Archive of Our Own

They took Nicolò on a Monday.

It was something stupid, that was the part that made Taty’s fangs ache with fury. A quick run to the corner store because he had whined about needing more coffee. A kiss at the door, a teasing, “Don’t terrorize the cashier,” and Nicolò laughing as he headed down the stairs.

Ten minutes. That was all.

Taty felt it before his phone buzzed. A wrongness in the air, the way the sounds from the street below suddenly sharpened around one absence. Then his phone vibrated on the table. Unknown number.

He answered without thinking. “What?”

“Evening, leech.”

Paulo’s voice. Smug. Satisfied.

Taty’s hand tightened on the phone until the plastic creaked. “Where is he?”

A muffled sound filtered through: a breath, a stifled exclamation. Nicolò. Alive. Taty almost sagged with relief and rage.

“Your pet is… cooperative,” Lorenzo’s voice came then, farther away but clear enough. “We had to explain a few things. You understand.”

“Taty—” Nicolò’s voice was cut off with a grunt.

Taty’s vision narrowed to a tunnel. “Touch him again and I’ll—”

“You’ll come,” Paulo interrupted lazily. “That’s what you’ll do. The last time, you and your little friends pulled off a clever rescue. Very heroic. Very cinematic. But we’re tired of this game.”

There was the sound of metal scraping, something being dragged.

“We’re at the old railway depot, south entrance,” Lorenzo continued. “Come alone. No fangy friends this time, no backup. We see anyone else, we start removing pieces. Slowly.”

“Taty, don’t—” Nicolò again, urgent, before Lorenzo clearly shoved something over his mouth.

Taty was already moving. He shoved the phone in his pocket, grabbed his jacket, and was halfway down the stairs before he realized his hands were shaking.

The city blurred around him, a smear of shadows and neon. Streetlights flashed like heartbeat spikes. He followed the sour scent of old metal and oil to the abandoned depot, to the south entrance where two figures waited under the broken sign.

Paulo and Lorenzo. Leather jackets, silver glinting along belts and cuffs, the easy stance of men who believed they’d already won.

Between them, half-hidden behind a concrete column, Taty could just make out the edge of a human shoulder, a curl of hair.

“Nicolò,” he breathed.

Paulo spread his arms. “You brought yourself,” he said. “Good boy.”

“What do you want?” Taty asked, forcing his voice steady. Smoke curled in his lungs, the air here tasted like old blood.

Lorenzo smiled and dragged Nicolò from behind the column. “We want what we always wanted. One less monster in the world.”

“And this time,” Paulo added, “we’re going to make sure he doesn’t run away.”

Taty’s gaze flicked to Nicolò. A strip of duct tape over his mouth, hands tied behind his back, eyes huge and furious above the adhesive. He was struggling, but not blindly—he kept still enough that the hunter’s knife at his throat wouldn’t slip.

“Taty,” Paulo said, drawing his attention back. “On your knees.”

Silver flashed as Paulo unclipped something from his belt. Chains.

Of course.

Taty’s whole body screamed no. Every instinct he had begged him to rush them, to rip and tear and drag them into the dark. But the knife at Nicolò’s throat glinted like a line of moonlight. One twitch. One mistake.

Slowly, deliberately, he sank to his knees.

“Hands,” Paulo said.

Taty lifted his arms. The moment the silver length wrapped around his wrists, it burned—white-hot, searing into the skin, smoke spiraling up in thin curls. He didn’t make a sound.

“Brave,” Lorenzo murmured. “Just like your little friend Mattia.”

“You touch him again…” Taty started, then bit down on the rest as Paulo jerked the chains tight, hauling him up.

“You’re not in a great bargaining position,” Paulo observed pleasantly.

They reached the end of the corridor. It opened into a small concrete room—the kind of place built to forget things in. There were no windows, just a single industrial light in the ceiling, the kind that hums faintly and makes everything look sickly.

And there, bolted into a beam of reinforced metal, hang the chains.

They were thicker than they need to be, like someone here didn’t trust physics unless it was overkill. They glinted faintly, every link dull and matte except where silver inlays caught the light.

Taty swallowed.

He’s felt silver before. But this much of it, this close… his skin prickled, like static under the surface.

“You’re overdoing it,” he rasped, because talking was easier than thinking. “Afraid I’ll run away, Paulo?”

“Oh, not really,” Paulo smirked. “It’s not as much to keep you in than to let something out.”

Silver burned where it touched, creeping along his nerves. His knees buckled; the chains took his weight with a screech, dragging his arms up until he was hanging with his feet barely brushing the floor.

“There,” Paulo said, stepping back to admire their work. “A proper little tableau.”

Nicolò was on his knees, breathing hard through his nose, eyes fixed on Taty’s wrists where the silver bit and burned. Taty could hear his heart hammering, its rhythm like a drumbeat in his ears.

Paulo stepped closer, inspecting the way the chains dug into Taty’s skin. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” he said conversationally. “We’re not going to stake you. Stakes are for beasts who die quick.”

Lorenzo’s smile was thin. “We want to see what happens when you’re hungry enough.”

“We know how you leeches work,” Paulo continued. “The longer you go without blood, the less… civilized you become. Feral. All teeth and instinct.” He glanced at Nicolò. “And we’ve given you the perfect snack.”

Nicolò tried to lunge at him, muffled curse torn from his throat. Paulo barely spared him a look, boot slamming into his chest to send him sprawling.

“Stop it,” Taty said, voice low and dangerous. The chains flared hotter, reacting to his anger. He forced himself to breathe. “Leave him alone. This is between you and me.”

“Oh, we are leaving him alone,” Lorenzo said. “We’re not going to hurt him. That’s your job.”

Taty went very still.

Lorenzo tilted his head. “We’re going to lock this cell,” he said softly. “We’re going to leave you. And when the hunger eats through whatever conscience you pretend to have, when you finally can’t resist his heartbeat anymore… we’ll come back. And we’ll see what’s left.”

Paulo slapped Nicolò’s cheek almost playfully. “We’re being generous, really,” he said. “If you’re very lucky, he’ll make it quick.”

Nicolò made a sound, raw and animal.

“You’re wrong,” Taty said. It was almost a whisper, but it carried. “I won’t touch him.”

Lorenzo’s eyes glinted. “We’ll see.”

The door clanged shut behind them like the last word in a sentence.

Nicolò’s gaze went to Taty’s wrists immediately. The skin beneath the silver was already blistered, red and angry, the smell of scorched flesh sharp in the air.

Nicolò’s voice dropped. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” Taty said honestly. “But I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

Nicolò huffed, then shifted closer. “Okay, listen,” he said. “We need a plan. We got Mattia out, we can get out too. We just—”

“Nicolò,” Taty interrupted quietly. “There’s something you have to do for me.”

