Lucien's POV
The silence didn't fade when I stepped away.
It lingered.
Like the echo of a word that hadn't been spoken—but had already been believed.
Kiss-shot didn't move.
She just watched me—expression unreadable, spine too straight for someone pretending not to be rattled. Her arms relaxed at her sides, but I noticed her fingers flex, just once, like they were preparing to either reach for me or claw through the floor.
Good.
Let her feel that tension.
Because tension was the leash no one saw until it pulled taut.
I didn't turn my back on her. Just drifted toward the broken desk near the edge of the room, where moonlight sliced through the boarded windows and dust floated like ancient pollen. I leaned against the desk like I wasn't a loaded weapon now. Like I wasn't one whisper away from changing everything.
"I'm not trying to win," I said finally.
My voice didn't need to rise. It landed anyway.
"I'm just trying to stay."
That did something to her.
Not a reaction.
A calibration.
Like she was rewriting the equations in her head—power, proximity, pain.
She was used to love being a leash. Devotion being a form of worship. Blood being a currency.
But staying?
That was rarer.
That was harder to believe in than anything.
"You say things like that," she said slowly, "but you say them like they're weapons."
I tilted my head. Let the smile tug, crooked and deliberate.
"That's because I don't get to be disarmed."
The words weren't for effect. They were a thesis. The scaffolding of the monster I was building underneath this skin.
She stepped closer again—casual, almost lazy. But I knew better. She was testing distance. Seeing if I'd flinch.
I didn't.
"I could hurt you," she said. Not a threat. Not even a warning. Just… data.
"You already are."
That made her stop.
Really stop.
Her golden eyes didn't narrow. They dilated. A fraction. A heartbeat. But I caught it.
And so, while she was still processing the sharpness of that truth—while the old part of her that used to drink men dry tried to decide if this counted as a confession or a trap—
I moved.
Not fast.
Not even dramatic.
Just one hand reaching into the inner lining of my coat.
Velvet. Soft. Warm.
The pouch I hadn't touched since it first appeared.
I drew it out slowly, cradling it like something sacred. The weight was delicate but heavy with implication. Inside, wrapped in darkness and luck, was the Bell of Murmur.
It was small—smaller than you'd expect.
A silver bell, no bigger than the tip of my thumb.
Its surface was smooth, but not clean—etched faintly with old language, the kind of script that forgot what it meant before it ever learned how to lie.
No clapper inside. The sound, I knew, came from somewhere else entirely.
And the handle?
Bone. Not bleached, not polished. Just… preserved.
Like a relic someone should've buried deeper.
It was beautiful in the way dangerous things always are—subtle, wrong, quiet.
I didn't hesitate.
Because I already knew the lie.
"I'm not using you," I said.
Then I rang it.
Soft.
Barely audible.
Like the tiniest wind chime in a graveyard.
Her gaze fluttered. Just a flicker. Like a neuron misfiring.
And then—
She blinked.
Tilted her head.
Smiled faintly.
"I didn't say you were."
There it was.
The erasure.
Perfect.
Clean.
She'd never know the words I just made vanish. Never feel the ripple of what she'd almost questioned. Because the bell didn't just erase the lie—it erased the moment.
And now?
Now everything after this…
Was built on something I didn't say.
But she believed.
Because of course she did.
I didn't smirk. Didn't gloat. Just watched her step close enough for our shadows to overlap again.
"You're quiet," she said. "Too quiet. That usually means you're plotting."
"I always plot," I murmured. "But sometimes the plan is just… surviving the moment."
"And this one?"
I reached up.
Tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear again—this time without flinching.
"This one's worth surviving for."
Her gaze softened. Just slightly.
Not enough to be called affection.
And me?
I just smiled.
Because I had already rewritten reality.
And now?
I was rewriting her.
The silence didn't fade when I stepped away.
It lingered.
Like the echo of a word that hadn't been spoken—but had already been believed.
Kiss-shot didn't move.
Then her hand rose. Not fast. Not hesitant. Just… precise. She took mine—slowly, like a ritual—and held it in both of hers.
