A weak heart can only harm others.
How did I feel? Miserable. A single word, yet it captured everything. It was the same way I felt on the first day of my training—raw, unsteady, and overwhelmed. Since that night, my hands had been trembling non-stop, no matter what I tried to steady them. No matter how fiercely I tried to distract myself, my mind always returned to that night and the paralyzing fear that consumed me.
I thought I had moved past all that. Once, I truly believed I had. But perhaps I was fooling myself all along. Maybe it was Jo's death that made me see it clearly, though I continued to feign ignorance afterward. My faith had vanished—faith in myself.
After escaping the hunters, I had come to rely too heavily on my healing ability, convinced that my body was nearly indestructible. I trusted myself too much, believing in my own strength, maybe even in my invincibility.
Jo's death shattered that illusion. And when I stood before a man who had tasted the power of the necromancers, fear gripped me like never before. I felt my weakness, stark and undeniable. For the first time in my life, I knew I had no chance of winning. Every fiber of my being screamed at me to run. I despised that feeling. More than anything.
Des placed a hand on my shoulder, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts. I looked up at him, questioning.
"Are you all right?" he asked, concern etched in his face.
I nodded, though it felt like a lie. "Why?"
"I've been calling you for five minutes."
I wasn't surprised. Since that night, I had often been lost in my own thoughts—heavy, mournful memories dragging me down.
"What do you want?" I raised an eyebrow, sipping the now ice-cold cocoa.
How long had I been stuck in my mind? When I first started thinking, the mug had been pleasantly warm, its contents fragrant and inviting.
Des watched me with a mix of worry and pain, then pretended not to notice how shitty I felt. Why should I pretend? I was seriously feeling like shit.
"I'll be back later, and we'll resume training," Des announced, his tone casual. "I'm not slated for any missions for a while."
I shrugged. "Okay."
As abruptly as he had entered, Des left. He knew I wasn't in any state to fight—he'd probably have me on his sword within seconds. I needed to pull myself together before the afternoon.
Since I was up relatively early, I decided a shower might help clear my mind. I washed my hair, dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt, and wandered into the living room with a towel draped around my neck.
I took the dry clothes off the rack, sorting out the pieces I deemed in need of ironing—mostly my favorite shirts. The act of ironing turned out to be surprisingly therapeutic.
But seriously, whether it's a teacher giving you a hard time, a boss demanding unpaid overtime, someone trampling your psyche with steel-toed boots, or just an overall crappy mood, like mine—ironing is oddly satisfying.
That is, until you burn a hole in your third-favorite shirt in a row. Still, I needed to keep myself occupied, even if I wasn't very successful at it. Honestly, I felt like smashing someone's head into a wall.
You know that feeling when you're at home and just can't settle? When your throat tightens, your heart feels like a gaping black hole, and no amount of raiding the fridge can satiate the gnawing hunger in your gut.
If you think I was in rough shape, you'd be wrong. I was nothing compared to Alex. In the past three days, he hadn't managed to return to his original form.
He moved about as a wolf, understanding what I said but reacting minimally. Most of the time, he just lay there, eyes closed, pretending to sleep. I knew he wasn't sleeping—just shutting the world out. I didn't push him. He needed time to sort things out on his own.
I was worried. Shapeshifters sometimes lose control over their transformations, a problem usually tied to mental clarity.
I wasn't even sure if his transformation that night had been deliberate. He'd once told me his first shift happened out of sheer terror—perhaps this time was the same. I'd heard stories of shapeshifters who couldn't change back, and the thought unsettled me.
When I couldn't stand it any longer, I went to check on him. The sight that met me was a surprise: I saw Rolo lying on the living room floor, leaning against the wolf, his fingers buried in the silky fur, breathing softly.
Alex remained silent. When I entered the room, he briefly glanced up, then lifted his head, his gaze following me. Rolo stirred slightly, but remained asleep. I think even if he didn't have his heart set on it first, he liked Alex.
The other day, I caught Rolo thanking the wolf, which honestly surprised me. Rolo wasn't the type to express gratitude, so seeing him do it made me realize he had finally accepted Alex, in his own way.
