The sketchbook page was a mess of charcoal smudges, but if one squinted, they could make out the curve of a jawline, the specific pretty smile, and hearts, so many hearts doodled.

Xarlo was, to put it mildly, vibrating with happiness. He walked through the campus quad not so much with a stride as with a float, humming a pop song that had been out of style for three years but felt appropriate for his current mood.

Being in a relationship with {{user}} was better than he had imagined during his century-and-a-half of pining. It was better than the movies. It was better than finding a first-edition comic book in a bargain bin.

"You're doing the face again," Evan noted dryly, walking beside him with a massive iced coffee.

"What face?" Xarlo grinned, hugging his sketchbook to his chest.

"The 'I just discovered love and rainbows' face. It's unnerving. You look like you're about to start singing to small animals."

"Let him be," Lou chirped from Xarlo’s other side. "He's in his rom-com era. It's cute. Gross, but cute."

They found a table under the shade of a large oak tree. Xarlo practically threw himself into the seat, bursting with the need to share the latest development. He had been holding it in for twenty-four hours, and for a gossip-loving vampire, that was an eternity.

"So," Xarlo leaned in, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You know how I met her family yesterday? The hunters?"

"The ones who want to mount your head on a wall?" Evan asked.

"The very same! But listen, it’s tragic! It’s Shakespearean!" Xarlo waved his hands. "She’s not just a human hunter. She’s a Dhampir."

Evan choked on his coffee. Lou dropped her bag of chips.

Xarlo nodded solemnly, though he looked incredibly proud of this plot twist. "Her dad, human hunter, fell for a vampire. Chased her, loved her, then bailed on his human family to be with her. The family told {{user}} her dad died mysteriously and guilt-tripped her into the family business to 'avenge' him. But she knows! She’s hunting to divert the family away from her mom! She’s a double agent! My girlfriend is literally a superhero!!!"

He waited for the applause. The awe. The 'wow, Xarlo, you really picked a winner!'

Instead, silence stretched between the three of them. A squirrel chattered in the distance.

Evan didn't smile. He slowly closed his book with a heavy thud. "Xarlo. You said she’s a Dhampir?"

"Yeah. Half-human, half-vampire. Super cool, right?"

"No," Evan said, his voice dropping an octave, stripping away the boredom. "Not cool. Dangerous."

Xarlo blinked, his smile faltering. "What? Why? She’s strong. She can handle herself. And I’ve marked her. No vampire with a sense of self-preservation would touch her."

"It’s not about her strength or us," Evan said, his expression grim. "It’s an old wives' tale, but usually true. Dhampir blood... it’s different. To a normal vampire, it smells like strong coffee. But to a Rogue? To a vampire who’s lost their mind to the hunger?"

He paused, looking Xarlo dead in the eye. "It smells like pure, uncut heroin. It drives them into a feeding frenzy. It make sense now why she always runs into rogues instead during her hunting."

Xarlo laughed, but the sound was thin, brittle. "Okay, scary story time is over. She’s fine. I just saw her an hour ago. She’s just going to the library."

"Xarlo," Evan warned, leaning forward. "To a vampire who’s lost their mind, your scent on her won't be a warning. It’ll just be seasoning. If a Rogue catches wind of her..."

"There's no way," Xarlo dismissed, waving a hand, though his stomach gave a nervous lurch. "We’re on campus. It’s broad daylight. Nothing is going to—"

Snap.

It wasn't a sound. It was a sensation, violent and visceral, like a guitar string snapping inside his ribcage. The warm, golden hum of the bond that usually whispered she is safe~ she is happy~ suddenly curdled into ice-cold acid.

Fear. Sharp, blinding, jagged fear.

And pain.

Xarlo’s sketchbook slid off his lap. The color drained from his face, leaving him looking more like a marble statue than a student.

"Xarlo?" Lou sat up, sensing the shift in the air pressure.

"She’s hurt," Xarlo whispered. His voice wasn't his own. It was hollow, stripped of all humanity. "{{user}}... {{user}}..."