Her skin was cold.
But her grip was warm.
"I hate that you say things like that," she murmured.
"Because they're manipulative?"
"Because they sound real."
Her fingers laced with mine. Just once. Just enough.
"Promise me something," she said.
I tilted my head.
"That depends," I said. "Is this where you ask me not to lie?"
"No," she whispered. "This is where I ask you to stop making me want you."
I didn't answer.
Because that?
That was already a lost cause.
So instead of speaking—I held her hand tighter.
She didn't pull away.
She didn't pull away when I touched her.
No flinch. No feint.
Just stillness.
A surrender so subtle it could've passed for poise.
Our hands brushed as I lowered mine, and this time…
She caught it.
Fingers slipping into mine like she wasn't sure it counted as affection until it was already done.
Her skin was cooler than mine.
But not cold.
More like moonlight on water—soft, reflective, the kind of cold that invited you in without warning how deep it went.
I didn't look down.
Didn't ruin it.
Just let our hands stay there, linked and casual in the way dangerous things sometimes pretended to be harmless.
The silence was no longer a standoff.
It was something else.
Not peace.
But… permission.
And after a long, measured beat—she exhaled.
Not loud. Not theatrical. Just enough to let the tension bleed out of her spine as she stepped past me, toward the pile of old mats and blankets we'd repurposed into a kind of sleeping corner.
I followed.
Of course I did.
She sat first. Cross-legged. Careful in that unconscious way predators moved when they weren't hunting, but still remembered how.
I sat beside her.
Close, but not demanding.
Let her close the distance.
She always did.
And when she finally leaned sideways—head brushing my shoulder, hair pooling like melted gold across my jacket—I didn't move.
Because I knew better.
Because I didn't want her to.
Her hand never let go of mine.
Even as her breathing slowed.
Even as her eyelids began to fall in that reluctant way you only ever saw in creatures who hated looking vulnerable.
And me?
I didn't sleep.
Didn't try.
I just sat there, holding a god who no longer felt like one.
Her body was smaller now, younger, but no less divine.
Her school uniform—borrowed, stolen, conjured, who knows—hugged her like silk clinging to power. The curve of her waist beneath the fabric was soft but defined. The line of her neck, pale and smooth, begged to be kissed and never forgiven for it.
And her scent—
God, her scent.
It was always there.
Iron and ash and something floral that didn't grow anywhere real.
I inhaled it like a sinner kneeling at an altar made of her bones.
Her head slid down my shoulder until her cheek pressed to my collar.
Still asleep.
Or pretending to be.
Did it matter?
I tilted my chin slightly, just enough to let my jaw graze the crown of her head.
This wasn't a victory.
This wasn't even control.
This was proximity.
A type of intimacy that made lies look like prayers.
And for tonight, it was enough.
Because if she could fall asleep on me—
If she could press herself into the hollow of my shape and let the silence stretch between our pulses like a thread—
Then I had already won something more permanent than trust.
I had become a comfort.
And comfort was the first stage of devotion
—————————————————-
Dream Sequence – Kiss-shot's POV
———
There was no wind.
No breath.
No beginning.
Just the sound of her own footsteps echoing in a hall that had no ceiling and no sky.
Kiss-shot walked slowly, barefoot over something that felt like marble but looked like mist. The floor shimmered with reflections that didn't belong to her.
Because vampires didn't have reflections.
But still—they followed.
Her hair was longer here. Not the waterfall gold of her current form, but the molten halo of her full power—unbound, undiminished, wrong. Her limbs moved like myth. Like gravity bowed differently in her presence.
And the gown she wore?
She hadn't seen it in centuries.
White. Regal. Drenched in blood that only she remembered.
A cathedral stretched around her, vast and empty. The arches soared into a skyless void, stained glass windows that shimmered with color but no light. Each pane held a story she didn't recall writing. Each step echoed like a heartbeat that didn't belong to her.
Her own voice—soft, impossible—spoke from nowhere:
"You are not dreaming."