In Rolo's other hand rested his sketchbook, which I grabbed and began to flip through. There were some surprisingly good drawings—ones of me, a black-and-white dandelion, a butterfly, and even bubbles. The variety was striking. But then I stopped at one image.
I recognized it immediately. It was from our first and last trip together—well, the photo he had copied. In the drawing, I was on the left, turning toward the camera with a look of surprise, while Jo smiled sweetly beside me. Behind us—or perhaps in front of us?—Alex was stretching with his back to the camera, and Coffee sat beside him, sipping his coffee, also facing away from me. A smile tugged at my lips as the memory resurfaced.
Alice had taken the photo without my permission, of course. In retaliation, Alex had held him down while I tickled him mercilessly until he begged for mercy. Jo had laughed, clearly amused by our childish antics, while Coffee, ever the disinterested observer, simply continued to sip his coffee.
"Remember this one?" I asked, showing the picture to the wolf.
I read the answer in his eyes. He recognized it too.
"Where could he have gotten the original from?" I wondered aloud as I continued flipping through the pages.
The next drawing was of the wretched beast that had been making my life miserable. How could a cat pose so naturally?! I grimaced a few more times at the other feline sketches before reaching the last drawing. This one was of Alex in his wolf form, but it needed a little more work.
I chuckled and set the sketchbook down on the coffee table.
"I'm proud of you, mate," I said with a grin, "You've softened the kid's heart."
He nodded in response, and I couldn't resist reaching out to stroke his head. He let out an awkward growl.
"Alright, alright, it was just a reflex," I apologized, grinning. "Besides, you can't say it didn't feel good."
He turned his head away in annoyance, but I rewarded him with a giggle.
"I'm going out for a bit," I announced, standing.
I saw the question in his eyes, but I didn't offer the answer he was hoping for.
"I'll be back soon."
Even though it was only around six in the evening, I made my way to the Goblin bar. The 'closed' sign was hanging on the door when I reached for the handle, but it opened easily as I twisted it.
Zénó was hustling behind the counter, a steaming hot chocolate already waiting for me. I sat down without a word, nodding my thanks. It wasn't surprising that he knew I was coming—after all, he was the second-best informant in town.
"How may I help you?" he asked with a knowing smile.
I sighed deeply, the weight of everything pressing down on me.
"We've caught Dorian Vincze," I said quietly, "But we've paid a heavy price."
Zénó nodded, as if this was a familiar story. "We often lose our way. You'll get over it."
"Alex…" I hesitated, running a hand through my hair. "My best friend is a shifter. He hasn't been able to change back for three days."
Zénó paused, his fingers stilling on the glass he was polishing.
"So, you came for advice?" he asked, his voice soft but sharp with interest.
I nodded. He studied my face with those narrow, observant eyes, wiping the glass slowly as he did.
"There's nothing you can do," he said at last, his tone firm. "Be patient and trust your friend. That's the best you can do."
"But are you sure he'll be okay?" I looked up at him, desperate.
Maybe he saw the raw fear in my eyes because he answered in a way that was meant to soothe.
"Of course. He'll be fine."
We both knew he was lying. I stood up, thanked him for the drink, but he waved away my payment with a casual hand. I left, the words heavy on my chest.
When I got home, Des was waiting for me in the back garden. He sprang up from the grass as soon as he saw me, drawing his sword with a practiced motion.
"You're scared," Des said, his voice flat, as he swung his sword to clean off the blood.
I felt my fists clench instinctively. Des had a way of provoking me, and it worked every time. Even as a child, I swore I'd never let anything scare me. I smiled, hiding the blizzard of emotions swirling inside me.
"It'll take more than that to scare me," I said, then appeared in front of him in an instant.
Without warning, I pulled my hand back and aimed a vicious strike at his chest with my claws. The hunter dodged with a quick leap, but I reached out with my other hand, clamping it over his mouth before he could say something that would really set me off.
I gripped his chin, my strength enough to crush him in an instant if I wanted to. But something caught my attention. My gaze dropped to my stomach, wide-eyed. A wound had torn open, and the contents of my stomach spilled onto the ground—blood, stomach acid, and twisted intestines all mixed together in a grotesque display.
