carved channels. He yanked back, sucking a sharp breath through his teeth.

“Touched you, didn’t it?” Ciarán said low, the lantern swinging as his own gaze flicked away. “It wants you to bleed. Wants you to finish what was started here.”

Remmick gritted his teeth, forcing his eyes back to the altar. His palm hovered above it again, steady this time.

“This is no vision. It’s a mark.” He traced the grooves in the air above the stone, not touching. “Sacrifice fed here until the stone itself drank. That’s why the ground reeks. That’s why the air’s alive with screams.”

And as if the altar understood, the faint red glow in its channels pulsed once, answering the name unspoken.

Ciarán seized his sleeve, pulling him back a step. “You give it your ear too long, it’ll take the rest of you with it. We’ve seen what we needed — proof he was worshipped. Fed.” His jaw clenched. “This isn’t his lair. Just another place fattened by blood.”

And with that, he turned, forcing himself away from the altar, away from the tree, though the sound followed, clinging to his bones, promising they hadn’t seen the last of Abaddon’s work.

They left the bog behind, lantern light dimming as though the fog itself begrudged their escape. The trail wound narrow, swallowed by blackthorn and oak, until the air thickened with rot again — not bog rot, but something drier, older, like bones ground into dust.

Ciarán slowed first. His lantern swung wide, and the shadows of crooked stone walls shivered through the trees.

“Christ,” he muttered. “It was a village.”

What little remained hunched low to the earth: tumbled hearthstones, collapsed thatch black with moss, doorframes yawning like broken jaws. No birds stirred here. No wind reached. The trees grew too close, branches knotting overhead like ribs closing around a carcass.

Remmick stopped at what had once been a well. The stones were slick, clawed deep with gouges not made by weather. He peered in, and the dark answered with whispers, as if the water had remembered every throat cut above it.

“Not just abandoned,” he said, voice raw. “Wiped. Every hearth, every family—bled for him.”

They pressed deeper, past the ruined cottages, until the woods opened in a sudden, awful breath: a clearing. The grass grew patchy, black-veined. In the center stood a flat stone, wide as a cart, its surface worn smooth and concave from centuries of knees and bodies. The trees around the ring leaned inward, roots bulging as though thirsting for what had spilled there.

Remmick’s hand flexed unconsciously at his side. The air here pressed heavier, every breath coppery.

“This is it,” he said, low. “The first ground. Where he turned himself.”

Ciarán staggered back, shaking his head hard, muttering a prayer that broke halfway through. “Unholy doesn’t cover it. This ground was reborn for him.”

The trees groaned. The air shivered. The circle remembered.

And both men knew: if the Pale One was to be ended, it would have to be here—inside the clearing, with his true name written in blood.

The first step into the circle was like stepping into a wound. The air thickened, hot and metallic, your tongue salted with a taste that hadn’t faded in centuries. Remmick’s boots sank into the blackened grass, and the stone in the center gleamed wet though no rain had touched it in days. He blinked once—twice—and then the visions slammed into him.

A man knelt on that very stone, his body shuddering as he carved lines into his own flesh with a blade of rough bronze. His lips moved around a name he should not have known, a name that rippled like maggots through the air: Abaddon.

Around him stood the village, faces slack and hollow, their eyes bleeding red as though already enthralled. They chanted low, drumming hands against their own chests, as if willing their blood to flow faster.

A woman screamed. She was dragged forward, nailed across the altar with stakes hammered into her wrists and ankles. Her blood spilled fast, soaking the grooves in the stone—grooves carved for this, channels that carried it to the earth like roots drinking rain. A child followed, sobbing, then silenced, throat opened in a single clean line. Their blood mingled, pooling black in the dirt.
The man—Abaddon—slashed himself open from sternum to navel, clawing his chest wide until ribs cracked and his heart stuttered in his hands. He lifted it toward the night, voice roaring in a language not meant for men, offering his humanity up like meat.

Something answered.

The sky tore open without lightning, only darkness spilling down, thick as tar. It poured into him, down his open chest, down the gaping throat of the altar itself. His heart blackened in his hand, shriveled, then beat again—stronger, fouler. His eyes opened, no longer human, burning with a hunger that would never end.

The villagers fell to their knees, their faces alight with worship. Some tore at their own throats in ecstasy, feeding the ground with their blood as if the sacrifice was contagious.
And Abaddon rose. No longer man, not yet beast—something worse. His wife’s body twitched once before going still. His child’s small hand slipped into the grass, limp. He looked at neither.

He drank deep. First from them, then from his followers, ripping throats as easily as pulling bread apart, feeding until his body swelled with unnatural strength. Still the survivors crawled toward him, begging, adoring, willing to be devoured.

Remmick staggered, choking on air that tasted of centuries-old rot. Ciarán had fallen to one knee, one hand clamped over his mouth as bile burned his throat.

“This is the place,” Ciarán said at last, voice low. It felt obscene to even name it in the hush. “Whatever he became started here.”

Remmick closed his eyes for one hard beat, felt the memory of the vision like a bruise. “He was called Abaddon before,” he said. “A name of a man, then a name for the thing. We have the true name, we bind it. That’s the way.”

Ciarán’s hand found the lip of the altar and curled over it, not touching the slick, just anchoring himself to the cold. “We don’t have long,” he said. “Word’ll move. If he learns we poked at his old ground—if he smells us—he’ll come sooner than we like.”

They moved together to the edge of the clearing and paced slow, plotting with the economy of men who’d bled alongside each other. No chatter. No bravado. Only plans cut into the night.

“How do we do it?” Ciarán asked. “We can’t just string a few stones and expect the blood to remember a name. This is old. Older than songs.”

Remmick’s hand curled around a thumb-sized pebble and he addressed the stone as if it were an answer.

“We remake the anchor. The circle has to be on the ground where it first bound the world to him — same soil, same axis if we can find it. The stones act like ribs; the name is the key. When the name is spoken inside the circle, and the one who bears the name binds it to his own blood, the earth remembers.”

“And whoever carves the name?” Ciarán’s eyes were flat, searching. “They’re not going anywhere.”

“No.” Remmick said the word like an oath. “You carve the name into your flesh, you anchor yourself to that place. The circle holds him. It holds you too. The bargain’s fair and cruel both ways: neither can leave the ring while the binding holds. One of you will have to win this in the mud and the blood.”

They both looked at the altar then, and the silence that dropped between them was a little heavier than the air.

Ciarán rubbed his palm across his face.

“You fight him in the circle, then. You win, you break the thing. He dies. You die. Or you win, and the rest of us breathe. Either way we end him.”

Remmick’s jaw worked. He thought of every face he’d buried, of every hand that had reached for him and found only hole. He thought of you. The idea of bringing you here curled cold in his belly.

“We need lure,” he said finally. “We need the name in blood, a circle big enough that when he storms in he steps on the words—on the knot. We need watchers, men who’ll stand with us and close the gaps.”

The plan grew like a cold thing in their mouths. They mapped what they knew from the church and the bog — a handful of scattered glyphs, a torn scrap of a chant, the shadow-words in the margins of a priest’s hymn that hadn’t belonged to God. Those were the hints: a half-remembered syllable, a turned letter in an old dialect that Ciarán’s cousin might be able to translate. An Fuil-Dhia — the post-turn name Remmick had given them in anger — might be the brand he’d assumed; the real key would be the old, human sound before the corruption: a name with roots in soil and oath and boyhood.

“We’ll take the scrap from the church,” Ciarán said. “We’ll drag the peat from the bog and read it with the old tongues. If we find the proper form of the name, we speak it right, blood it right, we might bind his shadow.”

“And the circle?” Remmick asked.

“Stones from the bog,” Ciarán answered. “Black, heavy, not moved by casual hands. We set them with iron stakes, run salt in a channel. We’ll carve the letters into the flat of the altar, deep as nails. When he comes, we speak—one voice, the old words—and then the knife.”

They fell into the mechanics a little then, voices low and practical: how many stones, how wide the ring, who would stand watch, which village lights they’d darken, where to hide the trick ropes, how to guide him toward the circle without letting scent carry them away.

“You’ll carve the name,” Ciarán murmered. “Do you understand what that will do to you?”

Remmick’s laugh was a dry rasp.

“It will tie me to the ground the same as it ties him. If I win, he can’t walk. If I lose—” He let the sentence fall. There was no hypothetical left in it.

“Then we do it right.” Ciarán’s hand landed on Remmick’s shoulder, hard and brotherly. “We don’t invite pity, and we don’t half-bind. We finish the work.”

They both looked back to the slab, to the place where the earth still remembered a name it had been told to keep. The lantern guttered. The clearing breathed. For a heartbeat they saw the old vision again — the feast of blood, the villagers leaping, the dark pouring down — and then the future, sharp and terrible: a ring of stones, a man with a carved name, a pale thing thrashing against the law they’d fashioned.

“We’ll need a witness to the words,” Ciarán said quietly. “Someone to mark the verse, to catch the name in case the voice falters.”

Remmick nodded. “You’ll stand there.” He pointed at Ciarán with a finger that did not tremble. “You speak it with me. You hold the knot.”

Ciarán’s mouth flattened but he did not refuse.

They set the rest like men setting traps: a date, a set of signals, the slow work of hauling the black bog-stone back toward the clearing under the cover of rain. They would make the circle here, where the soil had once drunk too deeply; they would carve and chant and bind until the hollow in the altar remembered the pain of names.

As they entered the treeline the clearing fell behind them, perfectly empty, the moon painting the altar as if it were nothing more than weathered rock. But both men left with the same weight hollowing their chests: a promise of violence, of blood paid and returned, and the terrible certainty that some bargains demanded a tithe of flesh before dawn.

Chapter Text

The farmhouse was dark behind you, the yard swallowed in quiet. You paced the fenceline, every creak of the night pulling your nerves tighter.

“He left,” you muttered, arms locked across your chest. “And it’s my fault he even has to.”

Mauve sat on the low wall, bow balanced across her lap, boot swinging idle.

“That’s a convenient story you’re telling yourself,” she said, dry. “But it’s wrong. The Pale One didn’t crawl out of the dark ‘cause of you. He was always there. You just happened to light a torch bright enough to make him move.”

You stopped, frowning. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“Not better,” she said, leveling you with a steady look. “Just truer.”

Tomas shifted where he leaned against the gatepost, his blade catching a slip of moonlight.

“She’s right. Feels like it’s on your shoulders, but it’s not. What’s yours is the watch tonight. That’s all.”

A crack in the treeline snapped you all alert—Mauve already had her bow up, Tomas shifting wide, blade drawn. Your knife was in your hand before you thought. The three of you stood taut until the shadow bolted—a fox, quick and small, gone in a flash of brush.

The tension bled out in a shaky breath. Mauve lowered her bow, mouth quirking in something like a smirk.

“See? Not every noise is the end of the world.”

She hopped off the wall, brushing dew from her skirt, and gave you a pointed look.

“Try breathing before you work yourself into knots. Makes the hours shorter.”

Tomas clapped a hand on your shoulder as you all drifted back to the fence. Heavy. Grounding.

“You’re not alone out here.”

And under the dark, you tried to let yourself believe it.

The farmhouse windows glowed faint with lamplight, but out in the yard it was nothing but moon and shadow. The three of you had been posted up for hours—Tomas leaned against the fence post, sword loose in his hand, Mauve perched on an upturned bucket, bow resting across her knees.

“I’ll walk the fence,” you said at last, pushing off the wall. Restless. The pacing in your chest needed more than standing guard.

Tomas straightened. “I’ll take it.”

You shook your head. “No. I need to move.”

Mauve’s brow arched, her voice dry as tinder.

“Fine. But if you get eaten, I’m not explaining it to Remmick. He’d be unbearable.”

You shot her a look over your shoulder. “You’re hilarious.”

“I try,” she deadpanned, settling back on the bucket.

Tomas gave a short grunt of amusement, then sobered.

“Two whistles,” he said, tapping the hilt of his blade. “Quick and sharp. That’s all it takes.”

“Two whistles,” you echoed, gripping your knife as you slipped into the dark.

The fence stretched long ahead, slick with dew. Crickets droned, the grass whispered at your boots, and every groan of wood felt louder than it should. Behind you, you could still hear Tomas murmur something low, Mauve’s dry chuckle answering.

And though the shadows pressed close, you clung to that sound—proof you weren’t really alone.

The night air was cool, heavy with the smell of wet grass and turned soil. Your boots whispered against the packed earth as you followed the fence, one hand brushing the rough posts as you went.
You weren’t spooked. Not really. But still—the silence sat wrong. Too heavy. The usual night sounds seemed distant, muted, like the whole field was holding itself still.
Your eyes scanned the dark beyond the fence line. The pasture stretched open, pale with moonlight, but the hedgerow at the far side hunched thick and black. You swore you could feel it looking back.

Something buzzed faintly at the edge of your hearing, too low to catch, gone as soon as you tried to pin it down. Not words, not quite—but close enough to make the fine hairs along your arms stir.
You tightened your grip on the knife at your belt, thumb rubbing the worn leather of the hilt. You weren’t about to whistle—not yet. Nothing had shown itself, nothing had moved. But the wrongness pressed in closer with every step, like the air itself was watching, waiting.

When you reached the corner post, you stopped, eyes narrowing at the stretch of trees beyond. For a heartbeat, you thought you saw something shift between the trunks—a darker dark moving against the black. And then it was gone.

The night was too still. Too clean. You’d made it halfway along the fence line when the voices slid out of the dark.

“Out here alone?” A man’s voice, smooth, almost kind. “Seems careless.”

You spun, knife flashing in your grip. Two figures stepped into the moonlight. Not feral, not mindless. Men—or they had been, once. Their skin pale, their eyes glinting faint red. They wore travel-worn coats, the hems stiff with dried blood, like it was nothing worth washing out.

“We’ve been looking for you,” the taller one said, calm as if you were neighbors meeting on the road. “You’re the prize, see. He wants you back. We bring you, and he comes.”

Your throat tightened. They weren’t hunting for food. They were baiting a trap—for Remmick.

You lifted the knife higher, forcing your voice steady. “Come closer, then.”

The taller one’s smile widened. “Gladly.”

You jammed two sharp whistles into the night, the sound cutting across the fields. Then the fight was on. They came fast—too fast—but you were faster than you’d been a week ago. You ducked low, slashed upward, steel biting into one’s thigh. He hissed, staggered, and you followed through, knife burying deep under his ribs. He dropped with a sound like a gasp cut short, body crumpling to ash against the wet grass.

The second was stronger. Older. He caught your wrist mid-swing and twisted hard, wrenching the knife free and flinging it aside. Pain shot up your arm as he shoved you back, pinning you against the fence post.

“Fiery little thing,” he murmured, baring his teeth. “No wonder he broke himself for you.”

You thrashed, kicked, caught him under the chin. He snarled, tightening his grip. His strength poured over you like iron—you weren’t enough, not alone.

Then the air shifted. Heavy. Dangerous.

The vampire barely had time to glance over his shoulder before Remmick’s roar split the night.

He hit like a storm. The fight blurred—blood, claws, snarls—and for a heartbeat you weren’t sure who was more feral. Remmick drove the vampire back, fists and teeth tearing, his voice gone to nothing but guttural rage. The worshiper struck back hard, but Remmick didn’t care. Didn’t slow.