But she was.
She knew it.
Because in waking, her pulse never echoed like this.
She passed a mirror then. Tall. Baroque. Cracked at the edges.
And in it—
Nothing.
Her face didn't appear.
But behind her?
A figure did.
Lucien.
Or something wearing his shape.
His eyes glowed—not red, not gold, but an impossible hue that split the world down the middle. His smile was calm. Too calm. Like he knew what would come next and had decided to let her suffer through the reveal.
She turned.
He wasn't there.
Of course not.
Dream logic.
But when she looked back at the mirror—
He remained.
Standing behind her like a ghost.
Or a promise.
And something about that image…
Hurt.
She reached for the glass, fingertips grazing where his cheek should've been—
And the mirror shattered.
Quietly.
The shards did not fall.
They melted upward, folding into the stained glass windows above until his shape was scattered across all of them—Lucien in fragments. Lucien as memory. Lucien as myth she hadn't meant to write.
And then—
A voice.
Not hers. Not his.
Soft. Feminine. Knowing.
"What did he take from you?"
She turned.
No one stood there.
Just a single, small bell resting on the altar ahead.
Silver.
Silent.
Old.
She didn't remember placing it there.
She didn't remember owning it.
But it was hers.
And somehow—his.
She stepped closer. Each footfall felt heavier now, like the dream had begun collapsing beneath its own weight.
The bell didn't ring.
But it pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
Then stopped.
She reached for it—and the world fractured.
Like glass under pressure. Like time deciding to remember something it wasn't supposed to.
And somewhere, just before she woke—
She heard his voice.
Not loud. Not gentle.
Just true.
"I didn't use you."
She didn't know why that line cut so deep.
Or why she suddenly felt like she was bleeding from a wound she couldn't name.
——————————————-
Lucien's POV
She woke with a start.
Lucien's chest rose and fell beneath her cheek.
One of her hands was still clutching his shirt.
He was still asleep.
But even in rest—his expression was calm. Like a boy who hadn't lied.
Like a god who had.
Kiss-shot didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Just lay there.
Breathing in his scent. Feeling the warmth of his body.
Trying to remember what had been taken.
And why it suddenly felt like it mattered.
—————————————————-
Lucien's POV
She didn't move.
Not for a while.
Her cheek was still pressed against my chest, her hand still clutching my shirt like something soft might shatter if she let go.
But her breathing had changed.
Not slower.
Quieter.
Measured.
Like she was pretending to be asleep even though something in her had already woken.
I didn't say anything.
Didn't shift. Didn't stir. Just let the moment stretch between us—silent, golden, fragile.
Because I could feel it too.
Something had changed.
Not between us.
Within her.
It wasn't anything obvious. No sudden glare or flinch or bite. But there was a new weight in the way she laid there. A new kind of calculation hiding beneath the soft rise and fall of her shoulders. The kind of silence that wasn't resting—it was remembering.
I wondered what her dream had been.
Wondered what version of me she saw when her mind wandered out past memory and myth.
Not the real me.
Just the one she was starting to believe in.
And that?
That was more dangerous than any truth I could've confessed.
Her fingers twitched once—barely.
Then she finally moved.
Slowly. Carefully. Like the spell had worn off but she didn't want to break whatever warmth was left behind.
She sat up.
Didn't look at me.
Didn't speak.
Her golden eyes stayed fixed on the far wall, where morning hadn't quite touched the glass. Where moonlight still clung to the cracked windows like an afterthought.
"Kiss-shot," I said quietly.
Still nothing.
So I reached for her hand.
Didn't pull.
Just… touched it. Fingers grazing the edge of hers like a question without punctuation.
And she let me.
That was all.
No lacing. No grip. But she didn't pull away.
And for someone like her?
That was intimacy.
After a long moment, she said, "The veil's fraying."
I blinked.
"What?"
She turned toward me. Just slightly.
"The wards you placed. The ones I've been masking. Something's pressing against them from the outside. Testing the edges."
I sat up.
