Thirty Minutes Ago
Eric didn't know how much time had passed since he was bound to the chair. The oppressive silence of the room had swallowed him whole, leaving only the faint creaks of his restraints and the dull throb of his body to remind him he was still alive—or something like it. Grayson had done his worst, testing the limits of Eric's newfound healing abilities, pushing him to the brink repeatedly. The only reason he hadn't succumbed was the lingering trace of Alaric's blood still coursing through his veins, an unshakable reminder of the bond he never wanted.
Hours had passed, maybe more. Grayson had left him there, bleeding but alive, as if to mock the unnatural resilience that came with his condition. Some wounds had begun to close, knitting themselves together far faster than they ever should have. Even now, Eric couldn't get used to it. He stared down at his arms, watching as blood-slick skin repaired itself, and felt a wave of nausea churn in his stomach.
"This isn't me." he muttered under his breath, his voice hoarse from screaming earlier.
But who was he now? The question gnawed at him, burrowing deeper with every fleeting moment of clarity. Eric had been someone once—someone whole, someone human. He could still recall the faint traces of warmth on his skin, the feeling of the sun kissing his face as he trudged through the door to the smell of her cooking. His wife. She had been his anchor, his tether to a life he now barely recognized.
And yet, as the memories sharpened, they twisted. He didn't remember her fondly anymore. Not the way a husband was supposed to. The image of her smile, so radiant and full of love, now seemed tainted—an illusion masking a cunning, manipulative edge. She had betrayed him, hadn't she? Her laughter, once sweet and infectious, now echoed bitterly in his ears, a cruel reminder of how easily she had turned on him.
She wanted a life for him that he could never give. A steady husband. A man who worked tirelessly to secure their future, who worshipped the ground she walked on. But that wasn't him. He had hated the dull weight of her expectations, the suffocating predictability of the life she carved out for them both. Even then, he despised the way she molded herself into a saint while he stood as the villain—the irresponsible one, the selfish dreamer. He had loved her once,well at least that was what he told himself, but it was the kind of love that eroded over time, worn down by her quiet judgments and his restless desire to escape.
And when she betrayed him—when she took the knife she'd planted in his back and twisted it—he had felt almost nothing. No shock. No heartbreak. Only a grim, hollow satisfaction that they had finally proven each other right.
"What did I do to deserve this?" he whispered bitterly, slumping forward in the chair. He wasn't even sure who he was asking—God, himself, or the cruel, unknown creator who had cursed him with this unholy second life.
He let his head fall back against the chair, staring up at the ceiling with empty eyes. The darkness around him felt endless, and he couldn't shake the feeling that it was creeping into him, hollowing out what little was left of who he used to be.
"A monster," the thought came unbidden, venomous, a voice not entirely his own. She wouldn't see the man she married, the man who tried, however clumsily, to love her. She'd see the truth—the predator lurking beneath his skin.
Eric's jaw tightened as fresh anger flared in his chest. His fists clenched against the bindings, nails digging into his palms as a voice whispered cruelly at the edges of his thoughts. Weak.
And he felt it. Weak. Useless. Broken.
Pathetic, the voice sneered again, louder now. It wasn't his voice. No, it was sharper, colder, with a cutting edge that felt like a blade pressing to his throat.
He tried to ignore it, to drown it out with the memories of what he once was, but the rage only built, coiling like a snake in his chest. He wasn't just angry at himself anymore; he was angry at everything.
"You know what you are," the voice growled, darker now, with an edge of disgust. "You've always known."
Eric's breathing grew uneven, the shadows around him pressing closer, colder. He squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn't help. That voice—his voice—Killian's voice—was growing louder, impossible to ignore.
Eric's body screamed with pain, each breath a jagged knife carving its way through his chest. The wounds Grayson had inflicted felt raw, unyielding, and though they healed, the sensation of skin stitching itself back together was no less agonizing. He gritted his teeth and groaned, trying to suppress the sound, as though giving voice to his suffering would grant it more power. He needed something to hold onto, something to keep his mind from unraveling under the weight of it all.
That's when the image of Alaric came to him—not the Alaric who hovered over him now, with his piercing gaze and cryptic words, but a version of him Eric didn't even know how he remembered.
He saw Alaric as he might have been thousands of years ago: tall and proud, draped in heavy robes that shimmered like molten gold under the sun. His hair was longer, tied loosely at the nape of his neck, and his face, though still sharp and angular, was somehow softer, less haunted. There was no iron ring at his neck, no weight of suppressed power in his posture. His eyes were bright, vibrant, and alive—alive in a way Eric had never seen before.
