Chapter 3: Cold Shivers and Old Scars

The ventilation grate had gone silent after the raven's mocking caw, but the damage was done. Theodore's pulse still hammered against his ribs like it wanted to punch through and join Greta's newly revived one. They stayed tangled on the table for a long moment, his softening cock still nestled inside her, the binding pulsing with shared aftershocks in the mildew-choked air.

His glasses sat crooked on his nose, one lens now a spiderweb of cracks from their earlier tumble. Greta's braids spilled across his chest, those tiny gold beads cool against his fevered skin. One of her hands traced idle patterns over the ritual scars on his collarbone, nails catching on the raised lines.

Theodore wanted to say something clever about workplace policies and fucking vampires in archives. Instead he breathed her in, that rose-and-copper scent now layered with sharp sweat. His body felt wrong in the best and worst ways—stronger, hotter, teeth too sharp against his tongue.

"We should move," he muttered, the words scraping out rough. But his hips gave a lazy twitch, not quite ready to leave her warmth. The binding pulsed approval, greedy as ever.

Greta hummed in response, the notes of an old lullaby cracking like she'd forgotten half the melody. Her voice carried that velvety British lilt, slightly off-key now. "Hush, little hunter. Let me feel this a moment longer. Your blood... it's making me cold. Properly cold, like winter wind on living skin. I haven't shivered in four centuries."

She pressed closer, her body giving a genuine tremble. Theodore slid his hand up her back under the silk, feeling the faint gooseflesh. Real. Human. The realization sent a spike of terror through him that the binding fed right back.

Her eyes met his, amber flecks swirling. "Don't look at me like that. Like I'm some fragile thing you might break. I've survived worse than your family's disapproval."

But the bond didn't lie. Underneath her sarcasm, fresh guilt swirled—flashes of plague victims, throats torn in alleys, centuries without conscience. Theodore swallowed hard, tasting his own sharpened canines. He ran his thumb over his scars, the familiar gesture buying him a second before the words spilled out.

"Yeah, well, my family's disapproval comes with silver stakes and a very thorough extermination clause," he said, forcing a smirk. He finally eased out of her, the loss of her slick heat pulling a reluctant groan from both. Come trickled down her thigh, catching on velvet, and the sight did dangerous things to his heart.

They dressed in awkward silence, the kind that stretched too long. Theodore's hands shook as he buttoned his ruined shirt, one scar on his shoulder flaring hot. The room smelled like sex and old paper and faint rot. It felt tighter than the upper vaults ever had.

Greta smoothed her skirts, but her fingers kept drifting to her own arms, touching the new warmth. She hummed that cracked lullaby again. Theodore recognized fragments—something from the 1600s, a mother's plea against the night.

The knowledge slid into his mind through the bond, not a full memory but an echo. He bit his lower lip, muttering "mors vincit omnia" under his breath before the confession slipped out anyway. "You used to sing that. Before everything went to hell."

She froze, braids swinging as she turned. Her expression mixed vulnerability and old steel. "I was a scholar once. Books, languages. Not so different from you. Then one night the world burned with fever and a man in a bird mask offered eternity instead of death."

Theodore pushed his cracked glasses up out of habit. His hazel eyes, now shot with persistent gold, searched her face. The bond showed him more: ink-stained hands, arguments in coffee houses thick with pipe smoke. It made his throat tight. He traced his scars again, the raised lines burning under his thumb.

"I lost my parents when I was twelve," he said, the words tumbling before he could stop them. Self-pitying, ugly. "Car accident, the report said. Victor told me later it was a vampire hit. Retaliation for some purge. Raised me on protocols and silver polish after that."

Greta stepped closer, her hand finding his collarbone. This time her touch lingered, tracing the marks with something like reverence. Warmth bloomed under his skin, fighting the fever. His cock twitched traitorously despite everything.

"He made you hate what you might become," she murmured, voice soft as worn velvet. "And now here you are, letting me drink from you. Fucking me like the world might end if you stop. Does that make you the failure he always warned you about?"

The question landed like a gut punch. Theodore's jaw clenched, but the binding betrayed him anyway, flooding her with the ache of lonely nights organizing chaos while dodging any mess in his actual life. He caught her wrist, pressing her palm harder against the scars.

"Maybe," he admitted, voice cracking. "But it also makes me feel more alive than I have since... fuck. And that terrifies me more than Victor's kill-team."

Her laugh came then, loud and genuine and startlingly human. It embarrassed her—he felt that flash through the bond—but she didn't stifle it. She leaned in and kissed him, slow and deep, fangs grazing his lip enough to draw blood.

Theodore groaned into her mouth, hands sliding to her waist. The kiss tasted like protein bar and copper and the regret neither wanted to name. His sharper teeth nicked her tongue, and the shared spark made his knees weak.

A soft scrape echoed from the far wall. They both tensed, the binding flaring alarm. Theodore's sharper vision picked out a loose stone, dislodged earlier. Behind it, something gleamed.

Greta reached first, warmer fingers prying it free. A yellowed journal page fluttered out, covered in spidery handwriting that looked sickeningly familiar. Theodore's stomach dropped as he scanned it. His great-great-grandfather Elias's script. The page hinted at the binding's flaws, a counter-ritual hidden deeper, tied to old family routes under the city.

"This was meant to be permanent," he whispered. "A trap for any vampire who fed on hunter blood. But something went wrong. He was trying to save someone."

Her eyes widened, reading over his shoulder. The binding surged, feeding them both a flicker of Elias's grief-twisted face. Theodore's scars burned hotter, golden patterns flaring under his skin. His teeth ached, vision sharpening until the ink seemed to crawl. The curse was speeding up again after their collision of bodies and hearts. He felt stronger, hungrier, less human by the minute.

Before he could say more, boots scraped on stone from the vents above. Victor's team had found the spiral stairs. Emergency lights flickered as power died in sections. A silver stake whistled past his ear, thunking into the wall with a spray of chips. The metal reeked of family wards and old hatred.

Theodore froze, heart slamming in sync with Greta's. Victor's voice growled from the connecting tunnel, clipped and laced with something like grief.

"Step away from the monster, boy. That's an order."