“Untie you?” Nicolò suggested. “Because that’s my first choice, when I figure out how to untie myself.”

Taty shook his head. “No. Not that.”

Nicolò frowned. “Then what?”

The hunger was already there. Not a sharp spike yet, but a low, gnawing emptiness. The silver made it worse; it leeched strength from his muscles, made his fangs ache, made every pulse of Nicolò’s heartbeat sound louder, richer.

“You heard what they said,” Taty murmured. “About the hunger.”

“They’re assholes,” Nicolò said. “You’re not like that. You’re not—”

“Nicolò.” Taty’s voice sharpened, then softened again. “You know what I am.”

“I know who you are,” Nicolò shot back.

Taty closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his strength, then forced them open again. “Listen to me,” he said. “If they keep us here long enough, if they don’t come back… the hunger will grow. It doesn’t care about who I love. It doesn’t care about promises. It just wants blood.”

Nicolò stared at him. “You’re saying… you’d hurt me?”

“I’m saying that there might come a point,” Taty said slowly, as if forcing himself to shape each word, “where my body moves before my mind can stop it. Where I smell your blood and… there’s nothing left of me but teeth.”

Nicolò’s throat bobbed. “No,” he said immediately. “No. I don’t accept that.”

“This isn’t a contract. It’s biology.”

“Fuck biology.”

Taty’s mouth twitched despite everything. “I need you to stay away from me,” he said. “As far as you can, for as long as you can. If I start… changing. If my eyes go dark, if I stop sounding like myself, you don’t come near. You don’t touch me. Do you understand?”

Nicolò shook his head. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not going to sit in a corner and watch you tear yourself apart because some hunter thinks you’re a monster.”

“This isn’t about them,” Taty said, more sharply. “This is about keeping you alive.”

“I don’t care!”

“Well, I do,” Taty snapped, the word cracking through the cell like a whip. The chains flared, sending a wave of white-hot pain down his arms. He sucked in a breath. When he spoke again his voice was low, shaking. “I care, Nicolò. I care if you live. I care more than I care about anything else.”

Nicolò flinched. His eyes glistened in the dim light. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Then do this for me,” Taty pleaded. “Please. If you ever trusted me, if you ever loved me—”

“Of course I love you,” Nicolò burst out. “You idiot. That’s the problem.”

He rose up onto his knees, leaning his weight into Taty’s body to steady himself. Before Taty could react, Nicolò surged up and pressed his mouth to Taty’s.

It wasn’t a careful kiss. It was messy, desperate, Nicolò nearly knocking Taty against the chains as he angled his face. His hands were still bound; he couldn’t touch, couldn’t hold, so he poured everything into the press of his lips, the tremor of his mouth. They stared at each other, the tiny cracks in their composure widening.

“Promise me,” Taty said, the words scraping. “If I beg you, if I cry, if I tell you I’m fine, that I can control it—don’t believe me. Don’t come near me. Don’t let me touch you.”

Nicolò stared at him. His jaw worked, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “Fine,” he said at last, voice hoarse. “I promise I’ll listen. But I’m not abandoning you, Taty. Not even if your eyes glow like a Christmas tree.”

“That’s not how glowing works,” Taty muttered automatically.

“Shut up.” Nicolò rested his forehead against Taty’s chest, eyes sliding closed. “We’re getting out of here,” he murmured. “And Paulo and Lorenzo are going to be so humiliated we’ll have to move to another city just to avoid their whining.”

Taty huffed a shaky laugh, then hissed as the silver bit deeper. Every second in these chains drained him. Every inhale brought Nicolò’s scent deeper into his lungs, warming the cold hunger that coiled there.

“Nicolò.”

“Yeah?”

“Go sit against the far wall,” Taty said. “Now. While I can still ask nicely.”

***

Paulo and Lorenzo came by in the morning. The door grated open; weak light from the corridor knifed into the crypt.

Nicolò scrambled to his feet, instinctively putting himself between them and Taty, even though Taty was bolted to the ceiling and they both knew it didn’t matter.

“How’s our experiment?” Paulo asked, looking past him.

Taty didn’t answer. His eyes were half-lidded, skin ashy. The chain had burned raw rings wherever it touched bare flesh; the faint scent of scorched skin hung around him like a second aura.

“Still hanging,” Lorenzo said. “Stubborn.”

He walked to the corner and set down a plastic container and a bottle of water.

“For the human,” he clarified when Nicolò hesitated, and cut the rope around Nicolò’s wrists. “We need you alive.”

“You could… let him down,” Nicolò managed, throat dry. “Just for a bit. He wouldn’t be so—”

“Close your mouth,” Paulo said, almost gently. “Eat.”

Then they were gone again.

Nicolò stared at the food for a long time before forcing himself to eat it. Every bite tasted like ash and guilt, but he knew Taty would snarl at him if he skipped a meal “for solidarity.”

Taty didn’t speak much that day. He drifted in and out, lips moving soundlessly, eyes flickering under his lids like he was dreaming.

Then he opened them. But this time there was something… more. The pupils blown wide, swallowing almost all the color. A faint, feral curve to his mouth that had nothing to do with a smile.

“Taty?” Nicolò said quietly.

Taty’s gaze found him like a spotlight. Locked on. The full weight of it hit Nicolò like a physical shove. He felt suddenly very small, very warm, very alive.

“Nicolò,” Taty said.

His voice was rougher than it had been that morning. Deeper, dragged over gravel. There was a second tone under it, too, like an echo delayed by half a heartbeat.

Nicolò swallowed. “Yeah. I’m here.”

For a moment, Taty’s face softened. The lines around his mouth eased; something like his usual tenderness glowed faintly through the pallor.

“Stay over there,” he said, forcing the words out. “Remember?”

“I remember.” Nicolò managed a thin smile. “I promised.”

“Good.” Taty exhaled. “Good boy.”

Heat crept up Nicolò’s neck at the familiar endearment. It sounded different, edged with something as sharp as hunger…but it was still Taty. He clung to that.

The next wave hit harder.

It was maybe an hour later. Or three. Time had gotten slippery.

Nicolò was dozing against the wall when a sound dragged him awake: a low, animal noise that he wouldn’t have believed could come out of Taty’s chest.

His eyes flew open.

Taty was thrashing against the chains.

Not wildly—he didn’t have the strength for wild—but with a set, wrenching determination, every muscle standing out as he tried to tear himself free. The silver sizzled where it ground into his skin. He hissed between his teeth, head thrown back, fangs fully down and gleaming unnaturally white in the dim.

“Stop, stop—” Nicolò scrambled to his feet. “You’re hurting yourself!”

Taty’s head snapped toward him.

For a heartbeat, Nicolò forgot how to breathe.

“You’re here,” Taty went on. “My brave boy. My loyal boy. My sweet little… volunteer. Come here.”