The image was so vivid it stunned him. He could see Alaric standing at the edge of a great marble hall, sunlight spilling through enormous arched windows. He could hear the faint echo of footsteps across the polished stone, smell the faint aroma of incense that hung in the air. Alaric's voice came to him, deep and resonant, though the words were blurred, just out of reach. It wasn't the Alaric he knew.
Eric's breath hitched, and for a moment, the pain in his body faded into the background. How could he remember this? He had never been there. He didn't even know where there was. And yet, the image was as clear as if he had lived it himself. He could see the faint glint of a golden ring on Alaric's finger,the same one from his recent dream, the intricate patterns etched into it, the way he carried himself as though the entire world bent to his will.
But there was something else, too—a faint ache in his chest as he watched Alaric in this memory, or vision, or whatever it was. It wasn't anger or resentment this time, but something deeper, something almost… mournful. He couldn't understand it, couldn't make sense of why this version of Alaric stirred something in him he didn't have the words for.
"Why am I seeing this?" Eric whispered, his voice barely audible. His fingers twitched against the chair's armrests, his nails still dug into the wood. He shut his eyes tighter, trying to will the image away, but it only grew stronger. He saw Alaric walking toward him now, his robes sweeping across the floor, his expression unreadable. There was something heavy in his gaze, something ancient and unrelenting, and Eric felt his chest tightened with want.
He wanted to scream, to demand answers from the Alaric in his mind, to make sense of why these memories—or were they someone else's memories?—were tormenting him now. But all he could do was watch as the vision played out, as though he were trapped in someone else's dream.
When Alaric reached him, he spoke, and this time Eric could hear the words clearly: "You don't remember, but you will."
The edges of the room around him blurred and twisted, the darkness deepening until it swallowed everything.
And then he saw him.
Killian.
The man looked exactly as Eric had seen in his dreams before, an almost perfect reflection of himself yet... different. His features were sharper, his gaze colder, his movements deliberate and predatory. Killian circled Eric like a shark, his steps slow and measured, his eyes devoid of emotion. In his hand, he held a book—a black, leather-bound tome with no title, its edges frayed and worn. The book didn't just feel familiar ,it felt like his.
"You again," Eric whispered, his voice trembling. "Why… why are you here?"
Killian didn't respond at first. He flipped the book open with a lazy motion, the pages fluttering as though caught in a wind only it could feel. His lips moved, but the words that came out were a series of riddles, cryptic and unsettling.
"What is bound but cannot be broken? What is stolen but never truly yours?" Killian's voice was soft, almost sing-song, but laced with a dark edge that made Eric's skin crawl. "A mirror cracked, yet it reflects. A name whispered, yet it echoes. Tell me, Eric… what are we?"
Eric's breath hitched. The words crawled under his skin, setting off an unease he couldn't quite name. He wanted to snap back, to tell Killian to stop speaking in riddles, but his throat felt dry, locked in silence.
Killian smirked, his movements stopping abruptly, the black book in his hands pulsing faintly. "You've met him," he said, almost mockingly, his voice dropping to a low hum. "The one who binds us. The one you see and forget. The one whose love is both curse and salvation. You've felt it, haven't you? The pull toward something… someone… and yet, you can't grasp why."
Eric stared, his heart pounding. His mind raced, trying to piece together the fragmented memories and half-truths swirling in his thoughts.
Killian took a step closer, the book snapping shut with a resounding clap that echoed in the void. "Here's another riddle for you, Eric," he said, his tone sharpening like a blade. "What is one yet two? A heart divided, a love undone. Who stands beside you, within you, yet apart?"
The air grew heavier, suffocating. Eric's lips parted, but no words came. He saw flashes in his mind—Alaric's face, smiling with a warmth that felt both comforting and foreign. Alaric's arms outstretched, his voice calling to him, but always just out of reach.
Killian leaned in, his eyes burning with intensity. "Answer me this," he murmured, his lips curling into a cruel smile. "What happens when a man forgets his other half? What happens when he loses the one thing that made him whole?"
The question hung in the air, choking Eric. The answers felt close, maddeningly close, but they remained just beyond his reach. And deep down, in the pit of his chest, he felt it—the undeniable truth that he was staring into his own reflection.
"Look," Killian said.
Eric's head snapped forward, and suddenly, the void around him filled with a new image. It was Alaric, frozen mid-motion, his smile wide and bright, his arms outstretched as though reaching for a hug. There was a warmth to him, a lightness Eric had never seen in the man he knew now. It was a version of Alaric that felt impossibly distant, almost alien.