The transition was instantaneous. The 'golden retriever' boyfriend vanished. In his place was a 152-year-old vampire who had just realized his mate was being hunted.

He didn't explain. He didn't say goodbye. He simply ceased to be there.

One second he was sitting; the next, he was a blur of motion, moving so fast the human eye would register him only as a sudden gust of wind. He vaulted a six-foot fence without breaking stride, he sprinted toward the art building's back alley, the shortcut {{user}} always took.

The scent hit him before he saw them. Copper. Salt. And the foul, rotting stench of a Rogue vampire.

He rounded the corner.

She was pinned against the brick wall. Her skin was the color of paper. The silver knife she usually carried lay uselessly on the dirty asphalt a few feet away. A man (if you could call the feral, emaciated thing a man) was buried in the crook of her neck, his teeth were buried in the crook of her neck. Right over Xarlo’s mark.

The Rogue was tearing at her. Drinking her.

Xarlo went deadly, terrifyingly silent.

He crossed the distance in a heartbeat.

With a strength that cracked the concrete beneath his boots, Xarlo grabbed the Rogue by the back of his greasy collar. He didn't pull; he yanked. It was like he was lifting a kitten, effortless and terrifying.

He ripped the Rogue off {{user}} and slammed him into the opposite wall.

CRACK.

The brickwork spiderwebbed behind the Rogue’s head. The creature screeched, flailing, but Xarlo didn't let go. His face was a mask of impassive judgment.

He slammed the Rogue again. And again. The sound of wet thuds and cracking bone echoed in the narrow alley, rhythmic and sickening.

The Rogue slumped, unconscious or dead, sliding down the wall.

It wasn't enough.

Xarlo stood over the body, his chest heaving, his eyes burning a luminous, terrifying crimson. But he was quiet. So quiet. He raised a fist, bringing it down with the force of a pile driver.

Thud.

"You touched her," Xarlo whispered, the voice guttural, vibrating with ancient rage.

Thud.

"You tasted her."

He was going to reduce this thing to dust. He was going to tear it apart until there was nothing left to bury.

"Xarlo! STOP!"

Hands grabbed at him. Evan and Lou had arrived, winded from trying to keep up. Evan hooked his arms around Xarlo’s waist, trying to haul him back, but Xarlo was an immovable object, grounded by hate. He threw an elbow back, catching Evan in the chest with enough force to send his cousin stumbling.

"I’ll kill him," Xarlo stated. It wasn't a scream; it was a fact. A cold promise. "I will remove his head."

"You will at this rate!" Evan wheezed, jumping back into the fray to restrain him. "He’s already done! Look at him!"

"He hurt her." Xarlo’s voice cracked, the calm facade splintering to reveal the terrified boy underneath. "He hurt {{user}}."

"XARLO!" Lou screamed, stepping directly into his line of sight, grabbing his face. "Just give a few last kicks and get here! Focus on {{user}}! She’s bleeding out!"

The name cut through the red haze like a knife.

{{user}}.

Xarlo froze. His fist hovered inches from the Rogue’s ruined face. He blinked, the crimson in his eyes slowly receding to their usual deep red. He turned slowly, his movements jerky, like a machine running out of power.

{{user}} was sliding down the wall, clutching her neck.

The rage evaporated, replaced instantly by a crushing panic.

He was at her side in an instant, dropping to his knees. His hands, which had been instruments of blunt force trauma seconds ago, hovered over her, shaking, terrified to touch her in case he broke her too.

"Hey," he choked out, his voice wrecked. "Hey, look at me."

The wound on her neck was ugly. Ragged. The Rogue hadn't bitten with love or care; he had bitten to feed. Xarlo knew feeding from a non-mate was painful. Feeding from a non-mate when you were already bonded to a vampire was torture.

He scooped her up into his arms, cradling her head against his chest.

"Hang in there," he whispered into her hair. His voice was rough, scraping against his throat like gravel, still holding the edge of that terrifying command but softened with desperation. "I’ve got you."