Nicolò flinched. “Taty,” he said. “You asked me to stay back. Remember?”

“Did I?” Taty tilted his head. The chain rattled musically. “That doesn’t sound like me.”

“It does,” Nicolò insisted. His heart was thudding so hard he half-expected Taty to comment on the sound. “You said if you start asking for blood, I shouldn’t listen. That it wouldn’t be you talking.”

Taty blinked slowly. Something flickered across his face—confusion? Annoyance? It passed like a shadow.

“Oh, I meant it. The little human upstairs meant it. The one who pets your hair and says he’ll protect you from the dark.” Taty’s lip curled, exposing his teeth. “I’m the dark, amore. I’m what he’s trying to protect you from.” He smiled. It was terrible. “Come here, Nicolò.”

The words cracked through the air like a whip.

Nicolò’s body reacted before his brain could catch up. He took a half-step forward, as if pulled by a hook buried in his sternum.

Taty watched it, watched him, and his smile widened.

“Yes,” he said softly. “That’s it. You want to, don’t you? You’re so good at giving. Always giving. Your time, your blood, your loyalty.” His eyelids lowered. “I can taste the last time you let me taste you. Do you know that? It’s still in my veins. Caramel and salt and something like… summer. You were nervous. You always taste sweeter when you’re nervous.”

Fear prickled down Nicolò’s arms. He forced himself to stop, to plant his feet. He was maybe half a meter closer now. Too close. Every breath he took seemed to drift straight to Taty, who inhaled like a drowning man.

“N-no,” Nicolò said. “I’m staying here.”

Taty’s eyes sharpened. “No?”

“You asked me not to come closer,” Nicolò said desperately. “You made me promise. I’m not breaking that. I don’t care what you say.”

Taty’s expression smoothed out. The predator in his gaze cooled from wildfire to ice. “Oh,” he said. “But you see, that was then. This is now. Now my bones are on fire, and my skull is too small, and every inch of you smells like a promise I’m not allowed to touch. It hurts, Nicolò. You have no idea how much it hurts.” His voice dropped, intimate and coaxing. “You could make it stop.”

Nicolò shook his head. His back hit the wall; he hadn’t even realized he’d been edging away again. “I can’t. I won’t.”

“Won’t.” Taty rolled the word around like a piece of candy. “Won’t. Such a sharp little sound. Isn’t love supposed to be about sacrifice? Didn’t you say that once? That you’d do anything for me?”

“I’m not going to help you kill me,” Nicolò snapped, the fear sharpening into anger.

Taty’s eyes flashed. “Oh, honey,” he said softly. “You act like it would be a murder.”

The bottom dropped out of Nicolò’s stomach. “What else would it be?” he whispered.

Taty’s laugh was low and delighted. “Ungrateful little blood bag,” it spat, and though the lips moving were Taty’s, the cadence wasn’t: no familiar rhythm, no warmth. “All that sacrifice wasted on you. I should have drained you the first night I saw you… although, wait, there wasn’t much left to drain, right? You looked so small. So helpless. I could have snapped your neck like a twig and walked away.”

Nicolò staggered like he’d been hit. “That’s not true,” he said in a thin voice. “You told me—you told me you didn’t feed on people who didn’t choose it.”

“I lied,” the vampire said. It smiled, slow and lazy. “I lied about a lot of things.”

Something in Nicolò’s chest cracked.

It laughed then, a wild, unhinged sound that made the hair on the back of Nicolò’s neck stand up. “Tell you what,” it said, focusing on him again. “Let’s make a game of it. Every day you refuse to come closer, I’ll tell you a new way I want to kill you. We have time. We can get creative.”

“Stop,” Nicolò begged.

“Make me,” the vampire hissed.

“Taty,” Nicolò said desperately. “Fight it. Please—”

“Oh, he’s trying,” the thing said, almost lazily. “Scraping his nails against the walls I’ve had to grow inside him. He’s very… persistent.” The last word rolled out, pleased. “He didn’t tell you, did he? How long I’ve been here. How much he’s always been holding back.”

Nicolò pressed his palms over his ears. “Shut up.”

The other voice came back on a sigh. “Every time he fights me,” it told Nicolò, “the silver digs in a little deeper. It really is clever, what they’ve done. I should thank them. Well, you already refused once. So I owe you one.” Its eyes half-lidded, as if picturing something sweet. “The first way,” it murmured, “would be quick. I’d have you step into my reach, just close enough to press your throat to my mouth. I’d bite down, deep, and drink hard until your heart stuttered and stopped. You’d feel very warm, at first. Then very cold. You’d hear me swallowing you. You’d hear how much I enjoy it.”

Nicolò pressed himself flat against the wall, fingers digging into the stone until his nails hurt. “Please,” he breathed. “Please don’t.”

“But you wanted honesty,” the thing said lightly. “You wanted to see what I really am, didn’t you? This is it.” Its gaze tracked the pulse in Nicolò’s throat, the slight flutter under pale skin. “You are so loud, you know that? Even from here, you’re knocking on my teeth.”

Nicolò shook his head. This wasn’t Taty. This wasn’t the man who had cupped his face and told him he was the bravest person he knew. This wasn’t the vampire who refused to feed if there was even a chance the donor hadn’t consented fully. This was… something else wearing his skin.

Nicolò’s knees gave out. He slid down the wall until he was sitting again, staring up at him. He didn’t realize he was crying until Taty inhaled sharply and shuddered. “Oh,” he said, almost gently. “Tears. God, you’re generous.”

“Shut up,” Nicolò said again, though it came out more like a sob. “Please, just… just shut up.”

“You could come closer,” Taty suggested. “Let me smell them. Taste them. You’d be doing us both a mercy.” His voice was velvet and knives. “Nicolò.”

The word was different. Rough, strangled.

Taty’s entire body jerked as if someone had yanked on the chain. His head slammed back against the stone. The sound made Nicolò flinch. When his eyes opened again, there was a flicker—just a flicker—of the Taty he knew.

“Nicolò,” he gasped. “Don’t… listen. Don’t listen to it.”

Nicolò wiped his face on his sleeve. “To what?” he demanded, voice breaking. “You? It’s your mouth saying those things, Taty. I don’t… I can’t pretend it isn’t.”

“It’s the hunger,” Taty panted. His shoulders shook. Where the chain crossed his chest, the burned skin smoked faintly. “It’s everything I keep… pushed down. You have to… stay away. I told you.”

“You’re the one talking about… about killing me,” Nicolò said, hearing the hysteria creep in. “I’m not exactly itching to run into your arms right now.”

“Good.” Taty squeezed his eyes shut. “That’s… good.” His breath sawed in and out. “Nicolò, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t… mean to…” He broke off, gagging. “God, it likes this,” he whispered. “It likes that you’re scared. It’s using my mouth.”