Felt the shift immediately.
The air was colder now. Not by temperature—but by texture. Like the building itself had held its breath while we slept, and now it was exhaling all at once.
"I thought the veil would hold for another day," I said.
"So did I," she murmured. "But dreams don't obey timelines."
That made me pause.
"Did you dream something?" I asked.
Her gaze flicked to mine. Sharp. Direct.
"No," she said.
Too fast.
Too certain.
And for a moment—just a moment—I almost believed her.
But then her eyes dropped to my lips, and something in her expression… faltered.
A blink.
A recalibration.
Not suspicion.
Recognition.
Like she knew something had shifted between us, but couldn't name the moment it happened.
I looked away.
Because that was the thing about perfect lies.
Even when they disappear from memory—they leave shadows.
And shadows have a way of curling around the truth.
——————————————————11
The silence had claws.
I felt them now, sharp and delicate as needles beneath my skin—digging in, sinking deeper with each passing second. Kiss-shot's expression had smoothed again, her golden eyes calm as a lake at night. Too calm. Like she'd stitched whatever doubts or suspicions she had carefully beneath the seams of her composure.
But doubt, like any poison, festered best in the quiet.
I stood slowly, making my way toward the window. The sun hadn't yet risen, and the sky remained in that shadowy gray between night and dawn. At this hour, the world felt thinner—more fragile. Like one push, one whisper could tear reality open and show the teeth beneath its pretty smile.
The veil she spoke of was fraying—my wards weakening quicker than anticipated. A boundary I'd set more with will than wisdom, relying on instinct rather than true mastery. I hadn't thought it would need to last long, not with the Bell of Murmur tilting the balance. But this world had a nasty habit of biting back when you bent its rules.
"I'll check the perimeter," I finally said, half turning back to her. My voice was carefully neutral, indifferent in a way designed to frustrate her—because frustration was easier to manage than suspicion. "Better safe than—"
"Don't."
The word was soft. Not a plea. Not quite. But enough to freeze me in place.
"Don't what?" I asked quietly.
"Don't treat me like I'm fragile."
I turned fully. "I'm not."
She was still sitting, her legs tucked carefully beneath her, spine straight, shoulders squared like a queen issuing her first decree. There was no hesitance in her posture—just determination worn gracefully, proudly.
"Yes, you are." Her voice sharpened slightly. "You soften your words, hide your intentions, even your heartbeat lies. Do you think I can't hear it?"
"And what exactly do you hear, Kiss-shot?"
She rose smoothly to her feet, like water shifting shape. Her golden gaze caught mine and held, unflinching. "Fear. Desire. Calculation. But never honesty."
My lips twitched. "And honesty is what you want from me?"
She paused. Just a beat too long. "No," she finally admitted. "Because honesty isn't what either of us needs right now. But don't pretend that hiding from me is protecting me."
I studied her carefully—the tension in her jaw, the quiet resolve tucked behind each syllable. Whatever had happened inside her dream had left an echo she couldn't quite shake. "Then what would you prefer?"
She stepped closer, close enough that our shadows tangled on the dusty floor. Her voice was quiet. "Stay."
"Stay?"
"Don't patrol. Don't circle the edges looking for traps. Sit here, beside me. And for once—just for tonight—let yourself be seen."
My heart thudded once—loud, traitorous, betraying a crack in the armor. "You might not like what you see."
Her mouth curled faintly. "I already don't."
I tilted my head, letting the smile spread just a fraction. "Yet here you are."
"Yes," she agreed softly. "Here I am."
And that was it. No dramatic gestures. No drawn lines. Just two predators acknowledging they'd somehow wandered into each other's territory—and chosen, against all instinct, to stay.
I sat again. Close enough that our shoulders brushed, but I kept my gaze forward, into the shadow-drenched room, away from the questioning glint in her eyes. Her presence pressed into me—not oppressive, but tangible. Her scent mingled with mine, her warmth a ghostly touch along my side.
Neither of us spoke.
