Liam Thomas walked barefoot through the apartment, a towel wrapped around his waist and his hair still damp from the shower. His steps were slow, almost lazy, savoring the soft silence that only a Saturday morning could offer.
The small cat wound between his feet, purring as if the peace of that moment could last forever.
The feel of the floor beneath his soles was warm and grounding—each step a temporary truce.
Sunlight filtered through the curtains, caressing his still-wet skin, lingering like a lover's touch, as if trying to prolong the warmth of the water that had just cascaded over him.
Everything seemed to float in perfect balance—a kind of suspended intimacy—after waking up with Alessia's sleeping body still entangled with his on the couch, where sleep had overtaken them unexpectedly the night before.
Liam smiled.
He bent down to pet the cat, which stretched and purred with approval, as if it too understood that they were living a brief eternity of peace.
Then something changed.
It was subtle at first—a vibration in the air, a faint disturbance.
When he looked up, he saw her.
A woman stood in the middle of the living room, the door closed behind her—as if she had materialized from the shadows themselves.
It was Miroslava.
Her presence shattered the harmony of the space like a blade interrupting a symphony.
Still as a statue, her silhouette seemed carved from ice.
Liam froze, his heart stumbling inside his chest, the towel still his only cover.
The shock was so complete that he didn't even think to move.
"Doctor Miroslava…?" he finally asked, his voice low, uncertain, carrying a trace of vulnerability, as if doubting what his eyes were seeing.
She didn't answer immediately.
Her gaze traveled over him with calm precision, without blinking—not studying his body, but his existence there.
"Do you live here?" she asked at last, her voice polite but edged like a hidden blade.
It wasn't harsh, but it carried a quiet authority—each word carefully measured, each syllable concealing a warning behind its civility.
Liam frowned, blinking rapidly, unsure if she had ignored his question or simply reframed it to test him.
How did she get in? How long has she been here? Why didn't I hear anything?
The questions spun through his head, but none found a way out.
Miroslava remained motionless, like an emissary from some invisible court, there to inspect, to judge, or to interfere.
Before the tension could snap, Alessia appeared from her bedroom.
Her hair fell loose around her shoulders, dark as spilled ink, and though her expression seemed composed, her eyes burned with unease at the sight of Miroslava standing in her living room.
Her face mirrored Liam's confusion, but her words didn't betray it.
She stepped forward with calm grace and offered a smile so delicate—and so false—it could have been made of glass.
"Miroslava is an old friend," she said smoothly, her tone soft, almost melodic, as if the danger that had just materialized was nothing but a passing inconvenience.
"I forgot to mention she was coming by. My mistake."
Liam nodded awkwardly, his politeness mechanical, and excused himself to get dressed.
As he walked away, he could feel their gazes burning into his back—
Miroslava's, sharp as a scalpel;
Alessia's, a silent plea that wrapped around him without touch.
When the door to the bedroom closed, Miroslava turned to Alessia, urgency blazing in her eyes.
"You need to get him out of here. Now. The leaders are on their way. They're suspicious of your movements and they want to discuss the Volkov clan. If they find your human here, it will be his end."
Alessia's heart clenched.
Miroslava's words seemed to fade into the distance,
as if gravity itself had shifted inside her.
Liam's image rose in her mind with merciless clarity—his first smile, his awkward sweetness, the moment he handed her the kitten with a red ribbon, believing he was giving her a gift, never realizing he was returning a fragment of her soul she thought forever lost.
He doesn't know… but what he gave me, no one has in centuries.
And now they were about to take it away—not the cat, but him.
Rage and love tangled in her throat like thorns, and her body trembled as a quiet, desperate fury colored her voice.
"No. I won't let that happen," she said—not as a whisper, but a restrained roar, cracked with pain that burned from within.
"Not like this. Not now. He's not just another one, Miroslava. He's not a whim or a mistake. He's the only reason my darkness hasn't swallowed me whole these past days."
Her eyes, glowing like embers, locked onto Miroslava's with a plea that cut through the air.