With a final, violent wrench, Remmick’s hand plunged into the vampire’s back. The crack of bone snapped the night apart. He ripped the spine free in one brutal pull, ash exploding across the grass.
Breathless, you pressed against the fence, wide-eyed.

Remmick turned to you, chest heaving, his face still twisted in something not quite human. His eyes locked on yours, wild.

“Mine,” he rasped, voice raw and torn.

Ciarán was there a step behind, grim and silent, but he didn’t interrupt. He knew better.

Remmick’s hands were still shaking.

Ash still drifted on the night air, bones crumbling into nothing at Remmick’s feet. He stood hunched over the ruin, chest heaving, the vampire’s spine clenched in his fist like a trophy. His eyes were still blood-bright, jaw dripping with gore, a snarl caught in his throat that wouldn’t let go.

You froze where you’d pressed against the fence, breath locked. He looked more beast than man, as if the fight hadn’t ended at all.

“Remmick.”

For a heartbeat, nothing shifted. Remmick’s shoulders stayed rigid, his grip tight on the ruin he’d torn free. His eyes flicked to you, feral and unmoored, then back to Ciarán, daring him closer.
Ciarán didn’t flinch. He moved in slow, steady, one hand lifted as if taming a wild horse. His voice was low, cutting through the haze.

“Fire’s out. Reel it in, mate.”

Tomas, Mauve, and Eoin came running, weapons in hand, but stopped short at the sight of him—of you—frozen in the grass.

Remmick dropped hard to his knees, gravel biting through the fabric, and crawled the pace it took to close the distance. His hands framed your face before you could think, his forehead pressing to yours, breath hot and ragged.

“You hurt?” His voice was frayed, almost breaking.

You shook your head, whisper-thin. “No. I’m okay.”

The wildness in him eased, only a fraction, enough for him to stand. He pulled you up with him, his grip still iron around your wrist.

“I told you to stay with them,” he said, low, dangerous. “What the hell were you doing out here alone?”

Tomas spoke before you could. “We let her patrol the line. Thought it was safe.”

Remmick’s head snapped toward him, his breath flaring sharp through his nose, eyes like blades cutting across the three of them. None of them moved.

“I wanted to,” you cut in, your voice rushing over the silence. “I didn’t think anything of it.”

His gaze fell back to you, dark and unrelenting, the muscle in his jaw tight as stone.

Remmick’s jaw worked, his grip still locked around your wrist, but before the weight of his fury could fall any harder, Ciarán’s voice cut in sharp as a blade.

“Enough.” He stepped into the circle of lamplight, eyes sweeping over all of you. “We’ve got more than one enemy breathing, and they’ll smell the blood soon enough. Call the others in. We’ll talk through what we found and what’s next. There’ll be time to bite chunks out of each other later. What’s left is gettin’ back under a roof.”

His gaze held Remmick’s a beat longer than the rest.

The silence that followed was heavy, the air still thick with copper and smoke. Remmick finally exhaled through his nose, a long, sharp drag, and released your wrist. He nodded once, clipped, and jerked his chin toward the farmhouse.

“Move,” he muttered.

Ciarán lingered behind, his eyes narrowing on the mangled body in the dirt before turning back to follow.

The night air pressed damp and cold as you fell in step beside him, the farmhouse lamps flickering faint in the distance. His hand still hovered close, not holding but ready, as if he didn’t trust you not to stumble—or bolt.

“Remmick, I—”

“Don’t.” The word snapped out sharp, quick as a whip. He didn’t look at you, eyes fixed on the path ahead. His jaw was set, every line of his face drawn tight. “Not now.”

Your throat worked around the words that wanted to spill, but the bite in his tone held you silent. You caught the faint tremor in his hand as he raked it back through his hair, the kind of gesture he only made when he was one breath away from breaking.

For the rest of the walk, the only sound between you was the crunch of wet grass and the low, steady rasp of his breath, like he was keeping the lid clamped on something that still wanted out.
The lamps on the farmhouse porch grew nearer, but the distance between you and Remmick stayed carved in stone. His silence wasn’t just silence—it was weight, heavy and deliberate, like he’d set a wall between you that you weren’t allowed to touch.

Every so often you caught the shift of his jaw, the grind of his teeth, the flare of his nostrils as he breathed through the fury still clawing at his chest. But he never looked your way.
By the time you reached the gate, his hand was already on the latch, sharp and precise. He pushed it open without waiting, without slowing, the line of his shoulders rigid in the torchlight.

He wasn’t giving you the chance—not yet.

The fire cracked high in the center of the yard, sparks scattering into the dark. Thirty-odd faces circled the blaze—men and women, old and young, every one of them with the same sharp hunger in their eyes. Only the coast-watchers were absent, their places left open.

Remmick and Ciarán stood at the front, firelight painting their faces in shadow and flame. The crowd hushed as soon as Ciarán raised a hand, the only sound the shifting of boots in the damp grass and the low howl of the wind across the fields.

“We found his trail,” Ciarán began, his voice carrying steady and grim. “First in the bones of a church, left rotting with blood rites scrawled in the walls. Then in a bog, at the foot of a tree twisted with rope and sacrifice. And last—in the deep forest, a clearing black with old death. His home. His first killing ground.”

A ripple of unease moved through the gathering—murmurs, curses, teeth bared.

Remmick’s jaw flexed, his voice cutting hard when he spoke.

“It isn’t just ground. It’s marked. Twisted. He bound himself there—Abaddon. He took his name when he carved his wife and child open for blood, and the earth remembers it still.”
Silence clamped tight over the crowd, heavier than any shout.

Ciarán stepped forward again, voice rougher now. “That ground will bind him, same as it birthed him. But only if we carve the circle in stone, only if one of ours carries his name cut into their own flesh. That’s the fight waiting for us. No tricks. No shadows. Him and the one who binds him, locked in until only one walks out.”

The crowd stirred, sharp breaths cutting the night, a few voices hissing curses against the Pale One’s name. But not one of them moved to speak against the plan.

The fire popped, sparks drifting into the sky like embers fleeing.

Remmick’s voice cut through the hush, low and hard as the flank of the farmhouse. He didn’t mince it.

“We move quiet,” he said. “Two weeks. That’s our window. Over that time we’ll stack stone at the clearing, set the circle where Ciarán found the markers. Not a soul outside this yard knows we’re going. You break that silence and you break us.”

Ciarán picked the thread up before anyone could argue, rubbing his palms together as if already measuring the work.

“Stones don’t carry themselves. We bring them under cover of night, we use carts hidden in the hedgerows, we work from the treeline in shifts. Two men on a shift. No fires. No singing. If you can’t get the stone where it needs to be without talk, you don’t go.”

Remmick nodded and laid out the rest with the same bluntness.

“We aren’t the only ones moving tonight. Those two on the fence were worshipers — not mindless, not blind. They’ll try to bait us through you if they can. From now on: no one walks alone. Ever. Two at a time, and when you’re on the road to a town, three if you must. Rotate the pairs. Don’t let patterns form.”

He scanned the ring of faces. “Set the outposts farther down the coast. Tomas and Eoin take Galway and the north stretch. Mauve will run patrols through the village and the lanes—train the young ones who can hold a blade. Ciarán, you run stone-moving. I’ll take the hunt into the bog and the church sites by scent, see what clue we missed.”

Ciarán added details—who to trust with carts, where to hole up if trackers follow, how to conceal the stones under hay and tarps. Remmick finished the timeline.

“Two weeks to stack. Two days after that we carve the name. Whoever volunteers to stand in the circle must do it clean. The person who bears Abaddon’s name in their blood will be tied to that ring as much as he is. It’s simple: if you bind him you might die. If you fail, he walks free. Decide now who you trust with that fate.”

No one spoke for a long moment. The weight of the choice filled the yard more than the fire ever could.

Remmick stepped forward, voice soft enough it might have been private if not for how every head leaned in.

“You’ll patrol the cities as I said—quiet folk, stray questions. Look for those who whisper his name, who come back from a trip with the light gone from their eyes. If you find a follower, you bring word. You don’t fight a hive by yourself.”

“And one more,” Ciarán said, face grave. “We set traps along the forest edge—pits where the ground allows, triplines and alarms. If they come hunting you, let the ground be the first thing that bites back.”

Remmick closed his fist once, slow.

“We move in the night. We keep the farm tight. We don’t make this a war of brave faces and loud words—this is a war of quiet hands and sealed mouths. If anyone can be careless, you tell me now. If anyone isn’t willing to die for the rest of us, step down.”

Silence answered him, heavy and resolved.

“Two weeks,” he repeated. “Two weeks to make a place that will hold him. Two weeks to make sure we have eyes on every road. And when we call, we move as one.”

Ciarán’s hand came down like a thud on the map laid beside the fire.

“Then get to it,” he said. “No more talking. Plans are made—now we fill them with work.”

The circle tightened, people trading quick nods, the murmur of boots and the clink of gear rising as men and women dispersed into the dark to begin the long, quiet labor.

The fire roared high, throwing sparks into the dark. Thirty voices murmured around it, the smell of peat smoke and roasting meat thick in the air. But when the circle broke apart and plans were finished,

Remmick didn’t linger. He rose from his place without a word, broad shoulders cutting through the crowd, the firelight sketching his face into shadow. You caught the sharp edge of his profile, unreadable, as he turned toward the farmhouse. His stride was steady, deliberate, but he didn’t look back.

You stood, the instinct to follow biting quick, but Tomas’s hand caught your wrist before you could move.

“Don’t,” he said quietly, his eyes on the ground.

Mauve added, softer but firmer, “Give him time.”

Ciarán didn’t even rise from his log by the fire, just tipped his chin toward the farmhouse.

“Let him cool his blood, lass. Chasing him now won’t help.”

The refusal stung, but their grip—words and hands both—kept you planted as Remmick’s figure vanished into the dark. The farmhouse door shut, the sound carried even over the crackle of the flames.

A silence settled, heavier than the smoke. One by one, they doused their mugs of beer, and without much said, the four of them drifted toward the farmhouse. You went with them, steps reluctant, every part of you straining toward the stairwell instead of the kitchen.

Inside, the warmth shifted. The kitchen was dim, the fire in the hearth smaller, quieter, casting a soft glow across stone walls. The air smelled of damp wool and strong tea. Chairs scraped as they pulled them out, mugs pressed into hands.

No one spoke for a long while. The fire cracked. Eoin leaned his chair back against the wall, staring at the flames like they held answers. Tomas rubbed at his jaw, eyes hollow. Mauve sat straight-backed, her face unreadable.

Ciarán poured from the kettle, the hiss of liquid into mugs filling the silence. You sat among them, the urge to break from the table and climb the stairs still clawing at your chest.
But you didn’t. You stayed.

The mugs were warm in your hands, steam curling up into your face, but the heat didn’t reach you. The scrape of chairs had gone still, leaving only the pop of the fire and the slow drip of rain off the eaves outside.

You stared down into the dark swirl of your drink, fingers tight around the clay. The silence pressed heavy, thicker than the smoke in the air.
Finally, the words slipped out, low, almost against your will.

“Why is everyone so afraid of him?”

The question hung in the air, smoke-thick, heavier than the rain on the roof. Nobody answered at once. Mauve’s eyes slid to Tomas; Tomas looked down into his cup. Eoin shifted in his chair, jaw working, but said nothing. Even Ciarán, usually quick with a quip, only leaned back, watching the fire with a face carved out of stone. The silence stretched, full of things unsaid.

It was Eoin who spoke first, voice low, like the words cost him.

“Because we’ve seen him let go.”

Mauve’s mouth tightened, but she didn’t argue. Tomas only nodded once, slow, eyes still on his drink.

Ciarán finally leaned forward, elbows on the table, his gaze settling on you.

“You think you’ve seen Remmick angry,” he said evenly. “You haven’t. Not proper. When the reins slip… there’s no one more dangerous. To him. To us. To you.”

The fire popped, filling the pause that followed.

Eoin cleared his throat, rubbed at the scar that cut across his forearm.

“First time I saw it, we were out past Dingle. Pack of his kind—pale bastards—thought they’d corner us. They had numbers, thought it was enough.”

His jaw flexed. He didn’t look at you, just at the fire.

“Remmick tore through them like nothin’ human. Ripped one clean in half. Spine in one hand, head in the other. By the time it was done, the ground was more blood than grass. And he wasn’t stoppin’—not ‘til we dragged him off what was left.”

Silence stretched.

Tomas shifted in his chair, voice gravel-rough.

“Took three of us to hold him. He was still swingin’, still bitin’. Eyes black, mouth full of someone else’s blood.” He tapped his mug once, hard, against the table. “Didn’t know his own name ‘til dawn.”

Mauve finally met your gaze, steady but not unkind.

“That’s why folk fear him. Not ‘cause he’s cruel. But because if the reins slip, he doesn’t stop. Not for anyone.”

The fire snapped, sparks climbing up the chimney.

You stared down into your mug, words slipping out before you could stop them.

“Then why follow him? Why stay with someone who scares you like that?”

The table went still again. Tomas leaned back, crossing his arms. Eoin only huffed through his nose, as if the answer were obvious.

It was Mauve who spoke, voice level.

“Because he’s the one who scares them worse.”

Tomas nodded once.

“We’ve all seen what happens when his leash breaks. But we’ve also seen what he does when it doesn’t. He’s the reason most of us are still breathin’.”

Eoin lifted his mug, eyes fixed on the firelight.

“Fear’s a blade. Pointed the wrong way, it cuts us. Pointed out there—” he jerked his chin toward the dark beyond the walls “—it keeps the monsters runnin’.”

Their silence afterward was heavy but certain, the kind that carried no room for doubt.

The fire cracked, throwing shadows across the walls. You kept your eyes on the steam curling from your mug. The words slipped out low, almost swallowed by the silence.

“Remmick’s going to carve his name, isn’t he?”

The weight of the question dropped heavy. No one answered at first. Tomas shifted, Mauve’s jaw tightened, Eoin stared deeper into the fire.

At last, Ciarán leaned forward, elbows braced on the table. His voice was calm but carried iron.

“That’s for Remmick to decide. Not us. Not you.”

Your throat tightened. You nodded once, though it didn’t feel like an answer at all. The legs of your chair scraped hard against the floor as you shoved back from the table. No words—just the slam of your boots on the boards as you stalked out into the cold. The kitchen fell quiet in your wake. Tomas half-rose, frowning, but Mauve caught his sleeve.

“Let her,” she said simply.

The barn was dark, damp hay thick with the smell of horses and leather. You climbed the ladder to the loft, every rung a pulse of fury in your chest. By the time you threw yourself down on the hay, the anger had twisted sharp. You wanted to shout, to break something, to claw the night open until it bled.

But the horses shifted below, steady in their stalls, breath steaming soft in the dark. Their calm only made the storm inside you sharper.
Tears burned before you could stop them. You pressed your sleeve to your face, swallowed hard, fought it back—but the more you tried, the harder it broke. Hot, silent streaks running down as you stared into the rafters.