Words would shatter this careful truce. Confessions would poison the quiet comfort we'd stolen.
Instead, our breathing synchronized—a silent rhythm in a language older than promises.
When she finally rested her head against my shoulder again, I didn't move. Didn't flinch. Didn't protest.
——————————————————
Lucien's POV:
—
Sunrise crept in slowly, like an apology the sky wasn't ready to offer yet.
Golden rays bled through the boarded windows, splashing faded color onto the cracked linoleum. Dust swirled lazily through the early glow, motes catching like suspended whispers around us.
Kiss-shot had fallen asleep again, head heavy against my shoulder, body curled into mine as if she'd forgotten how not to trust. Her breath was gentle, rhythmic, softer than anything that should come from a being who drank life and power like wine. Her fingers still lightly brushed mine, a connection she maintained even in dreams.
For once, I let myself simply exist in the quiet—no plans, no contingencies, just her scent mingling with sunlight and something older, sharper, buried in my veins.
I didn't want to move.
But eventually, reality always intruded.
Carefully, I shifted, guiding her head gently onto the bundled coat beside us. She murmured softly, a faint protest of sound, brows pinching briefly before smoothing again. I paused, watching the fragile vulnerability that sleep drew out of her. She looked softer now, delicate in a way daylight should have erased but only enhanced.
A part of me wanted to stay—to lie back down beside her, sink into this fragile fiction a little longer.
But outside, the veil was thinning.
Outside, threats circled, waiting patiently for the seams in our little sanctuary to unravel.
I stood quietly, stretching out muscles that had grown stiff from hours of careful stillness. With slow, careful steps, I moved toward the door, checking the wards with a whisper of Structural Trace. The magic shivered faintly at my touch, like cobwebs brushing against skin. Weakening—but still intact.
For now.
I needed something stronger. Something that would buy us more time.
My eyes drifted toward the far corner of the room, where moonlight had abandoned a silvery glow hours before. A small outline caught my attention—a thin, delicate line etched subtly into the floorboards. I frowned, stepping closer, kneeling beside it.
A sigil.
Small, complex, easily overlooked. Faintly glowing with a residual hum that felt like something worse than danger—purpose.
Someone had been here.
Someone who understood magic, who knew exactly how to mark territory without alerting its occupants. Someone whose footsteps would leave no physical trace—but whose presence lingered like a shadow beneath the skin.
My blood chilled.
Guillotine Cutter was gone. Dramaturgy had no reason for subtlety—not with his monstrous pride. Episode was far too theatrical to rely on quiet threats.
Which meant this was someone else.
Or something else.
My jaw tightened as I traced the faint glowing lines, feeling the sinister hum resonate with my fingertips. A threat, carefully placed to remind me that even my secrets weren't safe.
That even my careful manipulations had blind spots.
"Lucien?"
Her voice was soft, questioning. I turned slowly, schooling my features carefully, burying my reaction beneath an easy mask of calm.
Kiss-shot sat up, rubbing sleep from her eyes, hair tousled and golden in the fresh morning light. She looked younger in that moment, almost innocent—but her eyes sharpened quickly, catching my posture, the tightness around my shoulders.
"Is something wrong?"
I paused for a beat, considered lying, then decided against it. Partial honesty always felt more convincing than outright deception.
"Someone's been here," I said quietly, motioning to the faint sigil. "Recently. While we slept."
She rose immediately, grace etched into every careful movement. A predator woken from rest, tension unfurling through her body, coiling tight beneath her skin. She joined me, kneeling close, eyes narrowed in quiet contemplation of the mark.
"Who?" she whispered.
"I don't know."
Her gaze met mine sharply. "You always know."
"Not this time," I admitted. "This isn't one of the hunters. This isn't their style."
She didn't respond immediately, simply traced a finger over the sigil, hovering without quite touching—like recognizing danger, but testing the edge anyway.
"Can you erase it?" she asked finally.
I nodded. "I can."
"Then do it."
"That won't solve the bigger problem."
She met my eyes, expression hardening slightly. "It solves this one."