***

At first, Taty’s monstrous side only surfaced in flashes. A word here, a sentence there, dripping poison. Nicolò learned to see the signs: the way Taty’s voice dropped an octave and smoothed out; the way his eyes went obsidian; the way his body seemed to hang easier in the chains, like the pain had become entertainment instead of punishment.

It wasn’t just words.

The longer it fed on his fear—Taty had been right; that was what it was doing, drinking in his reactions like a draught—the stronger the pull behind its voice grew. Sometimes, when it said his name, his body reacted before he could think. A step forward. A lean. A hand lifting toward the chains.

Every time, he stopped himself at the last possible moment.

Once, he came so close he could feel the cold radiating from the silver like winter wind. The chains hummed, reacting to his heat. He jerked back with a strangled yelp, heart pounding.

“That was almost it,” it murmured, sounding genuinely disappointed. “You’re going to slip eventually.”

“Go to hell,” Nicolò snapped, breath shaking. “Rot in your own head.”

It chuckled. “Darling, I’ve been rotting in my own head for a very, very long time.”

***

Paulo and Lorenzo found them like that on the next check—Nicolò slumped against the wall, eyes hollow; Taty hanging limp and silent, skin blistered and cracked where the silver bit deepest.

“Well, well,” Paulo said, stepping in. “Some progress.”

He crouched in front of Nicolò, who flinched back on reflex. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Paulo said. “Or the truth. Same thing, really.”

Lorenzo glanced up at Taty, assessing. “He’s talking more, isn’t he,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

Nicolò’s head snapped up. “You’re monsters,” he spat.

“Big talk,” Lorenzo said. “Coming from someone dating a corpse.”

“We’re not hurting you,” Paulo said quietly. “We’re feeding you. We’re leaving you alone. The only one hurting you is him.” He jerked his head toward Taty. “Remember that.”

Somewhere above him, the chains creaked. Nicolò looked up. Taty’s head had lifted. His eyes were open, watching him with that same, deep, too-intent focus. The vampire smiled slowly, as if they shared a secret.

“See?” Paulo said over his shoulder to Nicolò. “This is what I’ve been telling you. No matter how gentle they pretend to be. Get them hungry enough and they all look at you like that.”

“You made him like this,” Nicolò snapped before he could stop himself. “You can’t break his legs and then bitch that he limps.”

Paulo barked out a short laugh. “You’ve got a mouth on you.”

“He has a point,” the vampire said mildly. “You’ve been very helpful.”

“Helpful?” Paulo arched a brow.

“To me,” it said. “Starving hurts. The silver hurts. But it strips things away. It leaves… essentials. I see you more clearly now.”

“Do you, now?” Paulo’s lips quirked. “And what do you see?”

“A man who hates what he’s afraid of,” the voice said. “Who tells himself we’re monsters so he never has to look at the part of himself that wants what we want.”

Paulo’s jaw ticked.

“Careful,” he said softly. “Don’t think flattery will get you anywhere.”

“It’s not flattery,” the vampire murmured. “It’s invitation.”

Nicolò’s heart slammed against his ribs.

“Don’t listen,” he blurted. “He’s trying to—”

“Shh, little heart,” the thing crooned, without taking its gaze off Paulo. “The grown-ups are talking.”

Paulo’s eyes stayed on Taty’s face. “Invitation to what, exactly?”

“To purpose,” the voice said. “You hunt us because you say we prey on humans. But tell me, how many of us have you killed? How many did you enjoy killing?” Its lip curled in something like admiration. “You and I are not so different. You just don’t like being honest about it.”

Paulo looked up at Taty, head tipping slightly. “How’s it feel?” he asked. “Being back in your proper skin?”

The thing that was and wasn’t Taty met his gaze. Something like respect flared briefly.

“Better,” it said honestly. “You did your research.”

“Had help,” Paulo said. “Your friend Mattia was… educational.”

At the name, something rippled behind the creature’s eyes. A flicker of protective fury, quickly swallowed.

“You should bring the little human here,” it said. “If you want to see a real show.”

Lorenzo shifted, fingers tightening on his stake. Paulo shot him a quick look that said I’ve got this.

“Is that an offer?” Paulo asked mildly. “You going to perform for us?”

“I’m offering you efficiency,” it said. “You hate vampires. I hate being bored. Let me feed, and I’ll show you all the ways your methods are… wasteful.”

Paulo’s mouth quirked. “You want me to let you eat the boy.”

“‘Eat’ is such a crude word,” it replied. “I want you to let me fulfill my nature. You made this cage. You forged the key. Why not use it?”

Its voice had changed again, smoother, almost persuasive. If Nicolò hadn’t been the target of its attention for days, he might have believed this was just Taty being manipulative.

But he could hear the undercurrent now: the hunger, the calculation.

“What’s in it for me?” Paulo asked, as if they were at a negotiation table instead of a crypt. His eyes were steady. “Besides one less naïve little blood donor in the world.”

The vampire’s smile sharpened. “Let me down,” it whispered. “Unwrap your pretty chains. You know I’ll go straight for him.” Its eyes flicked toward Nicolò. “You’d get to watch. No traps, no holy water, no guns. Just hunger. Raw and perfect.”

Nicolò’s breath hitched.

Paulo’s gaze flicked briefly to Nicolò, then back. “You’re clever,” he said. “I’ll give you that.”

“Let me prove how clever,” it murmured.

Paulo smiled without humor. “Tempting. But no.” He took another step closer, until he was just out of reach of Taty’. He looked up at him, eyes hard. “I’m not like you,” he said. “I don’t make deals with things like you.”

***

Sometimes Nicolò almost obeyed.

The compulsion wasn’t like hypnosis in the movies. There was no dramatic eye glow, no echoing command. It was quieter than that; a soft pull in the veins, a suggestion that sank its hooks into his muscles.

“Come here,” the vampire would murmur. “Just two steps. Just to where I can smell your skin properly. He misses you.”

And Nicolò’s body would move.

His foot would slide forward, heel scraping against stone. His knees would straighten. It felt like wanting to lean into a hug, like letting himself fall asleep on Taty’s chest. Familiar. Safe.

Then his brain would catch up.

No.

He’d bite the inside of his cheek, hard enough to taste blood, use the sharp shock of pain to wrench himself back. He’d drop to the floor again, or turn his face to the wall, or start muttering nonsense—facts about movies, the multiplication table, the recipe for his mother’s lasagna—anything to keep his mind from going soft and open.

Each time he stopped himself, the vampire laughed.

“Four,” it crooned. “This time, I think I’d like to start with your hands…”

Nicolò lost track of how many ways it described killing him. Enough that they started bleeding into one another in his head, a collage of broken bones and torn throats and whispered assurances.