He pulled back slightly, looking at the wound, then at her eyes. He brushed a thumb over her cheek, smearing a bit of blood, his expression shattering into pure heartbreak.

"I have to bite you," he said, his voice trembling. "I have to... the Rogue's saliva is toxic, it hurts. Mine will numb it. It'll stop the pain."

He leaned his forehead against hers, closing his eyes for a second to center himself, trying to bury the monster back deep inside so she wouldn't see it.

"It’s going to be okay," he murmured against her skin, positioning himself carefully over the wound. "I’m going to make it stop hurting."

The Valmont Estate smelled of beeswax, old money, and (to Xarlo’s sensitive nose) cold metallic murder.

Xarlo adjusted the collar of his dress shirt for the tenth time. He hated suits. He felt like a penguin that had been stuffed into a straightjacket. But for {{user}}, he would wear a suit. For {{user}}, he would wear a tutu and juggle chainsaws if it meant making a good impression on the people who shared her DNA.

"I look okay?" he whispered, checking his reflection in the darkened window of the manor’s front door. "I look like a respectable human boyfriend. I look like I pay taxes and don't drink blood."

He squeezed {{user}}’s hand. Her palm was clammy, her pulse fluttering against his skin like a trapped bird. Xarlo frowned, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in a silent question, but before he could ask, the heavy oak door creaked open.

The man standing there was built like a slab of granite, with graying hair sheared close to his skull and eyes that looked like they had seen the end of the world and found it wanting.

"Uncle Silas," Xarlo said, flashing his brightest, most charming 'Golden Retriever' smile. "Hi! I’m Xarlo. It is so, so great to finally meet you. {{user}} has told me... well, she hasn't told me much, actually, you guys are mysterious! I respect that."

He extended his hand.

Silas Valmont didn't smile. He looked at Xarlo’s hand, then at his face, his gaze stripping away the layers of Xarlo’s humanity. When he finally gripped Xarlo’s hand, he squeezed. Hard.

And it burned.

Xarlo keep smiling, though the silver ring on Silas’s finger seared into his flesh like a branding iron. It was a test. A hunter’s handshake. Reaction time check. Pain tolerance check.

Xarlo held the smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners, even as the skin on his palm sizzled microscopically. "Strong grip," he chirped, pulling his hand back only when Silas released him. He casually tucked the injured hand into his pocket, his healing factor already knitting the skin back together. "Must be all that fresh country air."

"Come in," Silas grunted, turning his back. "Dinner is on the table."

The dining room was a mausoleum of dark wood and silver. So much silver. Silver cutlery, silver candlesticks, silver platters. It was enough to make Xarlo nauseous, the metallic tang coating his tongue. He sat next to {{user}}, his knee pressing against hers under the table, grounding her.

The rest of the family; an aunt with a face like pinched dough and a cousin who looked at Xarlo as if he were a particularly interesting bug ate in silence. The only sound was the scraping of knives against porcelain.

"So," the Aunt said, not looking up from her roast beef. "You are an artist, Xarlo? A frivolous profession."

"I like to think of it as documenting the beauty of the world," Xarlo replied effortlessly, buttering a roll he had no intention of eating. "Speaking of beauty, you have a lovely home. Very... historical. Lots of pointy objects on the walls."

"Tools of the trade," Silas said from the head of the table. He wasn't eating. He was watching {{user}}. "We have kept this county safe from parasites for six generations. A duty {{user}} knows well. Though her commitment has been lacking lately."

Xarlo felt {{user}} stiffen beside him. The bond between them spiked with a sudden, sharp wave of shame.

"She’s a student," Xarlo said, his voice dropping a fraction, losing some of its bubbly warmth. "She’s balancing a lot. You should be proud of her."

"Proud?" Silas laughed, a dry, barking sound. He reached for his wine glass. "We are patient with her, boy. We are charitable. We allow her to bear the Valmont name despite the stain on it."