Your mind spun, circling the same jagged edge over and over—fear, fury, love, helplessness—all tangled until you couldn’t tell one from the other.
At last the exhaustion dragged you down. Your fists unclenched, your breath evened, and you slipped under into a fitful sleep, the sound of the horses breathing steady below.

A hand shook your shoulder, gentle but insistent. The smell of hay was thick in your nose when your eyes cracked open to gray morning leaking through the barn slats.

“Up you get,” Eoin said, crouched beside you with a steaming mug in hand. “Brought you tea. Black as sin.”

Your throat was dry, your face stiff from tears, but the corner of your mouth twitched.

“That bad, huh?”

He smirked. “Worse. You look like shit.”

A broken laugh slipped out before you could help it. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” He offered the mug until your fingers wrapped around it. The heat bit your palms, grounding.

You sat up, hair full of straw, skirt rumpled, sipping slow. The bitterness curled on your tongue but steadied your stomach.

“C’mon,” Eoin said, standing, stretching out the stiffness in his shoulders. “Ciarán is already barking orders. Best way to keep the ghosts off your back is keep your hands busy.”

So you did.

Through the day you carried feed, mended fence, helped shift crates in the byre. Tomas smiled, Eoin teased, Mauve drifted through now and again with her sharp quiet. You let their rhythm pull you along, muscle and work giving you no space to think.

Not once did you look toward the farmhouse, not once did you ask where Remmick had gone.

By late afternoon the sky had gone soft gold, the kind that made the fields glow. You dropped the last armful of feed and brushed straw from your skirt.

“I think I’ll walk down to the coast,” you said, more to yourself than anyone. “Need a breather.”

Tomas straightened from the fence he was mending, his brow knotting. “Wouldn’t do that.”

You turned. “Why not?”

“Because Remmick wouldn’t like it.”

Your jaw clenched, the words sharper than you meant. “He’s already mad at me. Why should I care?”

The silence that followed was thick, Eoin and Mauve exchanging a glance. Tomas shook his head, voice steady.

“Care because we’re askin’. Sit with us instead. Fire’ll be lit soon. Have a drink.”

You hesitated, the fight simmering low under your ribs. At last you sighed.

“Fine. I’ll be back in a bit.”

Eoin raised a brow. “Where you off to now?”

“Bath,” you said, already turning toward the house. “If I don’t, I’ll lose my mind.”

No one argued. They let you go, the warmth of the hearth and the sound of their voices fading as you stepped inside, shutting the door behind you.

Steam soon filled the small bathroom, and you sank into the tub, water lapping your shoulders. For the first time all day, silence wrapped around you, heavy and forgiving. You leaned your head back against the cool tile, eyes closed, the water working its way into sore muscles until they finally unclenched. For the first time in days, silence—no orders, no drills, no watchful eyes—just the steady heat lapping at your skin.

The latch clicked.

Your eyes snapped open. You jolted upright, arms crossing tight over your chest, water splashing against porcelain.

Remmick filled the doorway, broad shoulders shadowing the frame. His eyes cut over you once—hard, sharp—before the door shut with a soft thud.

“Coverin’ up now?” His tone was stern, almost mocking, not soft in the least. “After everything I’ve seen?”

The air felt hotter than the bathwater, his gaze heavy, unyielding.

He leaned his back to the door, arms folding, gaze never leaving you.

“You run, you sulk, you make me look for you like some fool—and now you decide modesty’s what matters?”

The bathwater that had felt hot a moment ago suddenly seemed too tight, too shallow

He didn’t move toward you at first. Instead, he scraped a chair from the corner, the legs grinding against the floorboards, and set it right beside the tub. Close. Too close. Then he sat, arms resting heavy on his knees, eyes fixed on you. The space between you vanished; the steam couldn’t hide you from him.

“Do you remember,” he asked, voice low but iron, “when I told you there’d come a day you’d have to obey me?”

You kept your eyes on the ripples of water, jaw set, arms still locked across your chest. Silence pressed harder than the steam, your anger a wall you refused to drop.

“Answer me,” Remmick said, sharper now. The weight in his voice left no room for pretending you hadn’t heard.

Your teeth ground together before the words snapped out, clipped and hard. “Yes. I remember.”

His gaze didn’t waver, heavy as stone.

“So tell me,” he said, voice edged, “why you think the rules don’t apply to you all of a sudden.”

The question wasn’t really a question—it was a demand, iron-bound and inescapable.

Your head snapped toward him, water sloshing against the tub’s edge.

“Maybe because I’m not some child you get to leash, Remmick,” you shot, voice hot and quick. “Maybe I’m sick of being treated like I’ll shatter if I breathe wrong.”

The words hung between you, sharp as broken glass, and you could see his jaw tighten as they cut.

His eyes went flat, all the heat burned down to iron.

“Careful. You’re not shatterin’, you’re disobeyin’. There’s a difference. And I won’t have it.”

You glared, anger tight in your chest, and the words slipped before you could stop them.

“Why the fuck do you care so much anyway?”

Remmick didn’t flinch. His jaw worked once, steady, his voice like stone.

“Because your life is tied to mine now. Because if you lose control, it’s not just you that burns for it. It’s me. It’s all of us. And I’ll be damned before I watch you throw it away out of spite.”

You rose from the water in a rush, the towel snatched from its hook. Steam curled off your skin as you wrapped it tight and made for the door.

Remmick didn’t move from his chair, but his eyes followed you, hard and unblinking. The space between you was narrow, deliberate, his presence filling the room so you couldn’t slip past without brushing him.

“Where d’you think you’re goin’?” His voice was low, controlled, cutting across the sound of dripping water.

You didn’t make it two steps before his hand shot out. Fingers closed around your wrist, towel slipping against your skin as he yanked you to a stop.

“Not so fast.” His tone was steady, his grip unyielding.

The towel bunched, your heart kicked, but he didn’t give you space to wriggle free. His body stayed angled in the chair, but the strength in his hold made it plain—you weren’t leaving unless he let you.
The towel slipped as he tugged you down, knees hitting the wet boards with a thud. His hand clamped under your chin, forcing your gaze up, unyielding as stone.

“Look at me,” he ordered, the words flat, leaving no room to refuse.

You tried to twist, to glare past him, but his fingers held firm, tilting your face until your eyes met his. The fury in you sparked, but the steadiness in his grip was worse—unyielding, patient, as if he could hold you there forever until you broke first.

Your chin tipped higher against his hand, defiance sparking even through the sting of his grip.

“Don’t you dare be mad at me because you lost control,” you spat, voice tight, sharp.

For a heartbeat, silence pressed heavy between you—just the drip of water from your hair, the faint creak of the chair beneath him. His jaw flexed once, the only sign the words landed.
Remmick’s nostrils flared, his jaw going stone-hard.

“I’m not mad I lost control,” he bit out, voice calm but vibrating with fury. His grip tightened on your chin, forcing your eyes to his. “I’m mad you put yourself in harm’s way. I’m mad you disobeyed. I wouldn’t have had to lose control in the first place if you weren’t acting out like a bloody child.”

His hand stayed firm on your chin, eyes burning down into yours.

“This isn’t just about you anymore,” he ground out. “We’re bonded. We can’t falter. You have to hold the line.”

Your breath caught, anger spiking hotter than fear.

“What the fuck do you think I’m trying to do?” you snapped, voice ragged, almost breaking.

The words cracked the air between you, sharp as steel on stone.

Your words hung sharp in the air, and before you could swallow them back, a tear slipped hot down your cheek.

Remmick’s hand dropped from your jaw. He sat back a fraction, nostrils flaring, chest rising with a long, slow inhale as if holding himself still took everything in him.

You pushed to your feet, clutching the towel tight around you, and stalked past him without a word. Your bare heels slapped wet against the floorboards as you fled the bathroom.
In the bedroom’s dim, you yanked the quilt back with shaking hands, tears already hot on your face. You sank onto the edge of the bed, wrapping yourself in the towel like it might hold you together.

The door creaked. Remmick filled the frame, silent, his shadow long in the lamplight. He stepped in slow, deliberate, each footfall measured, until he stood a breath away.
Your shoulders shook, and you turned from him, swiping at your cheeks, trying to make it look like anger instead of grief.

“Don’t—” your voice cracked before you could make it steady.

But he didn’t stop.

He lowered himself onto the mattress beside you, the weight dipping the bed. For a long moment he didn’t speak—just sat, elbows braced on his knees, staring at the floorboards.

Your throat ached, the words clawing their way out.

“You’re going to carve the name, aren’t you?”

His jaw flexed once, the muscle ticking. He didn’t look at you, not yet.

Silence stretched, thick and heavy. Then, finally, his voice came low, rough.

“That’s for me to carry. Not you.”

Your fingers tightened on the towel, knuckles white.

“Were you even going to talk to me about it? Or was I not worth the thought?”

Remmick’s head turned then, slow, his eyes cutting to yours. The look in them was flint—anger, guilt, something darker threaded through.

“I think about you every second,” he said, voice harsh with restraint. “That’s why it near kills me to put you in the same breath as his name.”

The words broke you, and before you could snap back, the tears came hot. You turned away, but Remmick was faster—he caught you by the wrist, tugged you down into his lap.

Your towel slipped, your face pressed against his chest, and he wrapped you in those arms like a vise. Not gentle, not easy—but unshakable. His hand cradled the back of your head, his jaw against your hair.

“Cry if you need to,” he murmured, the rasp rough with his own fight. “But don’t ever doubt—you’re in every thought I’ve got.”

He held you until the sobs slowed, until your fists unclenched against his shirt. His hand stayed at the back of your head, steady, thumb stroking once through your damp hair.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough, but certain.

“I’m doin’ everything I can to see us both through this, sweetheart. To come out the other side together. But it isn’t just us anymore. Too many others stand in the balance.” He drew a breath, his arms tightening around you. “Never doubt it, though—my love for you doesn’t waver. Not a breath, not a heartbeat.”

He wiped the last tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb, slow and gentle, like he was memorizing the map of your face.

“I know you’re tryin’.” he murmured, voice soft but steady. That’s why I’m askin’ you now—don’t make it harder than it is.”

You swallowed, the nod coming small and real. “Okay,” you said.

He held your gaze for a long beat, like he was checking you for something only he could see. Then his mouth tugged, half smile, half promise.

“Promise me you’ll do it. Not ’cause I said so, but ’cause it keeps you safe — keeps both of us safe. When I tell you to stay, you stay. When I tell you to run, you run. No questions in the moment.”

Your jaw tightened; you met him straight.

“I promise.”

He let out something that could’ve been a laugh and a sob all at once. He cupped your face, palms warm.

“Good.” He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing you in. “That’s all I need. Not blind obedience—just trust when it counts.”

You could feel the tremor in him even as he tried to steady it.

“You’re terrifying when you’re worried,” you said, trying for a smile. It came out shaky and he caught it like it was gold.

“I’m terrified when you’re out chasin’ trouble.” He kissed your temple, then your brow, slow and reverent. “Now come on. Sleep. We’ve got a long day tomorrow. I need you whole.”

You let him fold you into him, the protest gone for the moment, replaced by the steady press of his body and the sound of his heartbeat

He let the silence sit a beat longer, then the half-smile that always frightened you a little slid back into place.

“Don’t think you’re off the hook yet,” he murmured, almost playful. “You’ll earn your rest properly — later.”

It wasn’t a threat so much as a promise; you felt it in the way his fingers tightened at your waist and in the slow, possessive cadence of his words. You huffed a breath that was half a laugh, half surrender, and let sleep pull you under with him still curled around you.

Chapter Text

Morning found you by the weight of his hand on your hip.

“Up,” Remmick said, voice rough with sleep but firm.

“On your feet.”

You blinked at the gray light leaking around the curtains.

“What?”

“Punishment.” He kissed your temple like that softened it.

“Dishes. Laundry. For everyone.”

You stared. “Everyone—on the farm?”

“Yep.” He was already pulling on his shirt.

“Start with the kitchen. Tubs are in the yard. Fire’ll need stoking for the boil.”

“I’m supposed to go with Mauve—”

“Then you’d best get to it.” His mouth tipped. Not unkind. Not yielding.

Downstairs, the damage from the night before sat waiting: a mountain of mugs black with tea and peat smoke, bowls pasted with stew, knives and pans slick with grease. You tied an apron hard enough to creak and set to work. Water. Heat. Scrub. Rinse. Stack. Again.

Mauve poked in after an hour, bow over her shoulder, hair braided neat. She took one look and whistled low.

“You planning to move in with the crockery or just visitin’?”

“Apparently I live here now,” you muttered, elbow-deep in suds.

She smirked, but her eyes were sympathetic.

“I’ll be ready at noon. Town’s not going anywhere.”

“Lucky town.”

She left you to it. Eoin tried to slide a stack closer to help; Remmick, from the doorway, didn’t even lift his voice.

“Leave it.”

Eoin raised both hands and backed away, grinning.

“You heard the man.”

By midmorning, the kitchen gleamed and your fingers were prunes. Remmick passed through once for a mug. He didn’t touch you, just brushed his knuckles—accidentally on purpose—along your spine as he went by.

“Good pace,” he said. “Yard next.”

You gave him a look that would’ve felled lesser men. He only arched a brow.

Outside, the wash waited: baskets of shirts stiff with salt and sweat, trousers ground with mud, linens that smelled like damp and horses. Ciarán had set a copper over the fire pit; Tomas had hauled water. He hooked a thumb toward the boiler as you stepped out.

“I’ll stoke it,” he offered.

“Don’t,” Remmick said from the stoop, not even looking up from his cigarette.

“She’s got it.”

Tomas’s eyes flicked to you—apology, a little pity. You shook your head once.

You stopped dead on the edge of the yard, apron bunched in your fists.

“Are you joking?” The words shot out sharp and loud, carrying over the crackle of the fire. “You expect me to do all this by myself?”

Heads turned. Tomas glanced up from the copper. Eoin froze mid‑stride. Even Mauve, halfway across the yard, tilted her head. Your voice kept rising, hotter than you’d meant it.

“I’m not a servant, Remmick! I’m not—” You snapped your jaw shut before the next word, but the damage was done. The yard had gone still.

No one missed it. Tomas glanced your way; Eoin whistled low. You felt the heat rising before you even looked up. 

Remmick's gaze narrowed in your direction

“With me,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “What?”

“Now.”

In the barn, he shut the door with slow finality. The quiet inside rang louder than the yard. Before you could speak, his arm braced the beam beside your head, caging you against it. Not loud. Not angry. But every inch of him sure.

Heat flared across your cheeks. “Remmick—”

“Now.”

Remmick’s presence shifted like a shadow on the wall and they found something else to do. It wasn’t cruel. It was deliberate. ⸻ By late morning, the lines sagged with shirts and sheets. You worked the last basket alone, jaw tight, arms trembling with the effort.

When you finished, you stood in the yard, filthy, soaked to the knees, hair stuck to your neck, hands red and smarting. Remmick’s shadow cut the light. He took you in—mud to calf, wet apron, chin set hard—and bit back a smile you could feel, not see.

“Clock says eleven,” he said mildly. “You’ve time to scrub and dress.”

“You’re enjoying this,” you said flatly.

“A little.” He didn’t pretend. “But not for the reason you think.”

