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hostile!! ᵖᵃʳᵗ ᵗʷᵒ

pairing: rockstar! lestat de lioncourt x gn! bassist! reader tags: making out, mutual antagonism, power games & poor life choices, toxic dynamics, forced proximity (on tour), verbal sparring, catching feelings against better judgment, semi-slow burn, reader is a mess (/affectionate) warnings: canon-typical lestat cruelty, manipulative behavior, power Imbalance, emotional manipulation, explicit language, reader self-doubt & low self-worth w/c: 21k

summary: you’re hired as a temporary replacement bassist for the band the vampire lestat—no promises, no guarantees, and absolutely no protection from the man himself. from the moment you step in, lestat makes it clear: you are disposable, replaceable, and beneath his notice. unfortunately for both of you, you don’t flinch, don’t beg, and don’t leave. neither of you backs down. neither of you compromises. and somewhere between rehearsals, tour buses, mutual antagonism refuses to stay simple.

a/n: yes. i am still standing by the fact that this was supposed to be a one-shot. somewhere along the way it became 35k words in total.

anyway... here we are. apparently i cannot be trusted with self-restraint, lestat, or word counts. thanks for coming along for the ride 🫡

ao3 | masterlist | pt. one previous / next

You decide, firmly, that you’re finished playing along. No more reacting. No more bait. You tell yourself that with the same conviction you once told yourself you’d never join another tour run led by a frontman who thought charisma excused bad behavior. You believed yourself then, too. Both promises feel equally flimsy by the time the bus pulls off the highway and slides into the gated loading area behind the venue.

The stop is ugly in a utilitarian way—concrete, security lights, people in black hoodies already moving with purpose. Crew disperses with the speed of people who know exactly where they’re supposed to be and what happens when they aren’t. You stay seated a beat longer than necessary, watching Lestat stand, stretch, command attention without speaking. He doesn’t look at you when he passes. That annoys you more than if he had.

Fine. Fuck him.

You grab your bag and case and follow the flow, boots hitting pavement with more force than needed. The venue smells like metal, old dust, and whatever industrial cleaner they use to pretend this place hasn’t seen worse nights than this one. You clock the stage immediately—sight lines, monitor placement, cable paths—while flexing your left hand once inside your pocket. The wrap around your knuckles pulls tight. Whoever patched it did a competent job, but it still stings, a sharp reminder every time you curl your fingers too fast. You ignore it. The pain is manageable. You set up fast. Faster than most. One-handed adjustments where you can, careful not to snag the tape, the movements practiced enough to hide the limitation. You like the speed. It buys you a margin no one can argue with. A tech glances at your hand, then at your finished rig, and gives you a nod, the kind of nod that says you’re not dead weight.

You take the win and file it away.

Soundcheck starts unceremoniously. Lestat already onstage, already talking—well, monologuing—at the sound engineer, hands moving, voice animated, entire body engaged in the act of being heard. He looks alive up there in a way that makes it obvious this is where he belongs, where the chaos in him lines up into something functional instead of destructive. You hate that too.

You plug in and wait for the cue. It never comes.

He starts the first song in the middle of a thought—no cue, no count, no courtesy. You’re in anyway. Instinct carries you into the line, fingers landing where they should without hesitation. You keep your eyes down. You lock onto the pattern, the timing, the job. Looking at him would be a distraction, and distractions cost more than they’re worth.

Midway through the verse, his focus snaps onto you.

Not literally—yet—but his attention snaps into place, sharp and deliberate. He stalks toward your side of the stage while singing, eyes fixed on you like he’s daring you to flinch. You don’t. You play harder instead, lean into the groove he’s trying to bend out of shape. You decide you will not be the one who blinks first.

When the song cuts, he grins into the mic.

“Marvelous,” he says. “Our little asticot can keep time under pressure. Who knew?”

You lean toward your mic before you can stop yourself. “You don’t need to sell it. They’re already paid.”

A murmur ripples through the crew. Lestat’s grin widens, delighted, theatrical. He lifts a hand like he’s calming an audience.

“Oh, don’t worry. They’ll pay again tomorrow. And the next night. And the night after that.” His eyes flick back to you. “Assuming you survive.”

You bare your teeth in something that is not a smile. Internally, you’re already cataloguing exits. Not because you plan to leave, but because you like knowing where the doors are when someone starts circling.

Soundcheck grinds on. He changes keys without warning. You follow. He drags out transitions just to see if you’ll rush. You don’t. You make him wait. That earns you a sharp look and a laugh that sounds like approval trying to disguise itself as mockery.

By the time it ends, you’re wired and irritated and fully aware that this is not sustainable—and that you don’t want it to be over.

That thought pisses you off enough to distract you while you’re coiling cables backstage. You’re halfway through packing when someone bumps your shoulder hard enough to jostle the case.

“Watch it,” you snap, already turning.

It’s Lestat.

“Careful,” he says lightly. “You bruise easily.”

“I will actually stab you with this cable,” you reply. You don’t move away.

