The night settled over the Duval household like a heavy curtain, shrouding everything in a veil of darkness. Marcus, stumbling and swaying with the weight of inebriation, fumbled with the front door. The rhythmic clink of his keys echoed through the silent hallway as he attempted to unlock the barrier between the night and the warmth of home.
But the door remained steadfastly sealed. Viktor, aware of his son's erratic habits, had taken the precaution of securing the household against Marcus's late-night escapades. Isabella, hearing the futile jangling of keys, approached the door, concern etched across her face. She spoke in hushed tones, pleading with Viktor to grant Marcus entry.
"Viktor, please. He's your son. Let him in," Isabella implored, her eyes reflecting a mixture of worry and desperation.
Viktor's stern expression revealed the internal struggle between paternal concern and a resolute decision. "No, Isabella. He needs to learn. He can't keep doing this."
Marcus, caught in a haze of alcohol-induced stupor, leaned against the door, his eyes half-closed. Isabella, torn between her loyalty to her son and the realization of Viktor's justified frustration, continued her plea. "Viktor, it's cold out there. He won't learn if you leave him outside to die of cold."
The silent tension hung thick in the air, broken only by the howling winds that winds that night. Viktor's resolve wavered momentarily, but he shook his head. "No, Isabella. He needs to understand the consequences of his actions."
As the night wore on, Marcus succumbed to the steps, his figure slouched against the doorframe. The cold surface beneath him and the frigid night air served as an unwelcome awakening. The world around him blurred, and he felt the sharp pang of sobriety amid the numbness.
Time became a distorted concept as Marcus drifted in and out of consciousness. What felt like mere minutes later, Viktor's stern voice shattered the morning calm. "Get up, Marcus. Get up, you drunken mess."
The sun had painted the sky with hues of amber and rose, and Marcus, disoriented and nursing a pounding headache, struggled to his feet. The events of the night before flooded back into his groggy consciousness. Viktor, arms crossed and expression stern, towered over him.
"Look at yourself, Marcus. This can't go on, I can't have you disgrace and ruin the Duval name under my roof." Viktor admonished, his voice a mixture of disappointment and frustration.
The reality of the situation hit Marcus with the force of a hangover. He mumbled an incoherent apology, but Viktor's patience had worn thin. "I've had enough, this isn't even the fourth or fifth time this is happening. I won't tolerate this behavior in my house anymore."
A chill ran down Marcus's spine as Viktor continued. "You've got four days, Marcus. Four days to find your own place and move out. I can't watch you destroy yourself like this. I won't let it happen under my roof."
Isabella, torn between her son and her husband, stood silent, behind the entrance door, her eyes reflecting a sorrow that transcended words.
In his room, Ethan discerns every sound at the front door with heightened clarity, as if the unfolding events were transpiring right within the confines of his room.
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The morning sun struggled to pierce through the thick clouds, casting a muted light on the faces of Aria, Thorne, and Gabriel, each adorned with a disappointed look. Thorne, his frustration palpable, questioned the turn of events. "How the hell did that vampire slip through our hands? We had him."
Aria, her keen instincts always at play, responded, "You know he could smell us too. Maybe he got a whiff and planned ten steps ahead."
Gabriel, his brow furrowed in contemplation, interjected, "But I think I slashed his arm. That won't heal fast, will it?"
Thorne nodded, acknowledging the efficacy of their vervain-dripped swords. "No, it wouldn't. These blades counter their healing abilities, at least for a while."
As the trio settled into the room, the air heavy with the weight of unresolved tensions, a knock echoed through the silence. Startled, they exchanged wary glances. Before they could decipher the unexpected interruption, a voice on the other side of the door greeted them with a casual "Good morning" and identified themselves as guards.
Gabriel's gaze swiftly swept the room, capturing the unease etched across Thorne and Aria's faces. Racing through myriad possibilities, he pondered, "Did they witness our battle against the vampire? Or have they discerned that I am a werewolf?" Before he could articulate a response, the insistent knocking persisted, interrupting the unspoken tension that hung in the air.
Gabriel cautiously opened the door, met by two guards whose expressions remained official and inscrutable. Gerard trailed behind, entering Gabriel's house with a practiced scrutiny that belied his intent. His eyes swept the sitting room, as if hunting for concealed evidence he was convinced existed. This mistrust had festered since their first encounter two decades ago. Despite Gabriel's affable demeanor, Gerard couldn't shake the feeling that beneath the meek charm lay something amiss, a sentiment that had persistently irked him over the years. Gabriel introduced Thorne and Aria, as his guests, while Fantine, still half-asleep, was stirred by the commotion in the sitting room.
Gerard's gaze lingered on Thorne and Aria, suspicion etched across his face. He hoped to find something, anything, that could connect one of them to the elusive vampire they were hunting.
Inquiring about their connection to Gabriel, Gerard's scrutiny fell upon Thorne and Aria. Thorne, evasive yet composed, offered, "We are old friends." Unconvinced, Gerard pressed further, his tone laced with suspicion, "And is this young lady," his gaze turning to Aria, "also an old friend of Gabriel's?" The mockery in Gerard's voice hung in the air. Thorne, maintaining composure, revealed, "No, she is my daughter." Aria, uneasy under Gerard's piercing gaze, averted her eyes. Gerard, attempting a compliment that missed the mark, remarked, "What a pretty young lady... that looks nothing like her father." Thorne, seething beneath a veneer of control, masked his anger, knowing the consequences of revealing his true nature. Responding with a forced smile, he explained, "She looks a lot like her late mother, the love of my life," drawing sympathy from Gerard, who offered a belated, "Sorry for your loss."The air in the room crackled with tension as the guards conducted a meticulous search, their eyes scrutinizing every corner.
As they prepared to depart, having found nothing to satiate Gerard's expectations, after almost turning the place upside down. Gabriel could no longer restrain his curiosity and concern. "What is going on? Why are you searching my house and interrogating my guests?"
Gerard turned to Gabriel with a stern expression, his response curt and cryptic, "It's a security issue that we are trying to resolve."
The ambiguity of Gerard's answer hung in the air, leaving Gabriel and his guests with more questions than answers.