I didn't argue. Instead, I knelt down slowly, pressing my palm flat against the sigil. It felt cold—colder than it should, as if it had stolen something vital from the air around us. I closed my eyes, reaching inward, calling upon Structural Trace. Magic shimmered beneath my fingertips, whispering resistance at first, but it yielded soon enough.
The lines fractured silently, glowing briefly before dissolving into faint threads of smoke. The cold retreated, replaced by a more familiar emptiness—the quiet aftermath of danger narrowly averted, though not eliminated.
When I opened my eyes, Kiss-shot was watching me carefully, her expression unreadable. "It's gone," I said quietly, though we both knew it wasn't really—not the intention, not the threat behind it.
———————————————
Trust was a fragile thing.
I felt it in the way Kiss-shot's eyes lingered on me just a moment longer than necessary—like she was waiting for the mask to slip, for my careful façade to fracture and show the cracks beneath. She stood close enough that I could almost hear the steady beat of her pulse beneath her skin—a reminder that even gods had vulnerabilities.
I kept my expression carefully neutral, my posture relaxed. Calm was contagious. Panic was too.
"We should leave at dusk," I said finally, gaze flicking back toward the weakening wards. "Easier to move unnoticed."
She nodded, eyes thoughtful. "And until then?"
I tilted my head slightly, allowing a small smile to curl at my lips—dry, humorless, just enough truth to feel real. "We wait."
She sighed softly, the sound curling through the silence like smoke. "Waiting feels like surrender."
"Or strategy," I countered gently. "It depends on what we do with the silence."
Her eyes softened, something fragile shimmering briefly behind the gold. Then she turned, stepping away from the window, retreating toward the small corner where we'd slept. She knelt carefully, fingers brushing lightly over the makeshift bedding, as if it could erase the sense of invasion that lingered in the air.
But the quiet wasn't comforting anymore. It felt oppressive, like we'd stepped into the eye of a storm—knowing full well that the calm wouldn't last, that the edges of chaos were always spiraling closer.
I followed her slowly, sinking down beside her. Neither of us spoke, but the proximity eased the unspoken tension, the warmth of her presence something I was beginning to crave more than I'd intended.
"Lucien?" Her voice was quiet, thoughtful, almost hesitant.
"Yes?"
Her gaze stayed fixed on her hands, folded neatly in her lap. "Do you ever wonder if we're running toward something worse than what we're running from?"
I hesitated for only a moment before answering, voice gentle but firm. "Always."
She glanced up sharply, eyes widening slightly at my admission. "And yet you keep running."
I held her gaze, feeling the careful weight of each syllable I spoke. "Because the only thing more dangerous than running toward something unknown is staying with something certain."
Her lips parted slightly, then closed again, as though words had caught in her throat. Instead, she reached out—careful, slow—and placed her hand atop mine. The touch was cautious, fragile, but deliberate. Her fingers curled around mine, holding on like she was afraid of slipping away.
Or afraid I might.
"It doesn't feel safe to trust you," she murmured, voice barely audible.
I looked down at our joined hands, feeling the cool softness of her skin pressed against mine. I didn't pull away.
"I never promised safety," I said softly. "Only survival."
"Survival," she echoed, the word tasting foreign on her tongue. "Sometimes it doesn't feel like enough."
"Maybe it isn't," I admitted quietly. "But it's a start."
Her thumb brushed lightly across the back of my hand, hesitant, uncertain, testing a boundary she wasn't sure existed. "What comes after survival, Lucien?"
I exhaled softly, the truth slipping free before I could cage it again. "Whatever we make of it."
Her gaze lifted to mine again, gold eyes searching carefully, cautiously—like she was trying to read a story that hadn't yet been written.
"Then let's make it worth something," she whispered.
I didn't respond. Not with words. Instead, I squeezed her hand gently, holding on tighter, acknowledging the careful bond forming between us—a connection built not from truth or lies, but something far more dangerous.
Hope.
And for a single, quiet moment, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—we could rewrite fate into something kinder.