He knew, with some quiet, clinical part of his mind, that this was going to ruin him. Even if by some miracle they walked out of here, he’d never be able to look at a shadow without flinching, never hear Taty’s voice without also hearing this one.

He was too tired. His world had shrunk to the patch of wall in front of him and the sound of the vampire’s voice, listing calmly, almost lazily, the ways it would like to break his bones.

“–or maybe I’d start with your knees,” it was saying now, conversational, as if they were discussing dinner. “There’s a satisfying sound when the joint goes. Like wet twigs snapping. You’d scream then, little heart. I think you’d—”

And then it stopped. Nicolò jerked upright, heart slamming against his ribs.

“Taty?”

The vampire in the chains had gone very still.

For hours—days?—it had been a constant presence: talking, crooning, describing in loving detail all the ways it wanted to kill him, pushing and tugging at his mind. Now it was… listening. Its head was cocked, eyes fixed on the door.

A bang.

Distant, muffled, but unmistakable.

The vampire went very, very still.

Another bang rang out, closer this time. Then a choked shout, abruptly cut off. Something heavy hit the floor somewhere above them.

“What was that?” Nicolò asked.

The vampire’s head tilted. Slowly, a slow, delighted smile stretched across its face.

“Company,” it purred.

“Paulo?” Nicolò whispered.

The vampire’s pupils narrowed. “No,” it said, very softly. “Not him.”

“How do you—”

“Smell,” it hissed. “Shut up.”

Another crash, closer this time. A door slamming open. Footsteps pounded out in the corridor. One pair, then another. The bolt scraped.

Nicolò scrambled to his feet before he’d even decided to move, heart in his throat. He didn’t know which he was more afraid of: Paulo and Lorenzo with new tricks, or—

The door slammed inward, knocking dust off the ceiling.

Mattia filled the doorway.

His hair was messier than usual and there was dried blood on his jaw, but his smile was bright and sharp with fangs. “Oh, thank fuck, you’re alive—”

Nicolò managed to say, “You’re late,” before Mattia crashed into him and hauled him into a hug.

He clung back, fingers digging into the back of Mattia’s jacket. For a second he couldn’t breathe around the relief.

“I—” Nicolò tried. The word came out as a croak. His throat felt like sandpaper. “You’re—”

“Late,” Ciro muttered from the door, voice tight with fury. “I know.”

Mattia’s hands—cool, careful—closed around Nicolò’s wrists, tilting them this way and that as if checking for breaks. “Did they cut you? Take anything?”

“No,” Nicolò managed. “They… they’re keeping me alive. For him.” His gaze flicked to the shape hanging from the ceiling. “He’s—”

“I see,” Ciro said. He moved forward, unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world. “Mattia. Take the boy. Get him away from the chains.”

Mattia grabbed him by the upper arms—not rough, but firm. “Come on,” he murmured. “Back by the wall. Away from the crazy starving one.”

Nicolò’s knees almost went out from under him when he stood. Mattia caught him without comment, half-hauling, half-supporting him to the far side of the cell.

“Are Paulo and Lorenzo—?” Nicolò started.

“Busy,” Mattia said shortly. “Ciro took care of it.”

“Busy how?”

Mattia’s jaw tightened. “Alive. Not moving much. Don’t worry about them.”

Nicolò swallowed whatever he was about to say and let Mattia ease him down until his back hit cold stone.

“Ciro,” the vampire in the chains said, softly.

But it didn’t say it like a greeting. It said it like a snarl.

Ciro’s gaze lifted to Taty. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. “You always were dramatic,” Ciro said quietly. “Hanging from ceilings now? Really, Taty?”

The vampire bared its teeth. “Ancient,” it said, voice gone rougher. “I can smell the grave on you.”

Nicolò’s muscles went instantly tense. “Ciro,” he warned, “he’s not… he’s not really himself right now.”

“I can see that,” Ciro murmured.

Mattia stayed where he was, a steadying hand on Nicolò’s shoulder, but his eyes tracked Ciro’s every move. Nicolò felt it like a weight in the room. Whatever Ciro was, whatever old power thinned his voice and darkened his eyes, it pressed on the vampire hanging there like gravity.

“Look at you,” Ciro said quietly. “They did a number on you.”

Fear crawled up Nicolò’s spine again—but it was a different flavor than before. He wasn’t sure if it was for himself or for Taty.

The vampire snarled, lunging forward, chains clanging violently. For a second, its teeth were inches from Ciro’s face. Ciro didn’t flinch. He walked forward, unhurried, as if approaching a chained, half-starved predator was something he did between breakfast and coffee.

The vampire tensed, chains creaking. Its eyes dilated, black swallowing the brown. “Come closer,” it crooned. “Let’s see what pre-history tastes like.”

Ciro stopped just out of reach of Taty’s feet. He tilted his head, studying him like a craftsman looking at a broken piece.

“Do you know me?” he asked, and this time there was something layered under the words.

The air rippled. For a heartbeat, the cell smelled different—not damp stone and old blood, but salt and ancient earth.

“Look at me,” Ciro said, voice dropping into something deeper, older. It thrummed in Nicolò’s bones. “Look at me.”

The vampire fought it. Nicolò could see the muscles working under Taty’s skin, see the cords in his neck stand out as he tried to twist away, to sink his fangs into the wrist so close to his mouth.

Ciro didn’t look back. “Mattia,” he said. “Gloves.”

Mattia fumbled in his coat and produced a pair of thick leather gloves, darkened with age. He tossed them; Ciro caught them without taking his eyes off Taty and slipped them on with practiced motions.

“You’re going to touch the silver?” Nicolò blurted.

“For a moment,” Ciro said. “It won’t kill me. I’m not as soft as he is.”

He reached up, took hold of the chain just above where it looped Taty’s wrists, and yanked.

The metal shrieked. It was bolted into the ceiling with an iron ring. Old stone doesn’t like being forced to move; dust rained down in a choking cloud. Ciro pulled again, muscles cording under his coat, and with a sharp, cracking sound, the ring tore free from the stone.

Taty dropped.

One second the vampire was hanging limp, a rag of a body wrapped in metal. The next, it twisted in Ciro’s hold with terrifying speed, chains clattering, trying to drive its fangs into Ciro’s throat.

Ciro reacted as if he’d been expecting it.

He stepped sideways, twisting Taty’s body with him, one gloved hand clamping around Taty’s jaw and forcing his head back. The bite snapped on air instead of flesh.

“Ah-ah,” Ciro said softly. “Not me, boy.”

Nicolò swallowed hard. Ciro’s eyes, which had been cool and pale, darkened, the gold deepening like molten metal.

“Valentin,” he said.