But something was wrong.
The image flickered, like static on an old television. Eric's stomach churned as he watched the brightness of Alaric's smile falter, his white skin beginning to melt, dripping like wax under a flame. His arms stayed outstretched, but the warmth in his gaze faded, replaced by something hollow, something lifeless.
Then Eric saw it—a thin, silver line appearing across Alaric's neck. It deepened, widening into a jagged wound, and dark blood began to spill down his chest. Eric's vision swam as the image twisted, Alaric's body collapsing inward, consumed by shadows. The warmth was gone. All that was left was blood, darkness, and the faint sound of a knife slicing through flesh.
"Stop it!" Eric shouted, his voice breaking. He tried to move, to look away, but his body was frozen, locked in place. His chest heaved, his eyes burning as the scene unfolded before him.
"Do you see now?" Killian's voice came again, colder than ever. He was in front of Eric now, the black book gone, his hands empty. His eyes bore into Eric's, and for the first time, there was a flicker of something behind the emotionless mask—desperation, hunger. "Let me in, Eric. Let me help you."
"What… what are you talking about?" Eric stammered, his mind spinning. His gaze darted back to the twisted, melting image of Alaric. The shadows around it seemed to pulse, growing larger, darker, threatening to consume everything.
Eric shook his head, his body trembling. "No… I—"
Before he could finish, Killian's hands shot out, gripping either side of Eric's face. His touch was freezing, burning into Eric's skin like frostbite. Killian's expression twisted into something monstrous, his teeth bared in a feral snarl.
"LET ME IN!" Killian screamed, his voice shaking the very air around them. The void seemed to tremble, the darkness writhing like it was alive.
Eric's mind splintered under the force of Killian's command. His emotions, his fear, his anger—everything drained from him, leaving only a hollow emptiness. His face went slack, his eyes dull and lifeless. He stopped trembling, stopped resisting.
————
Eric woke suddenly, his body stiff and disoriented, and for a moment, he wondered how long he had been unconscious. His limbs were heavy, his mind clouded, still wrestling with the confusion of his strange, fragmented existence. He was no longer sure of who he was or what had been real.
The door to the room creaked open, and Grayson stepped inside, his presence as commanding as ever. With a clap of his hands, he broke the oppressive silence and declared, "Congratulations on surviving the first day." His voice held no warmth, only the cold satisfaction of someone testing the limits of their subject.
Eric didn't understand.
Still bound to the chair, he could only stare at him, too stunned and bewildered to speak. He felt disoriented, lost in the haze of pain and confusion that clouded his mind. He remembered the agony of the past few hours—Grayson pushing him to his limits, testing him in ways that made him question everything he had once known about pain and survival.
"You've got a long road ahead of you, Eric," Grayson continued, his voice softer now, almost patronizing. "The next few weeks will be spent breaking you down, piece by piece, and building you back up. This isn't just about survival. It's about making you useful. You're going to train, with the other vampires who have been forced to protect, to be… what you're meant to be—a pet. A tool. Something to be used, nothing more."
The words stung like poison, each syllable cutting deeper into Eric's psyche. He wanted to scream, to lash out, but the exhaustion and confusion clouded his ability to react. All he could do was sit there, processing the implications of Grayson's words. A pet. A tool. He had always believed himself to be something more, but now he was nothing. Less than human, a mere puppet with strings pulled by forces beyond his comprehension.
"Don't look so lost," Grayson chuckled darkly, noticing the bewilderment etched across Eric's face. "You'll adjust. After all, it's not as if you have much of a choice." He circled around Eric, tapping a finger to his chin as if considering something. "You might have once had a life—had a name, a family, a past—but now you're part of something bigger. And you'll learn to embrace it, whether you like it or not."
Eric's mind reeled at the thought. Alaric's blood still coursed through his veins, and the memory of his life before all of this haunted him, the remnants of his humanity barely clinging to the edges of his fractured existence.
"You're still so confused," Grayson mused, pausing in front of Eric. "I can see it in your eyes. You remember what it felt like, don't you? The warmth of being alive, of being… human." He crouched down, his face inches from Eric's, his voice soft yet venomous. "But that's gone now, Eric. You're no longer one of them. You're one of us."
Grayson moved silently behind Eric's chair, his footsteps barely making a sound on the cold, cracked floor. The tension in the room seemed to thickened, suffocating everything. He paused for a brief moment, then with a swift motion, he reached down and unlocked the restraints, the cold metal clinking as it fell away.