He laughs, loud and pleased, and then, without warning, his tone shifts. Drops. Focuses. “You’re angry.”

“No shit.”

“Good,” he says. “You play better that way.”

You straighten, spine stiffening. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“I absolutely do,” he counters. “I decide everything on my stage.”

“This isn’t your stage,” you say. “It’s a hallway.”

He steps closer anyway, invading the narrow space like it’s nothing. “Everything is my stage.”

You tilt your head up to meet his gaze. “You ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?”

“Yes,” he says immediately. “Which is why I enjoy people who interrupt.”

You snort despite yourself. Damn it.

He studies you for a long second, eyes bright, restless. “You know,” he says, almost conversationally, “I thought you’d break by now. Cry. Quit... Do something melodramatic so I could feel justified.”

“And instead,” you say, “I’m still here and you’re annoyed.”

“And fascinated,” he adds, without hesitation.

You scoff. “Get a hobby.”

“You’re standing in it.”

The words settle between you, heavier than they should be. You feel that familiar, dangerous pull of being seen too clearly by someone you do not trust. Your instincts scream at you to shut this down, to put distance between you and a man who treats intimacy like a knife.

So you do the only thing that feels right.

“You don’t hate me,” you say flatly.

He blinks.

Then he laughs, sharp and incredulous. “Of course I hate you.”

“No,” you say. “You hate that I don’t need you.”

His smile falters—not fully, not enough that anyone else would notice, but you do. You always notice fractures.

“I don’t need anyone,” he says, a little too quickly.

“Sure,” you reply. “That’s why you keep poking at me like you’re waiting for me to react.”

He leans back, crossing his arms, studying you with something like wounded pride. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“I have to be,” you say. “Someone around here needs to be.”

That earns you a low laugh. He steps aside, gesturing for you to pass. “Go,” he says. “Before I decide to ruin your evening.”

You don’t thank him. Instead, you shoulder past, deliberately brushing his arm with yours as you move into the hallway, because if he thinks you’re leaving obediently, he’s out of his goddamn mind. The contact is brief and unceremonious, but you feel the way his body stills at it, the way his breath hitches just enough to register as real. You file that away with the other small, dangerous data points you’ve been collecting since San Diego.

You walk fast, boots striking concrete with purpose, because stopping now would give your thoughts room to riot. Backstage is a maze of black curtains, cables, half-built set pieces, and people who know better than to ask questions. No one stops you. No one says your name. That suits you just fine. You want distance, not comfort. You want space where his voice isn’t filling your skull with dramatic pronouncements and half-confessions wrapped in charm.

You duck into a small side room that smells like dust and old amps, shut the door, and lean back against it hard enough to feel the impact through your spine.You lift your left hand on instinct and regret it immediately—the wrap pulls, the skin underneath protests, sharp and insistent. You flex your fingers once, carefully, then stop before you make it worse.

You rake your right hand through your hair instead and force a slow breath out through your nose, deliberately, like you’re defusing something volatile inside your own chest. The sting in your knuckles keeps time, a steady reminder that you’re still holding things together by choice, not by luck.

Fuck him. Fuck this. Fuck the way he looks at you like gum stuck to his boot.

You take inventory the way you always do when something threatens to knock you off balance. For what it’s worth, you’re still employed. You haven’t miss a note. You didn’t say anything you can’t stand behind. Your hands still steady enough to pack your gear. Your pulse is elevated but manageable. Most importantly, you are not spiraling. You are irritated, yes. Annoyed. Aroused—God, no! You shut that thought down immediately, like slamming a door in a drafty house. Absolutely not. That’s just adrenaline. And proximity. And the fact that he’s built like a sin you’d usually avoid out of sheer self-respect.

You push off the door and get back to work. You pack your case, wipe down your instrument, coil cables with more force than strictly necessary. Each action grounds you, pulls you back into your body instead of letting your brain replay his expressions like a cursed highlight reel. You refuse to be the person who falls apart in a storage room because a frontman with a god complex decided to psychoanalyze you between soundcheck and load-in.

By the time you emerge, the venue is buzzing. Crew moves with purpose. Security checks radios. Someone shouts about catering being late. Normal chaos. Predictable chaos. You breathe easier for it.

You make it to the green room without incident. It’s too clean, too quiet, stocked with food no one actually wants and furniture chosen by someone who’s never had to sit still while wired on adrenaline. You claim a corner and drop into a chair, stretch your legs out, crack your knuckles. Your phone buzzes in your pocket.

The unknown number you didn't bother saving.

You sigh and stare at the screen for a long second before pulling it out.

Enjoying your sulk?

You scoff out loud. Of course he texted. Of course he couldn’t let it end cleanly. You type back without thinking too hard, because hesitation is what he wants.

You wish. I’m busy not thinking about you.

Three dots appear. Vanish. Reappear.

Liar.

You snort. Get fucked.

This time the reply comes immediately.

Eventually. Patience is a virtue.