The name was old. It sat oddly in the air, heavy with memory. Nicolò had never heard anyone call Taty that. The sound of it was… wrong in Nicolò’s ears. Not because it didn’t fit—if anything, it fit too well, like a puzzle piece sliding into place he hadn’t known was missing. Valentin. It wrapped around the lines of Taty’s face, the long bones and the tired sadness he carried, and made a different picture.

“You know my voice,” Ciro murmured. There was something almost gentle in it now, beneath the steel. “You knew it before you learned this name. Before they called you Taty. Before this sweet boy ever saw your face.”

For a flicker of a moment, something moved behind the black in Taty’s eyes. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. A tiny furrow between his brows.

Ciro’s gloved hand slipped from Taty’s jaw to the back of his neck.

He pressed his fingers into a point just below the skull, precise and unhurried, as if he’d done this a thousand times. At the same time, his gaze held Taty’s, unblinking, and he said something in a language Nicolò didn’t know—round vowels, hard consonants, old and rough as river stones. Something in the room shifted. Not the air, exactly—more like a pressure behind Nicolò’s eyes, an invisible weight pushing against his thoughts. He realized with a jolt that Ciro wasn’t just speaking. He was doing whatever vampires did when they compelled humans… but aimed at another vampire.

The effect was immediate.

Taty’s body shuddered. A low, strangled sound clawed its way out of his throat. His eyes flared wide, black swallowing the last ring of brown. His mouth opened in a soundless snarl. Every muscle in his body went taut at once, chains singing with the strain.

Then his knees buckled.

The tension snapped. All at once he went limp, head dropping forward, the fight pouring out of him like water from a broken glass. For a horrifying second, Nicolò thought Ciro had killed him.

“What did you do?” he demanded, struggling out of Mattia’s grip. “What did you—”

“He’s not dead,” Ciro said, matter-of-fact. He shifted, catching Taty’s dead weight before he could slide to the floor, adjusting him into a carry that looked almost gentle. “Well, not any more than he was before. I just turned the volume down.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Nicolò’s voice cracked on the last word.

Ciro glanced at him. Up close, Nicolò could see tiny cracks in the skin at the edge of his gloves where the silver burn had managed to kiss him anyway. Old vampire or not, the metal still hurt.

“It means,” Ciro said evenly, “I pushed the beast back into its box and shut the lid—for now. He’ll sleep until we’re out of here. Easier for everyone.”

“You could’ve warned me,” Mattia muttered, rubbing his own neck in sympathetic discomfort. “That thing you just did always makes my head feel like it’s going to explode.”

Ciro’s lips quirked, just for a moment. “I don’t do that often. It’s… inelegant. But one has to do what one has to do.”

Nicolò hesitated, then blurted the question pounding in his head. “Why did you call him that?”

Ciro’s eyes flicked back to him. “Call him what?”

“Valentin.” The name felt strange on his tongue, intimate in a way Taty had never let him have. “Is that… is that his name?”

Ciro studied him for a moment, something like calculation in his gaze. “It was,” he said finally. “Once. A long time ago. Taty is who he learned to be with you children and your neon cities. Valentin is who he remembers when he’s too far gone to pretend.”

Nicolò swallowed. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

“Because he’s ashamed of most of what happened to that name,” Ciro said simply. “You can ask him about it when he wakes. If he ever wants to talk about it. Which, knowing him…”

“How long will he be out?” Mattia asked.

“Long enough,” Ciro said. His gaze flicked to Nicolò at last, assessing. “Can you walk?”

“Yeah,” Nicolò said automatically. His legs disagreed, trembling. “I mean—probably. If I… if you give me a minute.”

“Or I can carry you,” Mattia said. “So that Ciro doesn’t complain he’s doing all the work.”

***

By the time they got Taty home, the sky over the city was turning the color of ash.

Luca skidded into the hallway barefoot, in an oversized t-shirt and sweatpants, eyes wild. He froze at the sight of all of them together: Mattia heaving under Nicolò’s weight, Ciro with his coat soaked dark at the forearm, and in his arms—

He reached for Nicolò automatically. Mattia relented enough to let Luca take some of the weight, and between them they maneuvered down the hall, Ciro striding ahead with his bloodied cargo.

“Taty,” Nicolò croaked.

Taty looked… bad. There was no other word. His shirt had been cut half-off him, exposing burned, raw skin where the silver had bitten deep. Bruises bloomed under the pallor of his jaw; his lips were tinged blue. Even unconscious, his fangs were showing, small and sharp against the slack curve of his mouth.

Luca inhaled sharply. “Oh my God.”

“Not that one,” Mattia muttered.

Ciro shouldered into the bedroom and very gently laid Taty on the mattress. The springs creaked under the sudden weight. For a moment, with his eyes closed and the bedside lamp throwing soft light across his face, he looked almost peaceful.

Then his fingers twitched.

A low sound rattled in his chest.

Ciro’s posture sharpened. “Mattia,” he said, without looking back. “Luca—take Nicolò. Keep him out of this room. He doesn’t come near until I tell you otherwise.”

Nicolò’s heart lurched. “No,” he said automatically. “I have to—he’ll wake up and he’ll—”

“He’ll smell you and it will undo everything I’m about to attempt,” Ciro cut in, still calm, but with an edge now. “His body knows your blood too well. He will tear himself apart trying to get to you, and me with him.”

The words hit like a slap.

Luca’s hand tightened on Nicolò’s shoulder. “You heard him,” he said quietly. “Come on.”

“No!” Nicolò snapped. It came out too loud, too desperate. “I’m not leaving him again—”

“You’re not,” Mattia said, appearing in the doorway. His eyes were darker than usual, pupils blown wide, but his voice was steady. “You’re just not going to be in biting distance while Ciro pokes the bear.

Luca’s thumb brushed the back of Nicolò’s neck, gentle. “Come on, Nicolò,” he coaxed. “Shower. Food. You smell like a crypt.”

Somehow, the stupid joke was what cracked him. His throat burned. His eyes went hot. “Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”

Luca squeezed his shoulder once, then steered him down the hall.

Behind them, Ciro rolled up his sleeves.

***

The bathroom was warm and steamy by the time Luca pushed him inside and shut the door.

Nicolò stared at the tiled wall. “I smell like… like a slaughterhouse.”

“Yeah,” Luca said gently. “You do. So. Shower. Everything off, into that bag.” He nudged a plastic trash sack with his foot. “We can burn it later if it freaks you out.”

“I’m fine,” Nicolò lied.

Luca’s eyes flicked to his face, took in the trembling hands, the way his shoulders were hunched up around his ears. “Sure you are,” he said. “And I’m the Pope.”

He maneuvered Nico under the spray. The water hit his skin too hot and then too cold and then finally just right. Grime and dried tears and the stink of fear and vampire blood swirled down the drain in ugly gray-brown ribbons.

After a while, Luca spoke, voice carefully casual. “So, uh. On a scale of one to ‘I need ten years of therapy,’ how bad is?”