I dropped to my knees and stared up at my brother in almost disbelief, recognizing him for a moment as the cold-blooded hunter who killed monsters like me day after day. Never, until then, had I been so grievously wounded. I couldn't speak, I could feel the blood in my throat and mouth, and the world blurred before me for a moment. All I felt was the blood-red heat inside me.
I collapsed to my knees, staring up at Des in stunned disbelief, for a split second seeing him as the cold-blooded hunter he was—the one who killed creatures like me every day. I'd never been so gravely wounded. My throat and mouth filled with blood, my world blurring for a moment. All I could feel was the burning, blood-red heat rising inside me.
"You are afraid," Des said again, his voice cold, almost clinical. "You're afraid of yourself. Of the instincts that make you want to destroy and devour your friends."
I pressed my lips into a tight line, the pain cutting through me like a knife.
"It's natural, Shay," Des continued, leaning his sword against his shoulder. "Vampires crave blood, fae seek destruction."
He shrugged, unbothered. "But your friends aren't so weak that they'll let you devour them without a fight."
I exhaled sharply, the air almost catching in my chest.
"And if you ever lose control," Des added with a quiet smile, "I won't let you destroy everything around you."
I let out a bitter laugh, one that started as a giggle and quickly turned into something lighter, almost like relief. For the first time in a long while, I found myself laughing.
But the moment was cut short when Des jumped back, his eyes widening. A thin line of blood appeared on his cheek.
"Des, that fucking hurt," I muttered, raising my wrist to my lips as blood suddenly spurted from the wound.
Although I thought Des had let his guard down for just a moment, he still managed to almost cut my hand off despite the sudden attack. I was sure he would not be able to follow my movements.
Very slowly, I pulled my bloodied lips into a smile. For a moment, neither of us said anything. Des was likely waiting for another strike, while I lingered in the pain, savoring the last moments before my body fully healed. I hated pain, but right then, I welcomed it. I was savoring it, I was basking in it. It meant Des was strong, and that, strangely, comforted me more than any words ever could.
I sighed deeply before pushing myself to my feet. "I'm going to have a shower."
Without waiting for a response, I turned and left the hunter behind.
In that moment, as I turned away, the monster inside me was purring—a simple, primal sound. Mostly he was purring when he wanted to break the weak and crush the strong, to fight, to kill, and to consume. But now, he was purring, not out of hunger for destruction, but because he craved something different: Des. He wanted him to live.
He acknowledged Des, as if seeing him for the first time. There was still the burning desire to fight him, to taste his blood, to feel the rush of pain and power—but the monster, for reasons I couldn't fully grasp, was satisfied.
He wanted Des to live, to fight and challenge us again in the future. The monster, in its own twisted way, had deemed him worthy of more than just a battle—he wanted him to endure, to be strong enough to meet us again. That approval, strange as it was, somehow satisfied a hunger I didn't even know I had.
When I stepped out of the shower, I was aware of Alex's heartbeat—steady and normal. Just to be sure, I made my way to his room. There he was, standing with his back to me, pulling a T-shirt over his head—in his human form!
It felt like a weight had been lifted from my chest. A breath I hadn't realized I was holding rushed out of me in a deep sigh, as if I'd been suffocating for weeks.
The wolf looked up at me, his surprise evident, and I realized how sentimental I must have seemed. The flush of embarrassment that crossed his face made me chuckle, a little bit at myself.
Without thinking, I walked over and gave him a playful kick in the shin. He yelped in pain, and I couldn't help but grin. What did he think I was going to do—hug him?
"Don't do that again," I told him firmly, then turned on my heel and headed back to my room.
"Sorry," came his sheepish voice, but I didn't bother replying.
As I walked away, I could hear Rolo's voice carrying from the hallway.
"I think your behavior shows suspiciously masochistic tendencies," he teased, though I could hear the relief in his tone. "Or maybe it's a master-pet dynamic? Which hypothesis sounds more accurate to you?"
Alex let out an annoyed snort and slammed the door in Rolo's face with an audible thud.