The night seemed to listen. Something flickered in his gaze then—recognition, perhaps, or the faintest tremor of pity. "Strange," he murmured. "A mortal girl shaking but unbroken. I have lived centuries, long enough to forget curiosity. And yet here you stand, and I am...curious."
A sharp laugh escaped him, the sound slicing through the frozen air.
"Very well," he said at last, his voice like a verdict. "If you have me as your shield, then you will wear me as your shadow. I will stand between you and the hand that strikes, but you will not mistake me for salvation. Do you understand?"
The cold bit into my lungs as I breathed him in. "Yes."
For a heartbeat, eternity leaned near. His shadow touched mine, fitting perfectly—as if our darknesses had long practiced this meeting. My breath tangled with his, a hymn no priest could sanctify.
"A pact?" I asked.
His eyes lingered on my lips, though his voice did not falter. "You speak of pacts as if you know the weight of binding words. A pact is not parchment and seal—it is blood. Once spoken, it stains forever."
"Then stain me," I said. "Better marked by you than erased by him."
His expression flickered—something between fury and hunger. He stepped so close I felt the cold of his chest, the absence of a heartbeat, and yet I leaned toward it as though toward a hearth. "Careful," he murmured. "The fire you seek will consume you."
His words lingered in the air, low and dangerous, like a promise half-sworn. I could feel the heat of him even through the cold, though his body held no warmth—only the echo of something once human. The space between us pulsed with a strange gravity, drawing me nearer until the scent of him—iron and snow, faint traces of ancient incense—wrapped around me like a prayer gone astray.
"Then let me burn," I whispered. "At least I would be alive once before I turn to ash."
"I am not afraid of ruin," I said quietly. "I have lived with it all my life. If you unmake me, then at least it will not be with his hand."
His gaze sharpened, unreadable, a flicker of something between fury and sorrow. For a heartbeat, he looked almost wounded. He studied me for a long moment, silent as the grave he carried within him. Slowly, deliberately, he brushed a strand of hair from my cheek. His touch lingered just long enough to trace the shape of my jaw. He was cold as marble, unyielding, precise as a vow, yet it trembled with restraint.
For a fleeting heartbeat, I thought I saw in him a remnant of humanity—a shadow of the man he might have been before time had carved him hollow. It terrified me more than his hunger. Monsters were easy to despise; men who remembered mercy were dangerous.
"You tempt death as though it were a suitor," he murmured. "Do you even know what you invite?"
"I invite change," I answered, my voice steadier than I felt. " Teach me," I breathed. "Show me what damnation truly is."
A shiver passed through him, imperceptible but real. He withdrew his hand, breaking the spell that bound the air between us.
A silence passed—thick, decisive. When he spoke again, his tone had hardened into—less human verdict.
"A masquerade. We will play lovers before your court. You will wear my presence like a crown. When your brother reaches for you, I will cut the hand that dares. You will give me his eyes; I will give you continued breath."
My cheeks warmed despite the cold. "Lovers," I repeated—half question, half vow.
"Lovers," he echoed, tasting the word as if it were poison made sweet. "Do you know what it demands, Evangelina? It is not the blush of a maiden's cheek nor the vow beneath a chapel's arch. It is the performance of intimacy, played until even God forgets where theater ends."
"Then let us deceive God together," I whispered.
His hand brushed mine—accidental or deliberate, I could not tell—but its touch left fire across my skin. "Deception," he said darkly, "is the only sacrament I still believe in."
"A masquerade. Do not mistake theater for heart," he warned.
A shiver ran through me, though not from fear. My lips parted before I could stop them. "And if theater becomes true?"
For the first time, I saw him falter. A shadow passed across his eyes—not weakness, but memory, something buried deep. He looked away briefly, toward the horizon where the mountains drowned in fog.
"Do not tempt me, Evangelina," he said. "I have lived too long on temptation's leash."
"And if temptation is all I have left?" I asked, breathless. "What then?"