Without warning, Grayson kicked the chair backward. It toppled over, sending Eric sprawling to the floor in a heap of weakened limbs. He hit the ground with a painful thud, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. His body felt as though it had been shattered into a thousand pieces, the bruises and cuts from earlier flaring up in sharp, searing waves of pain.
Grayson watched with a sneer, his eyes gleaming with sadistic amusement as Eric struggled to gather himself, his hands trembling as he tried to push himself up.
"Disgusting," Grayson spat, his voice a low growl.
Eric's vision swam, his strength waning with every breath. He couldn't focus—everything was too blurry, too disjointed. He heard Grayson's mocking laugh, but it felt distant, as though it was coming from somewhere far away.
Grayson straightened, a satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "You're lucky, though. Your master—the great demon, has returned. And I suppose that's one thing you can look forward to." He leaned in closer, his face only inches from Eric's.
"You'll be feeding from him now," Grayson continued, straightening up and turning away with a dismissive wave. "After all, what's the point of wasting valuable resources on a weakling when you've got a literal unlimited blood bag as your master?" His eyes glinted maliciously almost with jealousy .
Grayson took a few steps back, eyeing Eric with a mixture of contempt and pity. "Get up," he ordered with a cold sneer. "You're going to meet your master.I heard from the Captain your master has done such a good job that your torture is cut short—well at least for only today."
Eric's body screamed in protest as he pushed himself up, each movement agony as he struggled to stand. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and fears, but there was nothing left for him to do but obey.
With a final glance at Eric, Grayson smirked again. "Don't keep him waiting."
Eric's body shook as he forced himself to his feet, his breathing ragged and strained. His mind was clouded with pain, but there was one thing that cut through it all—the need to be near Alaric again.
He limped behind Grayson, his legs weak, each step sending jolts of agony through his battered body. But his mind was consumed with the thought of Alaric. No matter the cost, he had to see him again, to feel his presence, even if it meant enduring more pain.
They moved through a different part of the complex, and though the place was still dark and decaying, something about this part of it felt more… substantial. The air seemed thicker with power, the walls more imposing. They reached a much larger door, the wood older and scarred, and Grayson didn't hesitate. He swung it open with a swift motion and shoved Eric inside.
The room they entered was vast, its high ceilings shadowed by the flickering of dim light. Though the place was still filled with neglect, it was still better compared to the previous confinement Alaric had been in moments before.But Eric had no time to take it all in. His eyes immediately found Alaric, standing at the far end of the room, tall and imposing as ever, the faint flicker of candlelight catching on the sharpness of his features.
Eric's heart raced, his breath quickened.
Grayson gave a sharp laugh behind him. "Welcome to the upgrade," he sneered, watching as Eric stumbled inside, his legs trembling beneath him. "Not much better, I'd say, but it's what your master wanted. They told him to follow the witch's advice. She promised this place would be better for him, and look at this." He gestured around. "Bigger, more space."
Eric's gaze never wavered from Alaric even after Grayson had left them. His voice, despite the brokenness of his body, came out in a raspy whisper. "Alaric…" he barely managed to breathe.
Alaric turned around finally,his smile widened as he pushed off from the wall, uncrossing his arms. His favorite toy was here, ready to keep him company—the one who would play a part in his plans to finally break free. But his smile faltered when he noticed the bruising on Eric's half-naked body. His eyes darkened, their black depths flickering with anger. Selene had promised him. She'd promised, and all he had to do was behave, but she had to go and touch his things.
Eric couldn't help but let a small smile tug at his lips as he saw Alaric's undivided attention fixed on him. He wasn't sure why he found it amusing, but the moment he realized it, he quickly stopped himself. His body gave out, and he collapsed to the floor. But just before the impact, soft hands caught him. Alaric helped him sit up, and he crawled to the wall to lean back, with Alaric sitting beside him.
"I can't have the person I'm depending on in pain, now, can I?" Alaric said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Eric felt the corner of his lips jerk upward despite himself.
Eric turned his gaze to Alaric, his eyes sharp and piercing, unblinking as they locked onto him. The hunger was evident in the depths of his stare, something raw and unrelenting. Slowly, he leaned into Alaric's arm, the warmth of it against his face as his breath quickened. The urge inside him stirred, primal and consuming.
"Then, feed me," Eric murmured, his voice rough with need.
Alaric chuckled softly, a dark, amused sound. He could see the boldness growing in Eric—the same one he had carefully nurtured—something he found... intriguing. A part of him admired the shift, the way Eric no longer hesitated, no longer waited for permission.