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of asking. You shouldered past, up the back steps, leaving a wet footprint ladder up the hall.

Hot water. Soap. You scrubbed yourself the way you’d scrubbed the pans. When you stepped out, the mirror showed clean skin, sore eyes, and a mouth still angry. You pulled on a simple dress and boots and scraped your hair into something that would pass.

Mauve rapped on the door as you tied the last knot.

“Ready?”

“No,” you said, opening it anyway.

“Let’s go.”

You crossed the yard together. Remmick and the men had taken the sun with their mugs. Ciarán on the step, Tomas on a stool, Eoin balanced on the fence rail. Conversation nested easy between them. Remmick’s gaze found you in an instant, dark and amused. He didn’t say a word—just tipped the edge of his chin a bare degree, like he was letting you pass inspection.

You didn’t look twice. Mauve swung you into the lane.

“You can scowl the whole way,” she said, “but when we get to town, I’m pickin’ lace to put you in anyway.”

"If you put me in lace, I’ll burn it.”

“We’ll get two.”

That tugged a laugh out of you despite yourself. The road took you into sun and salt. Your shoulders loosened by inches. Behind you, the men watched you go until the hedgerow swallowed the swing of your dress.

Eoin blew out a breath. “She’s got fire.”

“She’s got more than that,” Tomas said. He set his mug down.

“And you’re a hard bastard.”

Remmick didn’t rise to it. He watched the empty lane a beat longer, then dragged a hand through his hair and sat heavy on the stoop.

“She has to learn,” he said, voice even. “Faster than we did.”

Tomas squinted. “We all learned with drills and bruises. You’ve got her washing for a platoon.”

Ciarán grunted, approving despite himself.

“And it keeps her in the yard, where eyes can hold her.”

“That too.” Remmick’s mouth went to a line. “You think I liked telling her no? You think I want her hands raw?” He shook his head once.

“But she doesn’t have the luxury we had. No fifty years to foul it up and try again. The Pale One’s close. She doesn’t get to coast.”

Tomas tipped his mug toward the field.

“She’s not coasting. She’s drowning.”

“She’s swimming,” Remmick said quietly. “You just don’t like the current.”

Eoin snorted. “You sound like a feckin’ proverb.”

“Maybe I am.” Remmick lifted his mug, swallowed, then set it down.

“I’ll ease when she learns where the line sits. Not before.”

Tomas held his look a long moment, then nodded, conceding the point.

“You’re the one she’ll blame tonight.”

“I can live with that,” Remmick said. His fingers rubbed a slow circle into the rim of his cup, an old habit, like a man working a worry-stone.

“Better she curses me than buries someone else.”

Town worked its stubborn magic on your temper. Mauve steered you through the lanes with a hunter’s nose for needlework and gossip. You let yourself be tugged, still prickly but softening, the talk of hems and waists and what would do under a coat slowly prying your jaw unclenched.

He wasn’t there to see you thaw. He stayed with the boys, set lists in motion, watched the lines snap full in the yard and the coal in the scuttle run low. He didn’t pace. He didn’t check the lane every five minutes. He only did those things in his head.

By the time you turned back up the boreen, boots dusty, a brown-paper parcel tucked under your arm and your mouth almost smiling, he’d made sure there was hot water on and fresh bread set to rise. When you crossed the yard, his eyes found you like they always did, and the corner of his mouth gave the smallest, private lift.

“How’d the dishes do?” you asked dryly as you passed him on the stoop.

“They learned their lesson,” he said.

“Did you?”

You rolled your eyes.

“Maybe.”

“Good.” He tapped the parcel with one knuckle, amused.

“We’ll see if town survived you.”

“It did.” You paused, then added—reluctant but honest—

“So did I.”

“That,” he said, letting himself smile this time, “was the point.”

The yard smelled of soap and peat, the lines still heavy with sheets. You and Mauve had only just come back from town, your parcel tucked under one arm, when Remmick stretched from his seat on the stoop and dusted off his hands.

“Suppose I ought to get myself ready,” he said, half to himself.

Eoin cocked a brow. “Ready for what?”

Remmick gave him a look like it should’ve been obvious.

“My wedding.” The yard went still for half a breath, then erupted.

“Today?!” Tomas barked, near spilling his mug.

“Christ’s teeth, man, you were just sittin’ there!”

Mauve blinked, then snorted into her sleeve.

“Only you would treat a wedding like sharpenin’ a blade—something you squeeze in before supper.”

Eoin pushed off the fence, grinning wide.

“Not a chance. No one’s marchin’ down an aisle ‘til you’ve had a proper send-off.”

Remmick’s brows drew. “Send-off?”

“A bachelor night,” Tomas declared, already on his feet.

“Drinks, dice, songs bad enough to wake the dead. It’s tradition.”

Mauve’s mouth quirked.

“And a bachelorette night, so she doesn’t have to listen to your lot snoring into your cups.”

All eyes swung to you. Heat climbed your neck, but you couldn’t stop the laugh.

“You mean postpone?”

“A day,” Eoin said firmly. “That’s all. One day.”

Remmick’s gaze slid to you, brow arched, waiting for your verdict. You tipped your parcel under your arm and met his eyes.

“One day.”

His mouth curved slow, a grin he didn’t bother to hide.

That was all it took. Plans caught like kindling—Mauve naming which girls to pull in, Eoin rattling off what casks could be tapped, Tomas swearing he’d win every coin at dice before sunrise. And for the first time in weeks, laughter carried across the yard without a shadow on its heels. The fire in the back field roared high, sparks sailing into the black. Casks were cracked, dice rattled in mugs, and laughter came thick enough to shake the hedgerows.

The air stank of peat smoke, spilled beer, and victory curses.

“Snake eyes again!” Tomas whooped, slapping the ground hard enough to knock over his own cup.

“You’re cursed, Ciarán, I swear it!” Seamus bellowed with laughter, nearly choking on his drink.

“If anyone’s cursed, it’s you for sittin’ next to him all night, Tomas. Should’ve moved your arse when you had the chance.”

“Cursed for playin’ with cheats,” Ciarán shot back, though he was grinning as he tossed his lost coin into the pile.

Eoin leaned against a barrel, already three cups deeper than he should’ve been, his song breaking half the words as he roared them skyward.

Remmick sat back from the blaze, boots stretched out, a mug in one hand, dice in the other. His hair had come loose, eyes gleaming in the firelight, and though he wasn’t shouting like the rest, the grin hadn’t left his face all night.

By the time the moon hauled itself high, the pile of coins was scattered, the dice abandoned, and the lot of them lay sprawled in the grass, fire burned down to embers. Eoin tipped his head back, pointing at the stars with a sloppy finger.

“See that one? That’s your weddin’ star, Remmick. Bright as I’ve ever seen it.”

Tomas snorted. “That’s the drink talkin’.”

He rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand, gaze narrowing on Remmick.

“You really ready for this, mate? Takin’ a wife, carryin’ her into all this bloody madness?”

The others went quiet, the question hanging heavier than the drink. Remmick stared up at the stars a long while before he spoke. His voice was lower than the fire crackle, but steady.

“I am. More than ready.”

Ciarán shifted, watching him close.

“And why’s that, then?”

Remmick’s mouth curved, softer than it had been all night. His thumb rolled the edge of his mug slow.

“Because she’s the first thing that’s made me believe I could have somethin’ more than war. I’ve fought half my life just to keep breathin’. Thought that was all I’d ever do.”

He paused, eyes catching the fire’s last glow.

“But she looks at me like I’m more than what the fight made of me. And I’ll spend the rest of it provin’ her right.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was full, thick with something heavier than drink. Tomas let out a long breath, Eoin hummed low in his throat, Ciarán nodded once, slow.

“Then it’s settled,” Tomas said finally, lifting his mug though it was half-empty.

“To Remmick—and the poor lass mad enough to marry him.”

They drank, laughter spilling again, but softer now, threaded with the weight of what had been said. By the time the fire collapsed into ash, they were all stretched out under the stars, boots tangled, mugs forgotten. The night held them in its quiet, and for once—even in the shadow of war—it felt like enough.

The farmhouse kitchen was warm with firelight, mugs clinking, laughter spilling loud enough to rattle the shutters. The women had claimed the night for their own—bread pulled hot from the oven, cider sloshed into cups, music humming from a fiddle one of the younger girls had pulled down.

You sat at the big table, cheeks warm, head a little light from drink. For the first time in days, the air didn’t feel so heavy. Mauve lounged across from you, feet kicked up on the bench beside her, bow leaned against the wall just in case. One of the girls was teasing you about the wedding night, crude enough to have you choking on your drink. Another piped up about dresses, then about flowers, then about babies—and soon the table was a roar of voices, overlapping, gleeful, relentless. You were laughing so hard your ribs hurt when Mauve cut through it, voice dry as always.

“You lot’ll scare her off before the vows are said.”

That only made them laugh harder, but slowly the noise shifted—people drifting to the hearth, to the cider casks, to the fiddle. The chatter blurred into a softer hum. It left you and Mauve across from each other, the candle guttering low between. Mauve tipped her mug, eyes on you, her mouth tugged in that small, hard-to-read way of hers.

“You’re doin’ good.”

You blinked. “What?”

She shrugged, like it was nothing.

“Thrown into all this—blood, war, him. Most would’ve broken in half. But you haven’t. Not once. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Your throat tightened, the warmth in your chest different from the cider now. Mauve went on, her voice lower, steadier.

“For as hard as Remmick can be—and he’s hard, stubborn as stone—I’ve never seen him like this. Never seen him laugh the way he does with you, or look like he’s got somethin’ worth keepin’ hold of. You’ve made him happy. Can’t say that about anyone else in a very long time.”

The words landed heavy, cutting through the noise of the room, straight to the bone. You swallowed, trying to find something to say, but Mauve only tipped her mug again, as if she hadn’t just shifted the ground beneath your feet.

“Don’t let him scare you off,” she added after a beat, dry again, but softer at the edges.

“He’ll need you more than he knows.”

The music picked up again by the hearth, laughter carrying, and the moment folded back into the din. But the weight of it stayed with you—Mauve’s steady gaze, her rare words of faith—burning brighter than the cider in your chest.

Later, when the noise of the kitchen dulled to embers and even Mauve had slipped off with a half-smile and a clap on your shoulder, you climbed the stairs alone. The farmhouse felt hollow in the hush, floorboards groaning under your bare feet, the smell of smoke and cider clinging to your hair. The bedroom was dark, the quilt cool when you slid beneath it.

You lay on your back staring at the ceiling beams, every thought louder than the silence. Mauve’s words, the laughter, the fear that always sat heavy beneath it all—twisting together until your chest ached. You rolled to your side, reaching across the bed out of habit. Empty sheets met your hand. No warmth, no steady heartbeat. Remmick wasn’t there.

You closed your eyes and tried to breathe, tried to let the quiet wrap you, but the stillness only made the hollow sharper. Sleep wouldn’t come, not with your head so full, not with the space beside you so bare.

Outside, faint under the walls, you could almost hear them—muffled voices, a rough laugh, the kind of low singing that only came when the whiskey had run too deep. You pictured him there with the others, firelight in his hair, head tipped back under the stars. And though part of you ached for him beside you, another part softened at the thought. At least he wasn’t alone in the dark. You curled tighter under the quilt, eyes burning, and let the night hold you awake until exhaustion finally dragged you under.

Chapter Text

The sun rose slow, golden and indifferent to the hangovers sprawled in the grass.

Ciarán groaned first, rubbing sleep from his eyes before grunting and swinging his boot into Eoin’s ribs.

Eoin jolted with a yelp. “Christ almighty—what’d I do now?”

“Snored like a dying boar,” Ciarán muttered, pushing upright with a wince.

Tomas rolled over with a groan, burying his face in his arm. “We’re all cursed.”

But Remmick was already gone.

By the time the others were blinking blearily at the dawn, he was in the washhouse—water cold on his skin, towel slung low around his hips as he stood before the cracked mirror. A fresh shirt hung on the hook. His best trousers folded on the chair. His hair was brushed back, neat and solemn.

He moved quiet. Steady. Ritual in every motion.

He wouldn’t see her until the moment.

The house buzzed like a hive. Someone had started music low in the corner. Hairbrushes clinked against basins. Voices rose and fell with nervous laughter, clutched mugs of tea, half-finished braids.

Your dress hung from the beam above the bed—satin, ivory, and shimmering faintly in the light. Off-the-shoulder sleeves, a slit that ran high, higher than you’d dared until Mauve smirked and said, “Let him sweat.”

Your hair was still down, loose waves over your shoulders, but the girls had woven two braids back, joining them into a flower knot pinned with tiny wildflowers—soft blues, purples, sprigs of baby’s breath.

Your hands trembled only once, when you stood before the mirror. Mauve was behind you in an instant, resting her calloused fingers over yours. “You look like someone a man would die for.”

You smiled, but your breath caught anyway. “He already has.”

Out on the cliffs, the boys worked fast, dragging stumps and weathered planks to line the field, setting them in makeshift rows. Wildflowers were stuffed into cracked jars and tied with twine. An old woven rug—deep reds and worn gold—was unrolled with reverence at the cliff’s edge, the sea stretching beyond it in endless blue.

Seamus stood near the front, thumbing through his old leather book, mumbling to himself as he practiced. Ciarán straightened the planks for the hundredth time. Eoin tripped over one and swore.
Remmick stood apart, watching it all. Dressed in black. Shirt pressed. Collar open just enough. His hair brushed back, the wind tugging strands loose already. Ciarán clapped him on the back once, no words needed.

Then the hush fell. A breeze kicked up. The waves crashed louder.

They were ready.

Mauve met you at the door. Her face had softened. She offered her arm.

“You ready, girl?”

You nodded. “I think so.”

“Good,” she said, eyes flicking to the sea. “Because he’s out there lookin’ like he’s gonna fall to his knees when he sees you.”

You laughed, nerves threading through it—but she wasn’t wrong.

The path to the cliffside was lined in wildflowers. Your boots made no sound against the grass. The breeze caught your dress just right. And when you rounded the bend—

You saw him.

Remmick.

His shoulders went still the moment you appeared. Ciarán whispered something, but he didn’t respond. His eyes were locked on you.

He looked like a man undone. Like the world could have ended behind him and he wouldn’t notice.

You stepped closer, Mauve at your side, heart beating wild as the sea. The other girls were there too, soft murmurs and hands reaching to take your bouquet.

Remmick swallowed hard. His hands were shaking.

And for the first time, he looked like he might cry.

Thirty or forty friends sat quiet in the rows—war-forged allies, bonded through blood and fire, a makeshift family drawn from the ruin of a harder world. No one spoke. Just silence, reverence, and the golden morning light.

Seamus began to speak, voice low, sure, the words ancient and new all at once. A handfasting cord waited in his hands. The waves crashed behind him like a heartbeat.

You and Remmick faced each other, close enough to feel the warmth, the tension, the ache of everything you’d both survived.

The wind caught your hair, the scent of wildflowers rising between you. And Remmick leaned forward, so quiet only you could hear it:

“You’re the only peace I’ve ever known.”

Seamus stepped forward, the braided cord looped over his hands. His voice held the gravity of old things.