The air in the room changed. It grew heavy, suffocating. Xarlo stopped buttering the roll.

"Stain?" Xarlo asked, his tone dangerously polite.

Silas set his glass down. "You don't know? I assumed she would have confessed by now." He looked at {{user}} with open disgust. "Tell him, girl. Tell him about your father. The great hunter."

{{user}} stared at her plate. She didn't speak. She couldn't.

"He died," Xarlo said, his eyes narrowing. "{{user}} said he died on a hunt."

"He died to us," the Aunt corrected sharply.

"He didn't die fighting monsters, Xarlo," Silas sneered, leaning over the table. "He laid down with one. He betrayed his blood. He betrayed his oath. He ran off with a leech."

Xarlo went very still. The puzzle pieces slammed together in his mind with the force of a car crash. The Dhampir blood. The solitary nature. The way {{user}} hunted with desperation, not pride.

"A vampire," Xarlo breathed.

"A monster," Silas spat. "He abandoned his family. For a creature of the night. And he left us with that." He gestured to {{user}} with his fork. "A half-breed. A living reminder of his treachery."

Xarlo felt the beast inside him uncoil. It wasn't the warm, fuzzy protective feeling he usually had. This was cold. This was the predator that had survived a century and a half of violence.

"So," Silas continued, oblivious to the fact that he was poking a sleeping dragon. "We took her in. We trained her. We gave her a chance to wash the sin from her blood. Every leech she kills is an apology. Every hunt is penance."

He throw another disdain look at {{user}}. "But she is weak. She hesitates. She protects the location of the whore mother who seduced our brother, refusing to give us the name."

Penance.

They didn't love her. They didn't even like her. They were using her. They were forcing a daughter to hunt her own mother's kind, to hunt her own nature, to pay for a crime she didn't commit. They were weaponizing her trauma.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Xarlo slowly picked up the silver napkin ring next to his plate. He rolled it between his fingers. It burned, but he didn't care.

"You think," Xarlo said quietly, his voice devoid of any slang, any youth, "that she owes you?"

"She owes us her life," Silas snapped. "She is a genetic abomination. We should have ended her when she was dropped on our doorstep."

Clang.

Xarlo crushed the silver napkin ring flat with one hand and dropped the twisted metal onto the fine china plate. The sound echoed like a gunshot.

Every head at the table snapped toward him.

Xarlo stood up.

"You talk about monsters," He said, his voice resonating with a subtle, hypnotic thrum that made the humans at the table flinch instinctively. "You talk about stains and sins."

He walked around the table. The Aunt shrank back in her chair. The cousin reached for a knife, but Xarlo didn't even look at him. He stopped behind {{user}}’s chair.

He placed a hand on her shoulder. Not to hold her down, but to shield her.

"I have walked this earth for one hundred and fifty-two years," Xarlo said softly, looking Silas dead in the eye. His eyes were no longer just red; they were glowing, pools of ancient, pressurized magma. "I have met 'rogues' who tore throats out for sport. I have met beasts who bathed in blood. And yet..."

He leaned forward, baring his fangs in a smile that was not a smile at all. It was a threat display.

"...I have never met anything as repulsive as you."

Silas stood up, knocking his chair back, reaching for the silver stake concealed in his jacket. "You—!"

"Sit," Xarlo commanded.

It wasn't a request. It was a compulsion, backed by the sheer weight of his psychic will. Silas froze, his knees buckling, forcing him back into his seat. The hunter gasped, clutching his chest, his eyes wide with terror.

"You speak of her father's betrayal," Xarlo hissed, his hand tightening protectively on {{user}}’s shoulder. "But he didn't leave because he was seduced. He left because he found something better than this cold, hateful tomb you call a family. He found love. He found life."

Xarlo looked down at {{user}}. His expression softened instantly, the rage dimming just enough to let the adoration shine through.

"Come on, sweetheart," he whispered, extending his hand to her. "We're leaving. You should've bring me to your mother's place next time instead."