"You're getting bolder, aren't you?" Alaric's voice was smooth, laced with approval. He couldn't help but enjoy the subtle change. There was power in it, and it made the game even more interesting.
Eric couldn't fight the craving any longer. His mouth was a wild thing, desperate for satisfaction, as his lips grazed against Alaric's skin, feeling the pulse beneath. The sharp hunger in his gaze intensified, memories of the taste from before flooding his senses.
When his teeth finally sank into Alaric's flesh, the sweetness was overwhelming. It wasn't just the blood—it was something more, something that made Eric's whole body ache in want. The taste was intoxicating, rich, like dark wine with an edge of forbidden pleasure. He couldn't stop himself, couldn't pull away. Alaric's blood coursed down his throat, warm and thick, and Eric groaned softly at the sensation, his hands tightening around Alaric's arm as if he was trying to anchor himself.
Alaric's skin was soft but firm beneath his mouth, and Eric could taste the faint bitterness that mingled with the sweetness, like a perfect balance between light and shadow. He was drowning in it, and every drop sent sparks of heat through his body, igniting a fire that he had forgotten existed.
The taste of Alaric was like nothing else. It was seductive in a way that nothing had ever been before, pulling him deeper, urging him to take more, to lose himself in it. His body trembled with the intensity of it, the need clawing at him as he fed, unwilling to let go.
Alaric's hand moved gently to the back of Eric's head, threading his fingers through his hair. There was no resistance in Alaric's touch—only a soft, quiet encouragement, as though he relished the moment just as much. His voice was low, breathy, a dark satisfaction in every syllable.
"Take it all, Eric," Alaric whispered, his tone almost like a command. "You know you want to."
The words sent a shiver down Eric's spine. He obeyed without thinking, his teeth sinking deeper, his body shuddering with the pleasure of feeding. Every part of him was caught in the sensation, lost in the intoxicating rhythm. He couldn't think, couldn't stop. All he knew was that Alaric's blood was everything he had ever craved.
As Eric continued to feed, Alaric shifted in his lap, positioning himself more comfortably. His fingers stroked through Eric's hair with a slow, almost soothing motion, despite the escalating intensity of the moment. The touch was strangely intimate, a stark contrast to the chaos of the hunger that had overtaken Eric.
Eric's mouth pressed against Alaric's neck, drawn irresistibly to the thrum of his pulse. The scent of blood beneath the surface was maddening, and before he could think, his teeth pierced Alaric's flesh. The bite was harsher this time, almost savage, and Alaric's breath hitched, a low, broken sound escaping him.
"Harder," Alaric whispered, his voice laced with something unhinged. His body trembled, but not in fear—his movements were deliberate, pressing closer to Eric, almost clinging to him. There was a desperation in the way he moved, but it felt wrong, like a predator toying with its prey.
"I've been thinking about her. The witch." His tone dipped with a deep-seated hatred as the words left his lips, dripping with malice.
"When she's gone," Alaric hissed, his lips brushing against Eric's ear, "her hold over me will break. And then—" He paused, his voice dipping into something almost seductive, "Then, I'll be yours. Fully yours."
Eric froze for a fraction of a second, but the feral hunger overtook him again. He bit deeper, eliciting a sharp, gasping moan from Alaric.
Eric pulled back slightly, his chest heaving, but he didn't let go. Alaric's words echoed in his mind, but something in the way he said them made Eric's blood run cold. There was a strange falseness to his tone, a calculating edge hidden beneath the layers of supposed trust and submission.
And then Eric felt it—through the blood, through the bond that fed him. Alaric's mind wasn't filled with desperation or trust. It was filled with sharp, cutting thoughts, flashes of hatred and schemes. For a brief moment, Eric saw it clearly: Alaric didn't trust him. He was using him. And worse, he enjoyed it.
Eric's grip tightened on Alaric's body, almost crushing, and his teeth sank in again, harder, drawing more blood. Alaric gasped sharply, a sound that was almost a laugh. His hand, still tangled in Eric's hair, tugged gently as though trying to soothe him, but Eric could feel the tension in the gesture.
"You'll do it," Alaric said, his voice calm but dripping with venom. "You'll free me, Eric by killing her the ownership of me will transfer to you."
Eric didn't respond. His grip remained ironclad, his teeth still buried in Alaric's flesh. If Alaric noticed the shift, he didn't say. Instead, he smiled faintly, his lips curling into something predatory.
But Eric felt it now—the darkness, the lies. He didn't pull away, didn't loosen his grip. He simply held on, as though daring Alaric to continue.