“These are the hands that will hold your future. The hands that have bled, fought, and healed beside you. As this cord binds them together, so too will your lives be bound—in storm and stillness, in shadow and light.”

He nodded.

“Take each other’s hands.”

You reached out. Remmick’s palms were warm, a little rough from the life he’d lived—but steady. So steady.

Seamus looped the cord once.

“Will you walk together in the days to come, through what is known and what is unknown?”

You both answered, at once.

“I will.”

He looped again.

“Will you speak truth, even when it trembles in your throat?”

“I will.”

The last loop fell into place.

“Then let this bond be made, not of rope or vow alone, but of choice—made daily, fiercely, freely, with open hands.”

He stepped back.

“Speak what you carry in your hearts.”

She took a breath and turned to face him, hands shaking slightly as they joined with his.

Your voice wavered at first, then steadied.

“I choose you. Not just today. Always.

You’ve seen me — even when I couldn’t stand myself. And you stayed.

You are my calm. My strength. The one I trust with every part of me.

I promise to stand beside you. To carry what’s heavy, to love what’s wild, and to hold you when the world gets loud.

You’re my home. And I’m yours.”

Remmick’s throat bobbed. His fingers curled a little tighter around yours, like he was grounding himself.

He spoke without flinching, gaze locked on you.

“I never wanted forever. Not until you.

You saw the worst of me — and didn’t run. You held the line when I couldn’t. You gave me something to fight for.

So here’s my vow: I’ll protect you. I’ll guide you. And I’ll never let you walk alone.

You’re mine. And I’m yours. That’s it.”

He tied the final knot.

The wind rose, catching the flowers, the salt, the sunlight. The sea shimmered behind you.

Your hands stayed clasped, his thumbs brushing softly over your knuckles, a tremor running through him as though the earth itself had shifted beneath his feet.

He stepped in.

Before anyone could blink, Remmick’s palms framed your face—rough and steady, warm enough to burn. His forehead dropped to yours, a sound catching low in his chest—half a breath, half a surrender.

Then he kissed you.

Hard. Fierce. Not careless—but starving.

Like every night he’d fought to live had been for this.

Like something ancient had finally come full circle.

The crowd blurred into nothing but a shimmer. Even the ocean held its breath. And for one heartbeat, the world belonged only to the two of you.

When he finally drew back, his voice was raw velvet:

“Mine now. All the way through.”

Seamus cleared his throat behind you, but his mouth was tugged into a smile. The gathered friends—your forged family—were already on their feet. Applause crashed like a wave. Cheering, whistling, boots thudding against packed earth and planks.

Someone fired off a shot—ceremonial, loud and joyful—and from the treeline came the music: fiddles, pipes, drums struck like heartbeats. Ciarán whooped so loud it startled the flower girl. Eoin nearly twisted his ankle trying to leap. Tomas tore open his waistcoat and declared war on sobriety.

And Remmick—

He never let go of your hand.

They carried the celebration down to the field beside the farmhouse. Trestle tables stretched beneath streamers and garlands. Wildflowers overflowed from clay jars, woven through linen. Meat smoked on open pits—venison, pork shoulder, chickens stuffed with citrus and rosemary. Fresh bread steamed in baskets, butter melting on split crusts.

Casks were cracked open like treasure—amber ale, red wine that bit the tongue, spiced mead that hit like sunlight behind the ribs.

Remmick sat with you at the long center table, his hand never leaving your side—your waist, your thigh, the dip of your back. He barely touched his food. Just watched you like a man who had stumbled into something holy.

The firelight caught your skin. Your braid had come loose. And every time you laughed, it punched the air from his lungs.

It didn’t stay soft for long.

Eoin stood on a barrel and bellowed a drinking song so obscene Seamus dropped his mug mid-laugh. Ciarán pulled a girl into a reel and promptly dropped her; she shoved him into the grass and danced without him.

You were dragged from the table by Mauve and the other women—spinning, laughing, your skirt catching flame-light as your boots hit the dirt. Hair unspooling, voice high and wild.

Remmick was dragged next—by force—into the ring around the fire.

At first, he resisted. Stoic. Reluctant.

But then you looked at him.

Smiling. Breathless. Bright as a midsummer storm.

And that did it.

He gave in.

Remmick danced. Powerfully. Like a bear stumbling into joy. It didn’t matter—cheers rose, boots stomped, fiddles screamed. He swept toward you, caught your wrist, spun you into him once, twice—
Until you were breathless and laughing into his chest, your hand against his heart.

The firelight danced across his shoulders.

And he couldn’t stop smiling.

Long after the feast was picked clean, after the casks had gone dry and the music slowed to soft ballads, you and Remmick stood by the fire’s embers.

His arms circled your waist. His chin rested at your shoulder. The scent of woodsmoke clung to your hair.

He didn’t speak much—just hummed something low, wordless. A song with no melody. A vow with no end.

And when he finally murmured—

“Come, a ghrá. Let me carry my wife home.”

—you let him.

The path to the sea cottage was lit only by the moon. Laughter and music faded behind you, swallowed by cliffs and dark. He carried you the last stretch—not for show, but instinct. As if the weight of you in his arms made everything real.

The cottage waited on the bluff, quiet and warm.

Stone walls. Moss-soft roof. A chimney curling smoke. A fire already lit, golden and flickering. Furs by the hearth. A bottle of whiskey. Blankets stacked high.

No voices. No footsteps.

Just the two of you. Alone.

He didn’t set you down right away.

Just stood in the doorway, holding you close, breath deep and quiet like he had to memorize this—your warmth, the hush, the shape of your joy.

And then, low against your temple—

“Home. You’re home now.”

He carried you in.

And shut the door on the rest of the world.

The door shut softly behind you.

Neither of you spoke.

The only sound was the sea wind rustling the thatch above, and the quiet crackle of the fire already glowing in the hearth. The cottage was warm and golden and waiting—stone walls catching the light, the scent of rosemary and smoke settling low. Blankets were folded near the foot of the bed. A bottle of whiskey sat unopened beside two cups.

But he didn’t move toward any of it.

Remmick turned and found you with his eyes—slow, steady—and reached.

His fingers slipped through yours. No urgency. No demand. Just gravity.

He pulled you toward the fire.

There, on the thick fur rug, with the flames casting light across the floorboards, he stopped. Turned to face you fully.

Still, no words.

Only the way his gaze traced over your face, like he couldn’t quite believe it was real.

His hand came to your cheek. The barest touch. Thumb brushing once, reverent. Then he kissed you—soft and slow—mouth warm, his other hand already moving to the buttons at his collar.

You felt him undress not with haste but care. The way a man unburdens himself in silence. Boots pulled off and set aside. Shirt peeled down his arms, revealing familiar lines, the slope of his collarbone catching firelight. He let it fall, never looking away from you.

Then he reached for you.

Not roughly.

His fingers moved to the ties of your dress, easing them loose with a practiced patience. The satin slipped from your shoulders like water, sighing down your body in a single elegant hush. He watched it fall—watched you emerge from it—and something in him stilled completely.

You stepped out of the fabric, bare beneath.

Remmick caught the dress before it could crumple. Folded it once, almost ritualistically, and laid it aside.

Then he stood there, bare-chested before the firelight, and looked at you like a man witnessing something holy.

His eyes never left yours.

Not when he stepped forward. Not when his hands found your hips. Not even when he laid you back against the fur, guiding you down until you were beneath him—bare skin against soft wool, firelight gilding every line of your body like gold leaf brushed by hand.

He followed you down.

Settled above you.

One arm braced beside your head. The other gliding down your thigh, the pressure warm, grounding. His kiss found your mouth again—deeper this time. Slower. Lingering. A vow retold without words.

His tongue coaxed yours, tasting you like he’d waited lifetimes.

Then he moved.

His lips slipped to your jaw.

To your throat.

He kissed lower, slow and deliberate. Down the center of your chest. The valley between your breasts. The soft curve of your stomach. Each press of his mouth felt like something ancient—like he wasn’t just touching you, he was offering something of himself with every breath.

You shivered.

Not from the cold, but from the way he looked at you—like he was reading scripture written in skin and sinew.

But desire had started to pull taut inside you, winding tighter with every passing second. You arched toward him, hips lifting in search of anything—friction, contact, release. You could feel your heartbeat between your legs. Feel the way your body begged.

He caught your hips in his hands and held you down.

Firm.

Unyielding.

His voice dropped to a low, possessive growl against your thigh.

“Hold still.”

You tried.

God, you tried.

But his tongue found your cunt, slowly and devastating. A single stroke. Then another. The kind of precision that made your fingers dig into the rug. Your mouth fell open, no sound coming out at first.

Just air. Heat. Lightning.

He worked you like he knew what he was doing. Like he’d memorized the angles and pressure of your pleasure and meant to drag it out for as long as you could bear. Every flick of his tongue was torment. Every kiss lower felt like the edge of something sacred unraveling.

You squirmed again, hips twitching.

He stopped. Just for a breath.

Looked up at you from between your thighs, eyes dark with control.

“I said—still.”

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t hurry.

Didn’t let you escape.

His tongue moved with slow, merciless devotion—lick, suck, pause—again and again until you could barely breathe. Then, without breaking rhythm, his hand slid higher, the pads of his fingers tracing along your inner thigh until they found you. Two fingers eased inside, slow and deep, curling in a way that made your back arch off the rug.

He growled low at the feel of you tightening around him—dark pleasure curling through his voice like smoke.

“Gods above…” he murmured against your skin. “You’re already trembling.”

He curled his fingers again, pressing against that spot until your hips tried to lift, a moan catching at the back of your throat. His gaze lifted, pinning you there, drinking in every detail: the way your chest rose and fell, the sheen of sweat at your collarbone, the flush creeping up your neck. All of it for him.

You were desperate now. The ache building higher, tighter, until even your thoughts started to scatter. The wheels in your head turned, fast, hunting for some kind of escape. And then—soft, sweet, your best innocent voice:

“Please… let me on top. Just for a moment. I want to feel you…”

His head tilted. A flicker of amusement in the shadows of his eyes. His thumb stroked once at your hip, still keeping you pinned. He studied you for a heartbeat longer, the edge of a smile ghosting at his mouth.

Then he relented.

Just barely.

“It is your wedding night,” he said low, rough, but with a kind of softness threaded through. “I’ll let you try.”

He eased his fingers from you, slow, watching the way you clenched around nothing. Then his hands slid up your sides, steadying you as he shifted, helping you straddle him.

“Show me, then,” he murmured, voice like a dare and a promise all at once.

You swung a leg over him, palms braced on his chest as you straddled him. He was already thick and hot against you, the head of him nudging at your entrance. A shudder ran through him when you lowered yourself slow—inch by inch—until he filled you.

For a heartbeat you just stayed there, savoring it, the weight, the heat. Then you started to move. Not the way he expected. Not fast. Not hungry. But slow, deliberate, almost lazy—lifting until only the tip of him stayed inside you before sliding back down, unhurried, dragging a hiss from deep in his chest.

Again.

Up. Almost off.

Down. Slow enough to make him curse.

He snarled, fingers flexing hard on your hips. “You think you’re clever?” His voice was rough, fraying at the edges. “Teasing me—”

You laughed, soft and wicked, leaning down until your hair brushed his jaw. “Maybe.”

Your palm cradled his face, thumb stroking his cheekbone. You kissed him once, hard enough to taste his groan, then let your mouth wander—down his jaw, to the line of his throat. Kitten light licks against his pulse, each one slower than the last.

Then, without warning, your fangs slid home.

He growled—low and dangerous—the sound rattling in his chest as his cock twitched inside you. His grip on your hips went bruising, his head tipping back. You rolled your hips slow as you drank, his pulse heavy against your tongue, the taste of him wild and electric.

When you’d had enough, you licked the punctures closed, sealing them with the same slow reverence you’d begun with. Then you sat back up, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, eyes dark and glinting in the firelight.

He looked up at you like a man on the edge of losing everything—hungry, wrecked, and still trying to hold the reins.

He sat up with you still straddling him, chest rising like a beast barely restrained. His eyes were glowing now—dark and hungry and reverent all at once.

Before you could shift again, he moved.

One fist tangled in the back of your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp as your head tipped back. The other arm wrapped firm around your waist, bracing you to him, your breasts pressed flush to his chest. You were panting, your lips still stained from his blood.

His mouth hovered at your neck, breath hot against your skin.

“You think you can just take what you want now,” he growled, voice like gravel. “Not even ask?”

You whimpered, the sound involuntary.

“Mine,” he said, darker now—then sank his fangs in deep.

Your breath caught on a cry. His grip crushed you to him as he drank, slow at first, then deeper. Hungrier. Your blood—your bond—was all he could taste. All he wanted. His tongue pressed to the wounds between pulls, savoring every pulse, every offering of you.

You clung to him—arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, nails dragging down his back, hips shifting as heat bloomed wild again between your thighs.
When he finally pulled back, he didn’t speak.

His mouth crashed into yours—urgent, claiming, blood mixing on your tongues. His kiss was rougher now, not cruel, but wild. Like you’d flipped some switch in him and the last tether had snapped.

He flipped you effortlessly, pinning you back against the rug.

His hand caught your wrists, raising them over your head, holding them there with one arm while the other anchored your thigh around his waist.

“You’re mine,” he growled at your mouth, voice low and wrecked. “Say it.”

You nodded, breathless. “I’m yours.”

He didn’t wait.

His eyes burned.

He growled low and dangerous—and then he thrust inside you in one brutal, claiming motion, burying to the hilt.

You cried out, spine bowing like a drawn string.

He didn’t give you time to adjust.

He moved with the force of every vow he’d ever sworn. Every broken bone and blood-won inch of his life driving into you, again and again, until the only thing you knew was the rhythm of him claiming you—deep and relentless.

“Mine,” he snarled, each thrust punctuating the word. “Mine. Mine. Mine.”

His palm slid from your wrists to your throat—not squeezing, just holding, grounding you, letting you feel the strength in his grip, the control he wielded like a storm just barely contained.

You moaned for him, hips arching up despite yourself. His hand left your throat and caught your jaw instead, forcing your eyes to stay locked on his.

“Don’t you dare look away,” he growled. “You let me watch you break.”

And then he angled his hips—just right—and the breath shattered out of you.

You came with a cry, spasming around him, hands scrabbling uselessly at his shoulders, your whole body trembling as he kept moving, slow and deliberate now, dragging it out.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t give you a second to come down before he built you back up, rolling his hips deeper, slower, hitting that spot inside you that made your vision go white.

“You think I’m done with you?” he murmured against your ear, dark and reverent. “Not yet. Not until I ruin you for anything else.”

You whimpered. Pleaded.

And still, he didn’t stop.

He fucked you through the next wave, eyes locked on yours the entire time, watching the way your mouth fell open, how your body convulsed again—this one sharper, more desperate, broken right out of your lungs.

You sobbed his name, and it only made him groan—low and filthy and wrecked with need.

But he wasn’t done. Not yet.

He pulled out just enough to make you whine, then slammed back in—hard enough to make the world tilt.

Your thighs were shaking. Your voice was gone. You were nothing but sensation, raw and gasping and split wide for him.

He pinned your wrists again, folding over you like a shadow, like armor, like a man made for nothing but this moment.