Nicolò let his head thunk softly against the wall. “I think we broke the scale.”

“Right. Okay.” Luca was quiet for a beat. “Want to tell me about it?”

“No.”

“Okay.” Another beat. “Want to tell me some of it anyway so it doesn’t live in your head rent-free?”

Nicolò laughed, strangled. “When did you get wise?”

“Please, I’m dating a vampire,” Luca said. “Or two, sorta. I had to level up or die. Literally.”

Nicolò hesitated. The words were there, bubbling under his tongue like acid. He didn’t want to say them. Saying them might make them too real. But the alternative was letting them knot together in his chest until he couldn’t breathe.

“He told me,” Nicolò said finally, voice small under the drum of the water, “all the ways he wanted to kill me.”

Luca didn’t respond immediately.

“Like… bragging?” he asked quietly. “Or like… fantasy football, but for murder?”

“Like he was making up a new one every time I told him no,” Nicolò said. His fingers dug into the grout. “He said every time I refused to come closer, he’d tell me another one. And he did.” He let out a shaky breath. “He sounded happy.”

“Oh. I guess I’m lucky Mattia’s vampire was mostly just… horny, I guess. Like… wanted to kill me, but in a horny way… so, supposing he’d go with it, I’d probably die happy.”

“Yeah, Taty’s wanted me to suffer. Break my bones and rip my heart out and all the stuff.” He swallowed. “What if that’s more him than the other part?”

“Is Mattia more that horny part or the part that cries watching stupid dog rescue videos at three in the morning?” Luca asked. “Come on. Yeah, you’ve seen it, now you get to live with it. You can’t unsee it or unhear it. But it’s manageable.”

Nicolò shut his eyes.

That was the problem. Right now, when he pictured Taty, he saw red eyes and a smile describing how it would break his hands one finger at a time. The memory made bile burn his throat. He stared at his knees, water dripping from his hair onto pale skin.

“I hate this,” he said finally.

“I know,” Luca said. “Trust me. I know.”

***

Ciro had known, from the first whiff in that stone cell, that this would not be simple. Silver was never simple. It had a way of sinking into the body, of making itself at home in nerves and bone, whispering ruin as it went.

Taty lay spread on the bed, chest rising in shallow, ragged breaths. Up close, the damage was worse. The silver had left its signature everywhere. Angry red welts where it had pressed, blistered black where it had burned deep. Some links had fused with flesh; others had left neat, repeating patterns of ruin along his ribs. Ciro touched one of those patterns lightly with the tip of a finger. Valentin didn’t stir, but the skin was hot, feverish.

“You should be ash,” Ciro murmured. “Stubborn child.”

He started with the worst burns—where the chains had bitten deepest into the skin of his shoulders and chest. The first touch made Taty jerk, a low sound tearing from his throat. His eyes snapped open.

Ciro met them without flinching.

They were still mostly dark, but there was a flicker of awareness now, a sliver of brown around the edges. The feral thing stared at him from inside a familiar face.

“Come back,” he said. “Just a little. Enough to know my name.”

“Hungry,” Taty ground out. His eyes slid, unfocused, around the room. “Hurts. Everything—”

“I know.” Ciro’s expression softened. “They cooked you like a piece of meat. It will fade. You’ve had some of me. You will have more.” He tilted his head. “But not from him. Never from him against his will. Do you hear me, Valentin?”

The name hit like a stone thrown into dark water.

Taty’s body convulsed once, hard. His eyes squeezed shut. When he opened them again, there was brown around the edges, a thin ring pushing back against the red.

“Ci—” His voice cracked. “Ciro?”

“Finally,” Ciro said, relief threading through the word. “Yes. It is I. Unfortunately for you.”

Taty blinked, disoriented. His gaze drifted down to his own chest, taking in the burns, the ointment, the bandages. His fingers twitched.

Ciro caught Taty’s chin with his hand, fingers bruisingly tight, and pressed his wrist to his mouth. “Drink,” he commanded.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then instinct overrode thought.

Taty latched on.

Pain flared up Ciro’s arm, sharp and electric. Younger vampires always bit too hard. Taty’s teeth sank deep, tearing at the edges of the wound. Ciro gritted his teeth and held him there.

The pull of feeding hit him immediately. There’s always a feedback, even when you’re the one being drunk from — the sense of your own power leaving, traveling into another body. With most, it was a loss. With fledglings and those inside his line, it could be something else.

He focused on that.

He sent his blood into Taty’s veins not as a gift but as a message, a thread of himself weaving into the tangle of hunger and pain.

Remember, he thought. Remember the monastery, the field outside Paris, the stupid song you would not stop humming in 1912. Remember my hand on the back of your neck after your first kill. Remember the boy in the other room and the way you looked at him.

Taty’s eyes, when they cracked open, were less dark.

“Nicolò?” he whispered. Panic flared, instant. “Where is he? I can’t— ”

“He is alive,” Ciro said, cutting across the rising hysteria. “He is here. In the apartment. With Luca. Eating and showering and, I suspect, catastrophizing.” His gaze sharpened. “He will stay there until I am satisfied you will not use his throat for a wineglass. He is not in this room, because if he were, you would kill him.”

The words landed like a slap. Taty stared at him.

“I would never,” he whispered.

“You already tried,” Ciro said.

Taty made a small, wounded sound. “Did I—” His throat closed. “Did I hurt him?”

“Not with your teeth,” Ciro said softly.

That hurt in a different way. Taty fought the exhaustion, the effort he had to put up in keeping the upper hand over the vampire.

“He’ll be scared,” Taty said, voice slurring. “Of me.”

“Yes,” Ciro said calmly. “He will. And you will be patient with that. You will not push. You will not pretend this did not happen. You will earn his trust again.”

Taty’s throat worked. “If he… if he can’t—”

“Then you will live with that too,” Ciro said. “That is the price of loving something softer than you are.”

***

A mug waited on the table, steam curling up from it. The smell of chamomile and honey made something in Nicolò’s chest loosen.

He sank onto the couch. Luca shoved the mug into his hands, then dropped down beside him, shoulder bumping his.

“You want to talk about it some more?” Luca asked lightly. “Or you want me to talk about literally anything else until you pass out?”

“Anything else,” Nicolò said hoarsely. “Please.”

“Cool,” Luca said. “So, you know that neighbor with the chihuahua that hates everyone? She’s taught it to dance now. I swear to God. It does little pirouettes. It’s horrifying. I got evidence.”

He pulled out his phone and started showing Nicolò blurry videos, narrating them with increasingly ridiculous commentary. It was stupid. It was perfect.

Somewhere between the dancing chihuahua and Luca’s rant about the grocery store cashier who always judged his snack choices, the tea took effect. Warmth spread through Nicolò’s limbs. His eyelids grew heavy.

