"Yes, Pumpkin?"
"Stop calling me that," she muttered, though without the venom she'd managed earlier.
Lucius chuckled, his voice a deep rumble. "Never."
And for the first time that night, despite the storm, Jean allowed herself to relax, resting in the embrace of the dangerously handsome vampire she didn't trust—but couldn't seem to push away.
She loved the comfort and warmth he offered, but her fear was too overwhelming for her to fully process the solace he gave.
The storm outside continued to rage, its ferocity echoing the turmoil within her, but Lucius remained steady—an unwavering presence in her chaos.
He leaned closer, his lips brushing against her hair as he whispered soothing words, his voice a lullaby of reassurance.
With one hand, he drew the blanket snugly over her trembling form, while the other gently stroked her back in slow, rhythmic motions, grounding her in the moment.
"Rest, Pumpkin," he murmured softly, his tone low and velvety. "You're safe. I'm here."
Jean fought the pull of sleep, her body too tense, her mind still clinging to the storm's fearsome rhythm.
But Lucius persisted, his patience infinite. His whispers were a quiet melody of comfort, his presence a shield against her anguish.
Bit by bit, her tension began to ebb. Her breathing steadied, the lines of fear on her face softened, and her body eased into the warmth of his hold. Sleep came hard, but eventually, it came.
Lucius remained perfectly still as she finally slipped into slumber, her breaths soft against his chest. For a long time, he watched her, his crimson eyes tracing her delicate features with an unfamiliar tenderness.
For decades, he had felt little beyond mischief and detachment, his heart long hardened by the weight of centuries.
But now, as he held her in his arms, something stirred within him—something unexpected and profound.
The urge to protect her, to comfort and cherish her, filled the empty spaces of his soul, tugging at emotions he'd thought long dead.
He couldn't deny it: Jean Goliath, this spirited and stubborn woman, had unearthed something buried deep within him—an old treasure, forgotten but not lost.
Lucius sighed quietly, his gaze softening as he looked down at her. "What are you doing to me, Pumpkin?" he whispered, though she couldn't hear him.
As the storm raged on outside, Lucius remained her sentinel, cradling her with a newfound reverence.
Jean might not have trusted him yet, but he knew with certainty—he would never let anything harm her. Not while he still had the power to stand between her and the world.
~~~{─────────
~~~~~~~~~~~~~}~~~
Salviana spent the evening waiting for Alaric, her anticipation dwindling as the hours dragged on.
The rain pounded against the tall windows of the dining hall like a restless symphony, echoing the unease in her heart.
She had taken extra care tonight, instructing the cooks to prepare her favorite dishes which she believed could be Alarics favourite too because he eats it well and then she personally selected the wine.
The table was perfectly set with fine silverware and a candlelit glow. Yet, the seat at the head of the table remained empty.
Her gaze flickered to the clock on the mantle for the fifth time in the last hour. Still no sign of him.
With a soft sigh, she finally picked up her fork and began to eat, though her appetite was as muted as the dim light of the room.
One of the maids, Thalia, lingered near the door, her hands clasped nervously. "My Lady," she ventured softly, stepping closer. "Would you like me to send someone to check on His Grace? The weather—"
"No," Salviana interrupted gently, though her smile didn't reach her eyes. "He's likely buried in work. You know how he gets." She paused, setting down her fork. "Did he mention anything unusual before he left this morning?"
Thalia hesitated glancing at Emma before shaking her head. "Not to me, My Lady. But you know His Grace—he doesn't share his plans with the staff often. I could ask the guards if—"
"That won't be necessary," Salviana said, waving her hand dismissively. "Thank you, Thalia."
The maid bowed slightly, but her expression remained concerned.
As she left, Salviana finished her meal in silence, the food tasting like ash in her mouth without his presence to brighten the room.
After dinner, Salviana changed into a flowing nightgown, the soft fabric brushing against her skin as she braided her long hair to keep it from tangling.
She glanced at the rain-streaked window, her reflection dim in the glass.
Where are you, Alaric? she wondered. Yesterday event seem to have put her on edge. The world is so dangerous.
Returning to the sitting room, she picked up her embroidery hoop and settled onto the cushioned sofa.
The rhythmic motion of threading the needle through the fabric was a small comfort, even if her thoughts were elsewhere.
The maids bustled quietly around the room, lighting additional candles and closing the curtains against the storm. Salviana listened half-heartedly as their whispered chatter reached her ears.
"I heard the storm has caused flooding in the lower village," one maid said. "Perhaps His Grace is tending to that."
"Or maybe he's still in his office," another replied. "The guards said the lights there were still on."
"Do you think he knows how late it is?"
Salviana cleared her throat softly, and the maids froze, realizing they'd spoken too loudly. "It's all right," she said, her tone kind but firm. "You're free to retire for the night. Thank you for your help."
The maids exchanged glances before bowing and leaving the room, their voices fading as they disappeared down the hallway.
Alone again, Salviana focused on her embroidery. She worked on a floral pattern, her stitches precise despite the distraction of the storm.
The rain battered the windows relentlessly, its rhythm steady but unyielding.
The fire crackled in the hearth, casting a warm glow over the room, but it did little to chase away the chill of loneliness.
Her thoughts wandered to Alaric.