And when your third orgasm crashed through you—violent and wild and unstoppable—he finally let himself go.

Remmick let out a guttural snarl, hips jerking as he spilled inside you, deep and pulsing, his whole body bowing into yours as if he was trying to fuse with you completely. He stayed buried there, grinding through the last waves, milking every final flutter from your body until you were trembling beneath him.

Still inside you, still panting against your throat, he loosened his grip and shifted, wrapping his arms tight around your waist, pulling you up into his lap.

Not done holding you.

Not done with any of it.

“Mine,” he whispered again, forehead pressed to yours. “All the way through.”

And you were.

You were utterly, irrevocably his.

You were still trembling when he lifted his head.

The fire cast molten gold across his skin, catching in the sweat at his temple, the curve of his throat, the way his chest rose and fell against yours like he’d been through war and come out kneeling at your feet.

He didn’t say a word.

Just held you.

One hand splayed against your back, the other sliding into your hair, cradling you close as if he could shield you from the world itself.

Your limbs were limp. Boneless. Your breath still uneven. You shivered once in his arms—whether from the sweat cooling on your skin or the sheer force of what had just passed between you, you weren’t sure.

Remmick noticed instantly.

Still inside you, still holding you in his lap, he shifted just enough to reach behind him—his eyes never leaving your face. His fingers caught the edge of the thick wool blanket draped over the nearby armchair.

He pulled it down and wrapped it around you both, tucking it carefully behind your shoulders like he’d done it a thousand times before. Then he adjusted you in his lap, your cheek to his chest, his arms tight and unrelenting around you.

You could hear the sound of his heartbeat—low, steady, strong.

And beneath it… the smallest tremor in his breath. As if holding you was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

He pressed his lips to your temple.

Then your cheek.

Then the corner of your mouth.

Soft. Slow. Silent.

No hunger. No teasing. Just love.

You turned your face toward him, eyes half-lidded, lashes damp. He brushed the backs of his fingers along your jaw, then your throat—lingering just barely where his fangs had sunk in.

“Too much?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

You shook your head slowly. “Never.”

His face broke then—not with lust, but with something older, deeper, bone-deep reverence. Like you were a relic he’d unearthed from the ashes. A miracle he hadn’t dared to believe in.

“I love you,” he murmured, voice hoarse, hand rising to cup the back of your head again. “God help me, I love you so much I don’t know what to do with it.”

You nuzzled into him, hands curled between your bodies, your breath finally steadying as his settled too.

The blanket shifted as he adjusted you gently, keeping you wrapped in warmth, his chin resting on top of your head. The fire crackled beside you, low and steady, as though echoing his heartbeat.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t try to take more.

He just held you.

Like you were everything holy.

You fell asleep in his arms.

Still wrapped in the wool blanket. Still bare between his chest and the firelight. Your breath warm against his skin. The weight of your body curled trustingly into his.

He didn’t sleep.

Not for a minute.

Not even after your lashes stilled and your limbs went slack. He only held you tighter, his chin resting against your crown, as though he could keep you there—anchored, safe—by will alone.

The fire popped softly beside you. Shadows flickered over the stone walls. Outside, the sea murmured against the cliffs like a lullaby he couldn’t hear.

Remmick shifted only when your breath deepened into sleep, soft and slow.

He moved with reverence, with care. Scooping you into his arms again, arms like steel and touch like silk. Your head lolled gently against his shoulder, a sigh caught on your lips. Still asleep.

Still his.

He carried you to the bed.

The sheets were fresh, cool, turned back and waiting. He laid you there like a prayer. Tucked the blankets around you with a tenderness that didn’t belong in a world like this. His knuckles brushed your cheek before he pulled back.

You didn’t stir.

Not even when he kissed your temple. Not even when he whispered something low and ancient in a language only the dead remembered.

Then he turned away.

The fire had burned low.

He fed it carefully, log by log, the orange light catching his bare shoulders, the line of his jaw, the quiet thunder in his chest.

He poured himself a glass of whiskey. Sat in the old chair by the hearth. Didn’t drink at first.

Just stared into the flame.

And for the first time all night, he let his thoughts come.

The weight of what was coming. The war, the darkness, the enemy already pressing at the edges of their world. The impossible ache in his chest whenever he looked at her—at you—and realized he had something to lose now.

He’d survived everything because he’d had nothing left to protect.

Now?

Now he had everything.

And it terrified him.

He lifted the glass. Took a long sip. Let it burn.

But nothing burned like the love in him.

He stayed like that until the sun kissed the edges of the sky outside.

Watching the fire. Watching you sleep.

Waging war in his own heart between the man he’d been…

And the one he’d become for you.

The first light of morning spilled silver through the cottage windows, pale and slow across the stone floor.

You stirred first.

Still wrapped in warmth, in sleep, in the scent of him clinging to your skin and the blankets alike. Remmick was beside you, finally asleep—flat on his back, one arm slung over his chest, the other curled near where your body had been pressed against him.

His face was soft in sleep. Quiet. So rare, that stillness. No jaw clenched. No eyes darting beneath lids. Just breath and heat and a kind of unguardedness he never let anyone else see.

You watched him for a long time.

Then you rose without a sound.

The fire had burned down to embers. You stoked it gently, breath coaxing flame until the cottage flickered back to life—heat glowing golden against the cold stone walls.

The world outside hadn’t woken yet.

But you had.

You returned to the bed, pulling down the blankets slowly, carefully—until the last of them slipped away and you could see him in the morning light. Strong and beautiful and yours.

You dipped your head low.

Pressed the first kiss to his hip, then another, higher. Tiny kitten licks followed—slow, savoring. Tracing the planes of him with your mouth like a secret, unspoken vow.
He didn’t stir.

Not at first.

But then you took him into your mouth—soft, warm, patient. His body didn’t need waking; it responded on instinct. He hardened slowly, pulsing under your tongue, and you reveled in it. Every twitch, every shift in his breathing. Every inch you coaxed to life with just your lips.

Still, he didn’t open his eyes.

Not until your mouth took him deeper.

Then—

A sharp inhale. A groan dragged from his throat like it surprised even him. His hand found your hair, tangling instinctively, fingers gripping tight—but not harsh. Just grounding. Just needing.

“Christ,” he rasped, voice thick with sleep. His eyes blinked open, dazed and shining. “What are you doing to me, Mo ghrá…”

He looked wrecked. Softened and undone and completely at your mercy.

And he didn’t stop you.

Didn’t want to.

He just watched, breathing hard, mouth parted, as you kept suckling slow, reverent, like you could worship him back to life.

You took your time.

Lowering your mouth inch by inch until the tip nudged the back of your throat, then deeper still—until you swallowed him whole. Every flutter of your throat around him drew a sound from his chest, rough and strangled.

“Fuck—” he breathed, like it had been ripped from him. “Jesus, sweetheart—”

You didn’t stop.

In and out, slow and steady, tongue curling as your hand kept what your lips couldn’t reach. You loved the way he twitched for you. The way his thighs tensed beneath your palms. The way his hips bucked without meaning to, instinct dragging him deeper into your mouth.

He tried. God, he tried to stay still.

To be good for you.

But restraint was slipping from him like sand through open fingers.

His hand curled harder into your hair, the other gripping the sheets in a fist. His eyes had darkened, storm-blown and wild, but wide with wonder too—like he couldn’t believe what he was feeling. What you were doing to him. What you wanted to do to him.

“You’re gonna… fuck—” he grit out, voice hoarse, “you’re gonna ruin me, sweet girl.”

But even as he said it, his hips rolled again, helpless.

And you didn’t stop.

You welcomed it.

The twitch of his cock in your throat. The low, desperate sounds he made. The tension building in his belly, in his thighs, in the hand tightening in your hair like he needed you just to hold onto this world.

He was yours.

Coming undone in your mouth.

And you weren’t letting him go.

You picked up the pace.

The soft glide of your mouth turned relentless—each stroke deeper, wetter, your tongue dragging with purpose. Your cheeks hollowed. Your throat flexed. You took him again and again until your nose brushed the flat of his stomach, his fist a tangle in your hair, his jaw clenched like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

“Jesus—fuck, I—”

His voice cracked. His whole body arched like he could flee the edge of it, like he was trying to warn you.

“I can’t—”

But you didn’t stop.

You took him, all the way down.

Your throat clenched around him just as he broke—his cry hoarse and strangled as he spilled deep inside you. Hot, pulsing, endless.

You swallowed every drop.

Let him ride the waves of it, hips twitching, thighs trembling, his hand tight in your hair as though he didn’t know what was real anymore—only that it was you.

And when he finally collapsed back, breath stuttering, heart racing beneath his ribs—

You let him go with one last slow drag of your tongue, lips wet and swollen.

Then you sat up.

Parted your lips. Stuck out your tongue.

Showed him.

Not a trace left.

Only your eyes, shining with mischief and heat, watching the way he looked at you like you were a goddess and he was ruined for good.

Remmick didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

His chest rose and fell like he’d just survived drowning. His eyes locked on you, stunned, reverent, completely lost.

“Christ,” he rasped, voice shredded. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He didn’t stay stunned for long.

One second you were sitting there, flushed and proud and glistening with satisfaction—

And the next, Remmick had a hand around your wrist, pulling you down like he couldn’t survive one more breath of distance.

His mouth found yours like he’d been starved for it—like he’d been crawling through some sun-blasted desert for forty years, and you were the spring. He kissed you like a man who had just

remembered how to live—like every second his lips weren’t on yours was a second wasted.

It wasn’t slow.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was everything.

His hand cradled the back of your skull, holding you there while he drank you in—his tongue tangling with yours, his teeth catching on your lower lip like he wanted to claim even that. The heat of him surged back full-force, his body waking under you again with raw, wild hunger.

You were the beginning and the end of him.

And he let it show.

He didn’t let you go.

The kiss only broke so he could breathe you in — nose brushing yours, a low sound rumbling in his chest like a prayer. His palms slid down your sides, warm and steady, tracing the curve of your waist, the dip of your hips until he was cupping you there, coaxing you closer.

When he entered you it wasn’t a rush, it wasn’t a claim — it was a slow, deep press, like he was fitting himself back where he belonged. His forehead fell to yours, his eyes shut, and a shaky breath escaped him against your lips.

You moved together without thinking, without speaking — your hips finding his rhythm, his hands guiding yours until your fingers laced. His thumbs stroked the back of your knuckles, a grounding touch even as each roll of his hips sent you higher. He kissed you again, softer now, tasting, sighing, murmuring your name like it was a litany.

Every time you shifted beneath him he adjusted, letting you take what you needed, giving back more. The heat built between you slow and sweet, the kind that burned and healed at the same time. His breath was uneven, your nails scored his shoulders, but neither of you rushed — you were both lost in the quiet ache of it, the pleasure and the weight of finally being alone, together, whole.

The room was nothing but firelight and the sound of your bodies, the low hitch of his voice in your ear, the small sounds you made under him. It was still intense, but softer now — like worship in motion, each thrust a wordless promise.

He buried his face against your neck, breathing you in as you shivered under him. “God,” he whispered against your skin, the word broken, “you’re everything.”

And he moved with you again, slow and deep, until you were both trembling on the edge — until there was no you and him, just the long, unbroken shudder of release and the heat of your breaths tangled in the firelight.

You were still catching your breath when he pulled you up toward him, arms wrapping tight around your waist. He kissed you again — soft and open-mouthed, lazy and lingering, like he couldn’t get enough of your taste.

When he finally pulled back, lips still parted, cheeks flushed, he gave you the dopiest, most wrecked smile you’d ever seen from him. His voice was low, still gravelled from sleep and love and everything in between.

“Well,” he rasped, grin lopsided, “good morning to you too.”

You laughed, your whole face lighting up, the sound tumbling out of you before you could stop it — bright and unguarded and real.

He looked at you like it was his favorite sound in the world.

And for a long moment, all either of you did was smile.

You nuzzled into his chest, fingers tracing lazy circles along his ribs, both of you still half-draped in blankets, the fire whispering behind you.

“What time do we need to head back?” you murmured, voice hushed against his skin.

Remmick’s hand skimmed down your back, settling at your hip. He shook his head slowly. “We don’t,” he said. “Not today.”

You lifted your head just enough to look at him.

He smiled — soft, certain. “Seamus said we could have the whole day. One day that’s just ours.”

A slow grin spread across your face.

You dressed slow, helping each other with tangled laces and stolen kisses. Then you were out the door, boots on, laughter trailing through the air as you wandered past the edges of the cliffside and down into the heather-covered hills.

You picked wild blackberries. He let you smear them on his lips before kissing them clean. He caught fish in the stream with quiet patience, you watched with your knees in the moss, pretending not to be impressed.

You hiked up toward the stone ridge above the cove, where the wind whipped through your hair and the sea sang below. He carried you part of the way when your legs gave out from laughing.
No war. No plans. No titles.

Just two people — newly wed, impossibly in love, the whole world held at bay for a few stolen hours.

Back in the cottage, you cooked together in the little stone kitchen.

Remmick chopped herbs while you stirred the pot, sneaking bites off his plate and swatting his wrist when he did the same. You poured wine into chipped mugs. He dusted flour off your cheek with his knuckle.

When the meal was done — roast fish, bread crisped in butter, wild root vegetables roasted golden — you ate barefoot in front of the fire, shoulders touching, knees knocking, the flicker of candlelight dancing across the beams overhead.

The silence came slowly. Not uncomfortable — just… heavier.

Remmick was stretched beside you on the rug, one hand behind his head, the other lazily tracing shapes over your knee. You sat cross-legged beside him, the wine half-forgotten, eyes on the fire.

Tomorrow, you’d go back.

Back to the farmhouse. Back to the plans. The maps. The people who needed you both.

You swallowed.

He noticed.

Remmick sat up, sliding an arm around your waist. “It doesn’t end here,” he said quietly, pressing a kiss just behind your ear. “This was real. And we’ll have more. I promise you that.”

You nodded, but your throat still tightened.

Because you knew what waited. And so did he.

But for tonight… you were still here.

Still warm. Still together.

Still home.

Chapter Text

The morning was soft with mist, low fog curling at the edges of the path as the two of you walked hand in hand, back toward the farmhouse. Neither of you spoke. Not out of tension — but out of reverence. The stillness between you was warm. Intimate. Like the breath held just before a storm.

Your fingers stayed laced. His thumb brushed yours every so often.

When the house came into view, the scent of woodsmoke and bread reached you first. The front door was already open, voices drifting out — low, urgent, overlapping. A meeting had started without you.

Remmick gave your hand one last squeeze before stepping ahead and pushing open the door.

Inside, the long table was crowded. Ciarán was leaned forward over a crudely sketched map. Tomas stood at the hearth, arms crossed. Eoin was elbow-deep in a plate of eggs and sausage, but still managing to argue between bites. Mauve perched on the bench, hair damp, sharpening a blade that didn’t yet need it.

Seamus looked up as you entered, relief in his eyes. “Ah. Good. We need everyone.”

Remmick nodded and dropped into a seat beside Ciarán without another word.

You sat down more slowly, blinking as the conversation resumed around you. Bowls of food were passed — thick slices of bread, fried potatoes, smoked meat — but it all felt distant as you listened.