"If they come for him… they'll have to tear him from my chest."
There was no time for tears or promises.
Alessia turned and strode toward the bedroom.
Liam was pulling on a shirt when she wrapped her arms around him from behind—tight, desperate, yet tender.
The warmth of his skin beneath her hands sent a shiver down her spine.
She knew this might be the last time she'd touch him freely.
"Everything okay?" he asked softly, placing his hand over hers.
Alessia didn't answer.
Her fingers slid up to the back of his neck, and with a nearly invisible gesture, she summoned the dormant power within her blood.
A wave of hypnotic energy enveloped him like mist.
He sighed, then went limp in her arms.
She caught him before he fell, holding him as though he were made of glass—
as though within his body lay the last fragile spark of hope she still possessed.
With Miroslava's help, they carried him down the emergency stairs—two shadows moving with ancient precision, invisible, silent.
They placed him gently in the trunk of his car, wrapped in a thick blanket.
No marks. No evidence. No trace.
They closed the compartment carefully and hurried back upstairs—just in time.
Moments later, the leaders of the Veneratí clan stepped into the apartment.
The first to enter was tall, aristocratic, with the hardened gaze of a judge.
An old gold ring glimmered on his hand, engraved with a forgotten symbol that seemed to pulse faintly under the artificial light.
A thin scar traced his temple—barely visible, but heavy with memory.
His eyes, a deep amber with hints of crimson, scanned the room as if they could pierce through time.
Dark suits. Marble faces. Footsteps like verdicts.
He stopped before Alessia.
Tall. Elegant.
His very presence thickened the air,
as though time itself paused to hear his decree.
"It smells of human here," he said in a low, resonant tone.
Authority didn't need to shout.
"My neighbors are human. There are always scents... don't you think?" Alessia replied, her voice even, her expression perfectly composed.
Miroslava stayed silent.
Their eyes met.
And in that brief exchange—a sharp flash of understanding—
a pact was renewed.
No betrayal. Not yet. Maybe never.
The leader's gaze swept across the room again,
probing every corner, every shadow.
Finally, he stood still, a living sentence carved in restraint.
"The Volkov clan has crossed the line," he said. "Bodies have been found. Disappearances. Ritual marks. We're considering reinstating the old laws—purges of traitors, purges of humans who've been compromised."
Alessia nodded, outwardly serene, though each word sliced into her like a precise blade.
Liam was exactly that—compromised.
Any flicker of doubt, any hesitation in her face, could destroy them both.
Even Miroslava.
The leader turned toward her, his voice lowering into something almost prophetic.
"We need you back, Alessia. You're part of the next generation.
You'll use your power to contain the newly turned before they drag us all into extinction."
There was no time for argument, no courtesy.
One by one, the vampires turned and vanished through the elevator doors.
No words. No trace.
The silence that followed was brutal.
Alessia exhaled, as if she'd held her breath for centuries.
She rushed downstairs, opened the trunk, and gathered Liam into her arms.
Carrying him back upstairs, she laid him gently on the couch,
covered him with a blanket, and brushed her fingers over his forehead, whispering a soft incantation that called him back from the haze.
Liam stirred, blinking rapidly, then sat up, startled.
"Miroslava…? Where is she? What happened?"
Alessia approached with a gentle, confused smile.
She sat beside him, took his hand, and whispered softly,
"Shh… It's alright. You must have had a nightmare. I went out to get breakfast, and when I came back, you were still asleep."
Liam rubbed his temples, disoriented.
He looked around, searching for something that wasn't there.
The sunlight still streamed through the curtains.
The cat was asleep on a chair.
The air smelled faintly of coffee.
"A nightmare…?" he echoed, his voice uncertain.
"Yes. Everything's fine," Alessia murmured, running her fingers through his hair.
"I'm here now."
And Liam, needing to believe her, nodded slowly—
convinced that it had all been just a dream.
She, on the other hand, knew she had just defied death.
And that her lie…
was the only thing keeping them alive.