“Lie down,” Luca said quietly.

“I’m fine,” Nicolò mumbled.

“You’re tilting like a dying houseplant,” Luca said. He nudged Nicolò’s shoulder until he slid down, his head ending up in Luca’s lap. A blanket appeared out of nowhere. Luca draped it over him with practiced efficiency. “There. Very dignified. Don’t drool on me.”

“Can’t promise,” Nicolò muttered, already half-gone.

He let his eyes slip shut.

He was tired. Bone-deep, soul-deep tired. But sleep didn’t come cleanly. Every time he started to slide into it, he heard echoes—Taty’s voice, Taty’s-not-Taty’s voice, listing the ways it would kill him.

His fingers clenched in the blanket.

“Hey,” Luca murmured, stroking his hair back. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

“It’s not him,” Nicolò whispered suddenly, eyes still closed. “The things he said. That wasn’t him.”

“I know,” Luca said.

“Do you?” Nicolò’s throat felt tight. “’Cause I… I keep thinking about it and it’s his face. His mouth. Saying those… Those things.”

Luca’s hand paused for a second, then resumed its slow, soothing movement.

“Nic,” he said softly. “Mattia once spent three days trying to chew through a door with his bare fangs because someone locked him up without feeding him. He doesn’t even remember it. You’ve seen him now. You know he’s… him. Right?”

“Yeah,” Nicolò said.

“Okay,” Luca said. “So we’re gonna assume vampires plus starvation equals temporary nightmare mode, not secret evil you never knew about.

***

When Ciro and Mattia walked in, Luca had moved an armchair close to the couch and was half-slumped in it, a book open but forgotten in his lap. The TV was on mute, throwing pale light over the room. Nicolò lay on the couch, blanket pulled up to his chin, eyes closed.

“He’s… sleeping,” Mattia said. “Sort of.”

“Define ‘sort of’,” Luca said.

Ciro emerged behind him, closing the bedroom door with a quiet click.

“It means,” Ciro said, “that his body is repairing itself while I sit on his instincts with all my weight.” He rolled his shoulders, as if they ached. “I have given him enough of my blood to keep him from tearing this apartment apart when he wakes.”

“And the…” He gestured vaguely toward his own head. “The feral part?”

“In retreat,” Ciro said. “For now. It will lurk at the edges for a while. But I have my fingers in his blood. He will not be able to pull free of that easily.”

Luca shuddered slightly. “That sounds creepy as hell.”

“It is,” Ciro said. He sank into the armchair opposite the sofa with more grace than the old springs deserved. “Vampirism is not pretty, Luca. You know this.”

“How bad is it?” Luca asked.

There was a pause.

“I have seen worse,” Ciro said at last. “There is no permanent damage, I think. Physically. The silver will leave scars, but his body will mend. His mind…” He exhaled softly. “We will see.”

“How long until Nicolò can see him?” he asked.

“A few days,” Ciro said. “Perhaps a week. His body must finish healing. His mind…” He shrugged one shoulder. “That will take longer. Trauma does not respect our timelines.”

Luca swallowed. “Will he remember? What they did to him? What he said?”

“Yes,” Ciro said, because lies would only make the eventual crash harder. “Though not clearly at first. Like a fever dream. Snatches. Feelings.”

“Enough to hate himself,” Mattia muttered.

“Probably,” Ciro agreed.

They were both quiet for a moment.

Mattia’s voice dropped. “He was… really gone, Ciro. I’ve never seen him like that. He didn’t even recognize me when we first got there. He went for you. You’re sure the blood—”

“It anchored him,” Ciro said. “To me, at least. It gives me more leverage. And it lets me feed him without him tearing holes in our human.”

On the couch, Nic’s fingers had stilled.

Ciro sighed inwardly. He stepped closer, looking down at the lump under the blanket.

“Nicolò,” he said mildly. “You may open your eyes now. Eavesdropping is a skill, but you have not yet mastered it.”

Nicolò’s eyes flew open, cheeks flushing darker. “I wasn’t—”

“Your breathing pattern changed when I mentioned names,” Ciro said. “Also, your heartbeat is very loud.”

Nicolò scowled and pushed himself up on his elbows. “Maybe that’s because someone keeps talking about my boyfriend like he’s two people.”

“He is not two people,” Ciro said. “He is one. Complicated.”

Nicolò shot him a look, then turned back to Ciro, jaw set. “I’m not going to stay away from him forever.”

“I am not asking you to,” Ciro said. “But let him heal enough that when he remembers you, it is not only in the context of hunger and chains.”

Nicolò swallowed. “Will he… still want me?”

Ciro’s expression softened, the harsh lines easing. “He asked for you,” he said.

Nicolò’s eyes burned.

“However,” Ciro went on, voice firm again, “he will also try to push you away when he understands what they did to him. When he understands what he wanted to do to you. That is when your stubbornness will be useful.”

Nicolò stared at the pattern on the blanket, tracing a fraying thread with his thumb.

“I know it wasn’t really him,” he said finally, very softly. “The way he talked. The… things he said. I know that. In my head. But my body—” He gave a ragged little laugh. “My body remembers him describing how he’d break my ribs like twigs. So when I think about going near him, it—that—comes up first.” His voice thinned on the last words, as if he’d had to drag them through something thick.

“Good,” Ciro said.

Three pairs of eyes snapped to him.

“Good?” Nicolò repeated, incredulous.

“Yes,” Ciro said calmly. “You are frightened. You should be. Fear is information. It tells you when something is dangerous. It kept you from walking into his arms when he would have killed you without meaning to. Do not throw it away now because you feel guilty for having it.”

Nicolò blinked rapidly, eyes glistening. “But he’ll be—”

“Drowning in his own guilt,” Ciro said. “Yes. He will. He will try to make your fear about him. To turn it into a punishment he can wallow in. Do not let him.”

Mattia huffed out a humorless laugh. “That sounds familiar.”

“There is one more thing,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “You will hear things. From him. From your own mind. Things that sound like his voice but are not. When that happens, I want you to remember something.”

“What?” Nicolò asked.

“That the part of him that loves you,” Ciro said, “fought to keep you away from his teeth. He begged you not to come close, even as he starved.” His gaze was steady. “The monster does not do that. Remember which voice told you to run.”

The room was quiet for a long moment.

Then, finally, Nicolò nodded. “I remember,” he said.

“Good.” Ciro glanced toward the hall door. “I will go back to our patient. You will sleep now.”

“You’re not going to vampire-voice me into it, are you?” Nicolò asked warily.

Ciro’s eyes glinted. “Do you want me to?”

“No.”

“If I walk in once more and catch you pretending, I will. But I’m not gentle. Ask Taty when he’s better.”

Nicolò grinned and lay back down. This time, when sleep took him, it was real.