“We can’t just assume he’ll follow the same pattern,” Tomas was saying. “He’s more unpredictable now. Desperate.”

Ciarán tapped the map. “We don’t need predictable. Just movement. We need him moving toward the circle. That’s the only place we have a chance of binding him.”

Eoin nodded. “We get him close, the stones’ll do the rest. But how the hell do we get him there without half of us dead first?”

The scrape of your fork on the plate startled even you.

You’d started eating without realizing it — tearing bread, chewing, swallowing. Fuel. Your body was preparing itself for something your mind hadn’t caught up to.

You cleared your throat and spoke before you could talk yourself out of it.

“I know I’ve only been doing this for two seconds compared to the rest of you…”

That got their attention.

You felt Remmick go still beside you.

“…but what if you used me?”

The room froze.

You pushed on. “He wants Remmick. But he knows what I am to Remmick. That I matter. If I wait near the cliffs, where he can see me—maybe he chases. I run. Lead him toward the circle. We set others along the path to slow him down.”

Silence. Then—

Ciarán leaned forward. “That’s… actually a good idea.”

“No,” Remmick snapped.

Tomas raised a brow. “It could work.”

“I said no.” Remmick’s voice was low, hard.

You turned toward him, heat rising in your chest. “I’m not going to sit back and hide while everyone else fights.”

“You’re not bait,” he growled.

“No,” you said calmly, “I’m not. I’m a weapon. You trained me to be one.”

Ciarán, Mauve, even Seamus — all nodded in slow agreement.

“She’s right,” Mauve murmured. “We use what we’ve got.”

Remmick looked around the table, jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle ticking.

“Fine,” he said, voice clipped and sharp.

Then he shoved back from the table, the bench scraping hard against the floor. He didn’t yell. Didn’t slam the door. Just walked out, quiet and burning, shutting it softly behind him.

The air he left behind felt colder.

He didn’t stop.

Boots cutting through dew-wet grass, fists clenched at his sides, Remmick stormed across the yard, past the barn, heading for the open field beyond.

You followed, your breath catching in your throat. “Remmick, wait—”

He didn’t.

“Remmick.”

Still nothing.

You quickened your pace, catching up just as he reached the edge of the field. The grass swayed in the breeze, waist-high in places, the early morning light spilling across his back like gold on steel.

You reached out—but didn’t touch him.

Just stood close enough that he could feel your presence.

“Remmick,” you said again, softly now. Right behind him.

That’s when he turned.

His face was thunderclouds.

“You want to die that badly?” he snapped. “Is that it?”

The words hit like a slap.

You blinked, stunned—but didn’t back down.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” he went on, voice rising. “Throwing yourself in front of him like a fucking offering—like that’s going to fix any of this? You want to play brave, but you don’t know him like I do.”

“I know what he’s capable of,” you shot back. “I saw what he did to you. I’ve seen what he left behind.”

“You think I’m scared for me?” Remmick growled, taking a step closer. “You think I’m scared of losing the fight? I’m scared of losing you.”

You stared up at him, chest heaving.

“Then say that. Don’t punish me for being willing to fight beside you.”

“I’m not punishing you,” he said, voice breaking now, low and ragged. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”

“And I’m trying to help us win.”

He didn’t answer. Just stood there, breathing hard, staring at you like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to scream or collapse.

Remmick’s voice was quiet, but not soft.

“I don’t give a fuck about winning.”

You froze.

“All of this—these godsdamned plans, the circle, the binding rites, the war—none of it means a thing to me if I lose you.”

His eyes burned as he looked at you, the morning sun painting the anger gold on his face.

“You’re the only fucking thing I care about.”

You swallowed, heart pounding, voice steady despite the tremor in your chest.

“Then let me do this,” you said. “Let me fight.”

He stared at you like he wanted to say no again. Like the word was a stone in his mouth he couldn’t swallow.

But he didn’t.

He breathed hard through his nose, jaw tight.

Then he snapped, “Fine.”

He turned, pacing a few feet into the field, hands on his hips, head down like he was trying to get control.

“If you insist on being bait,” he ground out, “you’re going to know every inch of that path. Forwards. Backwards. Eyes closed. Wind at your back, fire at your heels. I’ll run it with you until you can do it half-dead.”

You didn’t flinch.

“I understand.”

He didn’t speak for a moment—just stood there, muscles tight, the weight of everything pressing into the air between you.

Then he turned again—and pulled you into him so fast it stole your breath.

You gasped softly as his arms locked around you, crushing, desperate. His forehead dropped to your shoulder. His voice cracked against your skin.

“I can’t lose you.”

You held him just as tight, one hand curling into his shirt, the other smoothing down the back of his head where his hair had come loose.

“You won’t,” you whispered. “You won’t.”

The fog hadn’t even lifted from the cliffs when Remmick started barking.

“Move!”

Your boots slammed into the wet grass, lungs already burning, your braid slapping against your back.

“Harder!” he snapped from behind. “He won’t stroll after you, girl—he’ll hunt.”

You pushed harder, breath ragged in your throat, the wind cutting against your cheeks as the cliffs blurred past on your right. Every inch of you ached. Still you ran.

You reached the bluff overlooking the sea, legs trembling, and paused only for a moment before he bellowed again.

“Don’t stop—drop to your knees when he finds you, and you’re dead. Go!”

You turned sharp and took off inland. The sun was barely climbing, but sweat already clung to your skin.

He was relentless.

From the moment you stepped onto the path, he made you treat it like it was real. No easing into it. No kind words. Just the hard truth of what you were offering—yourself, as bait.

And you weren’t going to half-ass it.

But that didn’t mean you were going to make it easy on him either.

“Fuck’s sake,” you growled between breaths, “you were nicer when we weren’t married.”

“Keep running,” he barked back. “Mouth off when you’re not a corpse.”

You flipped him off without looking back, which earned you a low growl and the thunder of his boots picking up behind you.

He didn’t let up.

You ran through the scrub and the tall grass, leapt the streambed, tore through the narrow deer trails without pause. Your thighs burned. Your breath caught. He didn’t care.

“Move your ass, sweetheart,” he shouted, “he won’t stop for you to catch your breath!”

You grinned through the grit of it, shouting back, “I thought you liked my ass!”

He barked a laugh—short, sharp—but didn’t answer.

And then—

You broke through the last of the trees.

The clearing stretched wide before you, rimmed in stone and silence.

And at its heart: the circle.

Ancient stones jutted from the earth like teeth, hunched and pitted with moss, each one carved with weathered symbols that pulsed faintly in the light. The air went still. Cold. Not just windless—but watching.

The weight of it settled on your chest, so heavy it stilled your feet.

You stared.

You’d heard them talk about the circle, about the place the Pale One had desecrated, the ground where the final rites would bind him.

But you hadn’t seen it.

Not until now.

And now that you had—you understood. This wasn’t a battlefield. It was an altar.

And you were walking willingly into the lion’s mouth.

Your voice dropped as you whispered, half to yourself, “Fuck.”

Remmick appeared at your shoulder, not out of breath in the slightest. His voice was low now. Rough.

“This is where it ends.”

You nodded slowly, throat tight.

Then, still looking at the stones: “I’m gonna make that son of a bitch chase me.”

Remmick’s hand touched the small of your back, just for a second. “That’s my girl.”

Then he stepped back and barked, “Again!”

You groaned out loud, turning around.

“Seriously? You’re an absolute menace.”

He smirked, eyes hard. “You think that was fast enough? He’s not going to stop to smell the fucking roses—run it again!”

You muttered curses under your breath but took off anyway, boots pounding the trail.

Behind you, his voice echoed sharp and unrelenting—

“Again!”

“Faster!”

“Where the hell’s your urgency, wife?”

You were already smiling by the time you crested the hill again, sweat streaming, heart roaring like a war drum.

You were going to run this path until your body memorized it.

And if Remmick had anything to say about it—you were going to survive.

The sun was bleeding out across the hills when he finally stopped.

You stumbled to a halt behind him, panting, sweat slicking every inch of your skin. Your legs were shaking, knees aching. You’d run the goddamn route from the cliffs to the stone circle so many times the trees were starting to blur together.

Remmick turned. “We’re done.”

Your jaw dropped. “Now we’re done?”

His expression didn’t change. “Sun’s going down.”

“Oh, thank the fucking gods,” you snapped, dragging your hands down your face. “What, were you gonna keep me running through the night? Light the way with my burning legs?”

“You were slowing down,” he said flatly, already turning toward the farmhouse.

“I was dying, you psychopath.”

“Then you’ll be ready if it happens again.”

You gaped at his back. “You are not serious.”

He didn’t answer. Just walked.

You hobbled after him, fury crackling through every exhausted step.

“You said you were going to train me, not kill me.”

“Same difference if you’re bait.”

“Fuck you.”

“Keep your form up when you say it,” he said over his shoulder. “Your shoulders are slumping.”

“I hate you.”

He stopped. Just for a second.

Then, with zero expression, he said, “Good. That means I’m doing my job.”

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you shoved past him on the narrow path, muttering every foul word you could think of. Your body throbbed. You were soaked through. Every inch of you ached. And yet somehow, he still managed to be worse than the blisters forming on the backs of your heels.

Behind you, his boots crunched slow in the dirt.

“You’re lucky I didn’t throw that stone at your face,” you called back.

“You’d have missed,” he said.

“You don’t know that.”

“I’ve seen you throw.”

You flipped him off without turning around.

He caught up anyway. Of course he did.

“You’re gonna thank me when this is over,” he muttered, tone unreadable.

You glanced at him, face twisted. “I won’t.”

He looked back, calm as anything. “You will.”

Silence stretched.

The house came into view, lights glowing soft and warm through the kitchen windows. You were close enough to smell supper now—bread, herbs, roasted meat—and your stomach turned painfully.

You didn’t look at him again.

“I swear to god,” you muttered, “if I dream about that damn trail tonight, I’m dragging you into the circle myself.”

Remmick only smirked.

But he didn’t say a word.

The door creaked open as you stepped inside, muscles stiff, soaked with sweat, burrs clinging to the hem of your shirt. Every joint ached. Your braid had mostly come undone, and there was a patch of dried blood on your elbow from where you’d tripped the second time past the creek.

The room went quiet.

Mauve glanced over from the stove where she was stirring something fragrant—onions and garlic, maybe. Eoin was slicing herbs with practiced, quiet rhythm. Neither of them said anything, but both froze mid-motion as they took you in.

At the table, Seamus arched a brow.

Tomas straightened slightly in his chair.

Ciarán muttered, “Christ.”

You didn’t meet anyone’s eye. You felt wrecked, used up, not even fully in your skin anymore. And next to you, Remmick stood tall, dry, barely winded. Like he’d just come back from a fucking walk.

“What the hell did you do to her?” Seamus asked, turning in his chair.

“She needed to know the route,” Remmick said flatly.

“Not every root and stone along the way,” Mauve said sharply, stepping away from the pot. “She looks like she got dragged behind the horse.”

“I’m fine,” you mumbled, your voice hoarse.

Remmick didn’t look at you. He peeled off his overshirt and hung it by the door, sleeves soaked with sweat. His jaw was locked. You could still see the fury rolling off him, quiet now but nowhere near gone.

“She insisted,” he said stiffly. “I just made sure she could survive it.”

Ciarán let out a slow breath and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “By running her into the ground?”

Remmick didn’t respond.

You brushed past him toward the kitchen, every step biting. Mauve reached for you instinctively, helping you to the bench beside the hearth.

“Sit down before you fall down,” she said gently, brushing a strand of hair off your damp cheek.

Eoin offered a full glass of water without a word.

You took it and drank.

“I’ll go run the trail next,” Seamus said under his breath. “See if he tries to kill me too.”

Tomas didn’t look up. “You wouldn’t make it to the first bend.”

“Fuck you, Tomas.”

The tension in the room hadn’t broken, not really. It just hovered there, heavy as steam, soaking into the floorboards.

Remmick stood near the table, arms folded, his gaze unreadable.

You didn’t look at him either.

You didn’t need to.

You could feel his storm building all over again.

You didn’t get through half your plate before he stepped beside you.

“Come with me,” Remmick said quietly, but firmly—low enough not to make a scene, loud enough to leave no room for argument.

You set your fork down and stood without a word, ignoring the looks from around the table.

He didn’t speak again until you reached the hallway, where the kitchen voices faded behind you. He stopped and turned to you—still tall, still tense, still radiating the kind of storm that made your skin hum.

“You’re going to take a bath,” he said, eyes scanning over the smudges on your skin, the dried blood at your elbow, the ache in your shoulders he didn’t need you to say aloud. “Wash everything off. Every trace of today.”

You held his gaze. “And then?”

“Then,” he said slowly, “you’re going to wait for me. In the bedroom.”

Your breath caught.

His eyes narrowed just slightly. “You’ve had your turn to run, sweetheart. Now it’s mine.”

He didn’t touch you—not yet—but he didn’t have to. The heat of his promise was enough to pull something taut low in your belly.

His voice dropped as he leaned in. “And if I walk in and find you with so much as a smudge of dirt, I’m going to take my time reminding you whose body you’ve been pushing past its limit.”

You nodded once, pulse skittering.

“Go,” he said.

And you did.

The water was hot.

Steam clung to the walls, curling along the old mirror and warping the edges of your reflection. You sank slowly into the tub, a hiss slipping through your teeth as the heat kissed every sore, overworked muscle. Your thighs ached. Your calves throbbed. Even your shoulders felt bruised from the run.

But the deeper you slid into the water, the more your body gave in. Softened. Loosened.

Your hair floated around you, heavy with sweat and the wind from the coast. You let it drift for a moment before pulling it over one shoulder, your fingers untangling the knots with slow, tender strokes.

The scent of pine soap and something faintly floral—lavender, maybe—rose with the heat. It clung to your skin, chased away the sharpness of the day. You let your head fall back against the porcelain, eyes slipping shut, breath slowing.

It was quiet here.

Still.

You let the silence hold you, cocoon you. The adrenaline had faded, but something else stirred beneath it—anticipation, a different kind of tension. Your body was tired, but not numb. Not empty.

You could feel the echo of his voice in your bones.

You’ve had your turn to run.

Now it was his.

You didn’t rush. You washed slowly, thoroughly, hands gliding over every inch of yourself like preparation. Like ritual.

When you finally stepped out, the air kissed your damp skin cool. You dried off slowly. Braided your hair back loose and long. Slipped into nothing but the soft linen wrap he liked—the one that barely covered anything at all.

And then, with the last of the light slipping through the window, you walked barefoot into the bedroom and waited.

The bedroom was dark except for the soft flicker of candlelight. Wax ran down the brass holders like frozen gold, shadows swaying across the beams. You knelt in the center of the bed, bare skin glistening where you’d rubbed the oil into it, the scent rising—vanilla, jasmine, marshmallow—sweet and heavy in the air. Your knees were spread wide, palms resting on your thighs, head tilted slightly back.

If he was going to play, so were you.

Footsteps in the hall. Slow. Heavy. Measured.

The latch clicked, and the door swung inward.