He closed his eyes briefly, lashes trembling with restraint. "Then you will undo me."
"Or complete you," I replied.
Silence stretched, heavy as cathedral bells. When his eyes opened again, they were darker, sharper, as though he had seen the centuries and hated everyone. He touched a lock of my hair, letting it fall like silk through his fingers. "Your boldness is a dagger. One day you will cut me with it."
"Then bleed with me," I said.
My words startled even me. They rose from some depth I had never touched, as though another voice had borrowed my tongue. Yet I did not repent them. His eyes flickered, uncertain whether to be enraged or enthralled. For a heartbeat, he looked younger—like a man who had once been human, before centuries carved him into marble.
He turned away, but I saw the war within his eyes—a man torn between hunger and grace. Snow fell between us, delicate as ash. I watched it gather on his lashes, melting like forgiveness. Somewhere in that silence, I knew I had been claimed—not by chains, but by him.
I wanted to reach for him—to bridge the cold distance that hung between our shadows—but the air itself seemed sacred, untouchable.
A gust swept between us, and with it came the scent of iron—fresh blood carried on the wind. My heart should have recoiled, yet instead I breathed it in as though it were perfume. To walk beside him was to walk on the edge of hunger, knowing he could devour me in an instant, and yet finding that terror sweet.
The silence between us deepened, thick as velvet. For a moment, I thought he might vanish back into the mist, leaving me with nothing but the echo of his presence. Instead, he simply turned his gaze to the horizon, where the first blush of dawn threatened the edge of night. "The sun will rise soon," he murmured. "It does not favor what I am." His words tasted of sorrow. I wondered what it meant to live forever in darkness, to be both master and prisoner of the same night.
We walked side by side through the snow, his shadow draped across mine. Not once did his hand touch me, and yet I felt claimed, each step a binding vow. The world itself seemed to bend around his presence—wolves silenced, owls stilled, even the wind curbed its cry.
"You will belong to me in every eye that dares to see. Are you prepared for such ownership?"
I swallowed the fear and lifted my chin. "If it keeps my brother's hand from me, then yes."
He glanced at me, and in his look was something perilous, almost tender. "Then tonight we walk as strangers. Tomorrow, the world will call us lovers."
The word lovers hung between us like a sacrament profaned. It did not belong to mortals—it was too fragile, too alive. In his mouth, it sounded like both prophecy and curse.
The wind stirred his hair, scattering pale strands across his cheek, and I felt the sudden, treacherous urge to brush them aside. But to touch him now would be to surrender the last fragment of myself I still recognized.
He turned his face toward me—close enough that the faint glow of his eyes caught the snowflakes as they fell. "Do not mistake this bond for mercy," he said softly. "I will keep you safe, yes, but safety is never gentle in my hands."
"Then let them be cruel," I whispered. "So long as they are yours."
His breath ghosted against my lips—not warm, but sharp, like the edge of winter itself. For a heartbeat, I imagined what it would be like to kiss him: to taste the centuries, to swallow the silence that had starved him. The thought alone was enough to steal my breath.
"You do not understand what you invite," he murmured. "My touch unravels. My love—if such a thing remains—destroys."
"Then let it destroy," I said. "I have been broken before. What's left is only waiting to be remade."
His hand lifted, hovering near my throat, trembling in restraint. "You speak as though ruin were holy," he said.
"Perhaps it is," I breathed. "Perhaps the angels only fell because they envied the beauty of descent."
Something flickered through him—pain, hunger, memory. He leaned closer until the world seemed to vanish, until even the cold forgot its name. His lips did not touch mine, yet I felt the echo of what might have been. It was not a kiss, but a warning disguised as longing.
"Very well," he whispered. "You have chosen your fire."
The snow around us swirled, like veils torn from the faces of sleeping saints. The stars themselves seemed to dim. I could feel his shadow merge with mine again—one darkness, indivisible.
The bargain sealed itself in the quiet that followed.