The smell hit him first. His nostrils flared; his eyes found you. They went wide, then dark—anger, hunger, something older than both curling under his ribs. He shut the door with a soft click. For a heartbeat he only stood there, jaw tight, taking you in. You could almost taste the tension rolling off him.

Then he stepped forward, deliberate, boots silent on the boards. A strip of black ribbon slid from his pocket, the satin catching the candlelight as he wound it once between his fingers.

“Do you remember your safe word?” he asked, voice low, steady.

You nodded, lips parting.

“No,” he said, eyes fixed on yours. “Say it.”

Your tongue flicked over your bottom lip. “Red.” The word was soft, almost pouty, like you were confessing a sin you wanted to be caught in.

His gaze flicked down, then back up, a tremor in his jaw. “Do you know that I love you?”

“Yes,” you whispered.

“Tonight,” he said, coming closer until the scent of him mixed with the oil on your skin, “is punishment. I’m going to hurt you. Ruin you. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” you breathed.

He tilted his head slightly, ribbon sliding through his fingers like a promise. “Tell me,” he murmured, “why did you have such a smart mouth today?”

Your heart thudded against your ribs, the oil’s scent a halo around you. Candlelight danced in his eyes, and the air between you tightened, waiting for your answer.

You tilted your head, lashes lowered just enough to feign innocence. “I don’t know,” you said softly, the corner of your mouth twitching like you might smile. “Maybe I was tired. Or sore. Or just hungry.”

Remmick’s expression didn’t move. The ribbon pulled tight between his hands with a soft whip of silk.

“No,” he said calmly. “You were mouthy because you wanted control.”

He stepped closer, into your space now, the bed dipping beneath his knee as he climbed up with you—slow, deliberate, like a predator taking his time.

“You wanted to feel strong again,” he said, voice low but unwavering. “After running all day. After being scared.”

His hand reached out and cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “You gave me that control. Do you remember?”

You nodded slowly.

“And I’m going to keep it for you,” he murmured, mouth hovering just above yours, heat radiating off his skin. “Which means when you falter, I correct you. I keep you safe—from the world, from the Pale One… and from yourself.”

He let go of your chin and trailed the ribbon across your shoulder, over the swell of your chest.

The black ribbon binds your wrists tight — not painfully so, but secure, undeniably his. Remmick ties the knot with practiced fingers, then guides your arms above your head as you stay on your knees, chest high, thighs spread just for him.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Stay just like that.”

He steps back, eyes dragging down the length of your glistening body, and slowly unfastens his belt. The sound alone makes your breath hitch — leather whispering through the loops, slow and purposeful.

He folds it in half.

Then, with deliberate, almost lazy arrogance, he drags the tip of it down between your thighs. It traces the slick heat of you, parting your folds — the wet sound obscene as it coats the leather in your arousal.

“Look at that,” he says, voice dark with pleasure. “So desperate for correction you soaked my belt before I even touched you.”

He lifts it, inspects the damp shine, then drops it beside him and grips your bound wrists, guiding you gently.

“Turn around,” he says.

You obey, trembling slightly as you shift, still on your knees, and bend forward over the bed. Your wrists stretch out in front of you, bound and open, spine arched, ass high. Vulnerable. Offered.

Remmick moves behind you, heat radiating off him, and for a long moment, he doesn’t touch you. Just watches. Breathes.

Then, 

“You’re going to count for me.”

The first strike lands sharp across the swell of your ass — not cruel, but commanding. You gasp, wrists straining slightly against the ribbon as your body jolts.

“Count,” Remmick says, calm and low behind you.

“One,” you whisper.

Another slap — deliberate. Heavy. The warmth begins to bloom, sharp pain melting quickly into heat.

“Two.”

He takes his time. No rhythm, no warning — just long, measured swats that leave your thighs trembling and your breath shuddering through you. Your voice wavers after the eighth, hips jerking forward instinctively.

By the twelfth, tears slip hot down your cheeks, and you’re not sure if they’re from the ache or the way it turns inside you to something nearly unbearable. Pleasure and pain braided so tightly together they’re indistinguishable.

Remmick watches you carefully, eyes dark, reading your every flinch, your every whimper. He knows exactly how far to take you — how far you want to go. And he pushes you to the very edge.

When he’s satisfied — when your skin is glowing red, your breath caught in your throat — he drops to his knees behind you. His hand smooths slowly over the welts he created, fingers gentle as they trail over each mark.

“You did so good for me,” he murmurs, voice husky with approval.

You’re still crying, soft and quiet. He pulls you up into his arms, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, wiping each tear with his thumb. His forehead rests against yours.

“But I’m not done with you yet.”

He kisses you again — slower this time, savoring — and then guides you gently down onto your knees on the floor in front of him.

“Since you’ve been so mouthy,” he says, unfastening his pants with quiet intent, “we’re going to put that mouth to good use.”

Remmick stays crouched in front of you for a breath, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, eyes dark and fixed on yours.

“Open,” he says, quiet but unmistakable.

You part your lips. He slides his thumb between them first, dragging it slow across your tongue, a warning and a promise all at once. Then he guides you closer until you’re kneeling right between his thighs, wrists still bound behind your back, bare skin glistening in the candlelight.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, the softness already starting to fray at the edges. “Now keep those eyes on me.”

When he pushes into your mouth it’s deliberate, steady at first, his palm braced at the back of your head. He uses your mouth the way he wants, hips rolling, the head of him hitting deep until you gag softly around him. His other hand comes up to cup your jaw, controlling the angle, setting the rhythm.

“Every bit of that sass…” he growls low, pushing a little deeper, “…I’m gonna take it out right here.”

He starts to move harder. Not reckless—controlled, measured—but each stroke a little deeper, a little rougher, until you’re drooling around him, breath coming ragged through your nose. He watches your throat work, eyes half‑lidded, a dark hunger in his expression as he thrusts into you.

“Take it,” he rasps. “All of it. Show me that mouth isn’t just for backtalk.”

You moan around him, the sound vibrating against his length. He groans, hips jerking once—then again—losing a little of his control as you hollow your cheeks and swallow around him, letting him push as deep as he wants. His fingers tighten in your hair, guiding you down until your nose brushes his skin, holding you there just long enough to feel you flutter before easing you back a fraction.

“That’s it…” His voice breaks into a low chuckle. “That’s my girl. You’re gonna let me fuck every ounce of sass out of you, aren’t you?”

His grip tightens at the nape of your neck, the other fist still tangled in your hair, holding your head exactly where he wants it. Each thrust is harder now, sloppier—his control unraveling with every second he stays buried in your mouth.

You’re gagging around him, eyes brimming, spit slicking your chin, but you don’t stop. You moan around him like you need this, like you crave being used.

“Christ—” he snarls, hips jerking once, twice, the pulse of him thick against your tongue.

But just when you feel him start to lose it, when his cock twitches deep in your throat—

He yanks out.

The sudden emptiness makes you gasp, chest heaving, lips red and swollen, a string of spit still connecting you to him.

He stands over you, looming, panting, his cock still rock hard and wet with your mouth. His hand still buried in your hair keeps you there, kneeling, blinking up at him.

“Not yet,” he growls, voice wrecked and shaking with restraint. “You don’t get to have that, not until I say.”

You whimper, thighs pressed tight together, aching with need.

He smirks—dark, victorious—and leans down close enough to kiss you, but doesn’t.

“Still so mouthy,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your slick, ruined lips. “But you’ll learn.”

He steps back slightly, tugging on your hair to make you follow.

“Up.”

You rise on trembling legs, still bound, still desperate.

“Bed. On your back. Now.”

He watches you rise, your knees trembling, your thighs already glistening—but he doesn’t offer comfort.

He unties your wrists slowly, letting the ribbon fall to the floor, then guides you backward until your knees hit the edge of the bed.

“Lie back,” he commands.

You do, breath shaking, legs falling open instinctively—but he doesn’t touch you where you want him. Not once. He climbs over you, weight pressing you into the mattress, and sinks inside with one hard, deliberate thrust.

You gasp—he’s thick and unrelenting, and the stretch knocks the air from your lungs. But still, he doesn’t touch your clit, doesn’t kiss your mouth. He just starts to move, deep and slow, like he owns every inch of you.

Because he does.

His hands pin your hips, controlling every motion, every grind. He doesn’t chase your pleasure—he’s claiming you, fucking the obedience back into your body, and the restraint in him is almost cruel.

You arch beneath him, needing more, chasing friction—but he catches your throat lightly in one hand, pinning you back down, his breath hot against your cheek.

“I said lie still.”

“I—I need—”

“No.” His voice cuts low and dangerous. “You don’t get to come. Not yet.”

Your muscles clench around him involuntarily, your body disobedient even when your mind obeys. He groans—your body’s too sweet, too tight, tempting him to lose control.

But he doesn’t.

“You’re not allowed to come,” he repeats, grinding deep enough to make your back arch again. “Not until I say. And if you do—” His lips brush your ear. “I’ll make you regret it.”

You bite your lip so hard it stings.

He keeps going.

He’s not gentle. He’s not giving. He’s using you, fucking you with nothing but dominance and heat and possession—your pleasure completely irrelevant.

And somehow, that makes you want it even more.

You’re trembling beneath him now, legs wrapped around his waist like they might anchor you—like if you just hold him close enough, he’ll give you what you need.

But Remmick is locked in, focused, his rhythm brutal in its control. Deep, slow thrusts designed not to satisfy you, but to keep you right at the edge—wrecked and waiting.

Your breath hitches. You’re there—right there—and you think maybe, maybe he’ll finally let you have it.

But he doesn’t.

With a low growl, his hips snap forward one last time, buried deep, and you feel it—the way he shudders, the way he groans your name like it’s being torn from him as he spills inside you.

Your back arches, chasing something he’s already stolen.

And then—he pulls out.

You cry out, clenching around nothing, your body panicked and desperate, the heat in you pulsing like a second heartbeat. It hurts—the need of it, the emptiness.

He watches you.

You’re trembling, legs still open, slick and needy, your hands gripping the sheets like they might save you from drowning.

“Please,” you whisper, voice cracking.

He doesn’t speak right away.

Just leans in slowly, eyes burning, and brushes his fingers down your ribs—tender now. Reverent. But still in control.

“You don’t get to take it,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your collarbone. “You earn it. When I say.”

You whimper again, wrecked and pliant.

And he smiles—soft, wicked, and completely in command.

You’re shaking.

Wrecked.

Every inch of you flushed and desperate, the heat between your legs still pulsing, slick with need and denial. Your body doesn’t understand why he stopped—why the wave was crested and then ripped away.

Remmick gathers you against his chest.

One arm tight around your lower back, the other cradling your head, fingers weaving gently through your hair. Your cheek presses to his skin, wet with quiet tears you hadn’t even realized were falling.

“Shhh,” he whispers, low and close. “I’ve got you.”

You whimper, small and broken, trying to breathe through the ache of it all—the ache he gave you.

“I know, love. I know it’s hard,” he murmurs, voice rough with something too tender to be pity. “But this is your punishment. You needed to learn.”

He presses a kiss to your temple, slow and reverent, his thumb brushing at the tears gathered under your lashes. “I told you. Control is mine. You gave it to me. That means I keep it—even when it hurts.”

Another kiss—soft at the corner of your eye.

“I love you,” he says. “More than breath. But I won’t let you forget who you belong to.”

Your lip trembles. She tucks her face in tighter against his chest, shuddering.

“Next time…” he asks quietly, “are you going to behave?”

You nod, small and slow.

“Yes, sir,” you breathe into him.

His fingers stroke your spine. A slow, calming rhythm.

“That’s my good girl.”

He holds you through the aftershocks, until your trembling eases. Until the heat in your settles into something quiet and aching. Until your breathing steadies and your tears dry on his skin.

Still completely in his arms.

Still his.

You stay curled in his arms, trembling and tear-streaked, your body still lit with the ache of denial. Your hands—now freed—grip lightly at his chest, as if you’re afraid he might pull away.

But he doesn’t.

He just holds you.

Lets you sob quietly against his skin, no shame in it, no rush to make it stop. His fingers stroke through your hair, again and again, grounding you in the rhythm of him. His other hand rubs slow circles over your back, anchoring you to something safe. Something steady.

You cry because it hurt.

Because it felt good.

Because you needed it.

Because you let go.

And he doesn’t say a word—just hums low in his chest, a sound you can feel more than hear. A sound that tells you he’s here, and he’s not going anywhere.

Minutes pass.

Maybe more.

Your breaths begin to slow, your fists relax, and the soft hiccups taper off into stillness. You’re exhausted—physically, emotionally, beautifully undone.

“Good girl,” he whispers, brushing his lips to your damp forehead. “You did so well.”

You doesn’t answer.

You’re already drifting.

Wrapped up in the warmth of him, safe in the arms that punished you, corrected you, and now hold you like something sacred.

He pulls the blankets up around them, cradling you close, and keeps his hand at the nape of your neck, feeling the rise and fall of your breaths.

And when you finally slips into sleep, quiet and spent—

Remmick stays awake.

Holding you.

Watching the shadows flicker along the walls.

Listening to the storm inside himself, quiet for now.

But not gone.

You stirred slowly, wrapped in warmth, in him.

His arms were around you, one beneath your head, the other resting heavy on your hip. You didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to breathe unless he did.

But the ache in your core returned like a slow tide—deep, warm, undeniable. The dull soreness between your thighs only made it worse. You shifted in his hold, rubbing against him without meaning to. Or maybe you meant it a little.

Remmick’s breath changed.

You tilted your head up toward his neck, lips brushing his throat. “Remmick…”

“Mmm.”

“I need you,” you whispered, already clinging, voice sweet and ruined. “Please…”

He sighed through his nose, the kind of exhale that was half affection, half warning.

“No, sweetheart,” he murmured, brushing your hair back. “Not this morning.”

You whined, burying your face against his chest, hips rocking again, shameless. “But I need—”

His grip tightened around you slightly, just enough to still you.

“Shhh.” His voice dipped, velvet laced with steel. “This is your punishment, baby. I need you to learn to listen and behave when I tell you to.”

You whimpered softly, and he kissed your hair, patient and firm. “You think I don’t want to sink into you right now? You think I don’t feel that little pout of yours pressed against me?”

You stayed quiet, flushed and breathless.

He shifted, propping himself on one elbow to look at you. His expression was tender but unyielding.

“You need to lock in today, baby. I need your head clear. Can you do that for me?”

You blinked up at him, lips still parted. And then slowly nodded. “Yes.”

“Say it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good girl.”

He leaned in and kissed your temple, then your lips—soft, slow, but nothing more. His control held even now.

You groaned as you sat up, wincing slightly.

“Ass sore?” he asked, smug.

You glared at him through your lashes. “Yes.”

“Well,” he said, tossing back the blankets and stretching with a wicked grin, “it wouldn’t be sore if you’d listen when I tell you to behave.”

You gave a dramatic little groan, but he just smirked, pulling a clean shirt over his head.

“Up,” he said, voice gentler again. “Let’s get you dressed.”

You let him help—because of course you did. His hands were warm and careful, dressing you like something precious, smoothing the fabric down over your skin with quiet reverence.

But his eyes lingered.

And his hands lingered.

And though he kept himself in check, you knew he wasn’t done with you.

Not even close.