Your jaw tightens. You don’t respond. You refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing that landed anywhere near its target. You shove the phone back into your pocket and focus on the room, on the hum of the air conditioner, on the faint bass bleed from another band soundchecking in the distance.

You are not here for this. You are here to play. To collect a paycheck. To leave with your dignity intact.

An hour later, someone knocks and tells you it’s time. Showtime. You stand, sling your strap over your shoulder, and follow the call toward the stage. The hallway narrows, noise swelling as you approach the wings. The crowd is already loud, restless, hungry. You can feel it through the floor, through the walls, through your bones. This is the part that always steadies you. Music doesn’t lie. It doesn’t flirt. It doesn’t test boundaries just to see who bleeds.

You take your position on stage left. Lights dim. The roar spikes. Lestat strides out like he owns the air itself, arms wide, grin feral, soaking it in. He launches into a monologue immediately, voice ringing, cadence theatrical, talking about cities and blood and desire and survival like he’s preaching to a congregation that would follow him anywhere.

You watch him from the corner of your eye while you get ready. Onstage, he’s incandescent. Larger than life in a way that makes sense now, that makes his backstage chaos feel like the price of admission. You hate how compelling it is. You hate that part of you understands why people forgive him everything once the lights hit.

The first song slams into place. You lock in, fingers moving on instinct despite the sting, body aligning with the groove. He prowls the stage, voice sharp and vivid, eyes occasionally flicking your way like he’s checking whether you’re still there, still holding your ground. You don’t look back. You focus on the sound, the timing, the way the crowd moves as one organism responding to stimulus.

Halfway through the set, he crosses toward you mid-song. Not subtle. Lestat is never subtle. He sings straight at you, voice dropping into something intimate and dangerous, and you swear you can feel the attention of the audience shift, curious about the tension they don’t fully understand. You don’t break. You don’t smile. You give him nothing but the line exactly where it belongs.

That, apparently, is enough.

When the song ends, he laughs into the mic, breathless and electric. “Give it up for our substitute,” he announces, gesturing at you with exaggerated flourish. “Temporary, but vicious.”

The crowd cheers. You grit your teeth and nod once, sharp and professional, because you refuse to look rattled even as adrenaline surges.

Backstage after the set, he corners you again. Of course he does. He looks exhilarated, flushed with performance, eyes bright, energy buzzing off him like static.

“You were brilliant,” he says, too earnest to be a taunt this time. “Absolutely unforgiving.”

You shrug. “It’s called doing my job.”

He looks at you for longer than necessary. “You’re an inconvenience, asticot.” he says. “I’d already decided what to do with you, and yet here you are refusing to cooperate.”

You meet his gaze, heart thudding, brain screaming at you to disengage. “Then stop paying attention.”

His mouth curves, slow and displeased, like the idea offends him. “I would,” he says. “If you weren’t making such a nuisance of yourself.”

You swallow, annoyed at the way your body reacts to that honesty. “Learn,” you say. “Or get used to it.”

He laughs again, low and warm, stepping back just enough to give you space without breaking the moment. “I suspect,” he says lightly, “that you and I are going to make each other miserable for a very long time.”

You sling your case up onto your shoulder and angle for the door. “Can’t wait.” You don’t give him the courtesy of a second look. You keep moving because stopping would mean acknowledging the other part—the part you’re pointedly ignoring. The part that tightens low in your gut and refuses to shut up as you walk away.

You absolutely do not entertain the possibility that you’re looking forward to anything.

You don't mean to overhear it. That distinction matters later, when you're replaying the conversation in your head at three in the morning, trying to parse out exactly what you heard and what it means. After all, you were doing something far more mundane and infinitely more frustrating—trying to find a bathroom that isn't currently occupied by three crew members who've apparently decided to hold a strategic planning meeting in front of the urinals, and a tech who's guarding the door with the kind of territorial aggression usually reserved for nightclub bouncers.

The venue is a maze of identical hallways, each one painted the same industrial grey, each one lit by the same flickering fluorescent tubes that make everything look slightly diseased. You've already taken two wrong turns. The hallway you finally duck into is narrower than the others, quieter, the kind of space that feels unfinished or forgotten. The lighting is worse here—just a single bare bulb every twenty feet, casting long shadows that make the corridor feel like it goes on forever. You're halfway through mentally composing a strongly worded email to whatever architect designed this labyrinth when you hear his voice.

You stop walking. Not because you want to listen or curious, but because Lestat's voice does this thing—it cuts through walls, through distance, through the low hum of ventilation systems and the muffled bass from the soundcheck three floors up. It's engineered that way, you've realized. Every syllable weighted, every pause calibrated. Even when he's not performing, even when he thinks he's alone, his voice carries like he's addressing an audience. You register the cadence first, the rhythm of it. He's annoyed but trying to sound amused. He's pacing. You can tell from the way his words shift in volume, growing louder as he approaches whatever wall he's using to turn around, then softer as he moves away. You've spent enough time around him in the last two days to recognize the pattern. He paces when he's thinking. He paces when he's cornered. He paces when he's about to make a decision he knows he'll regret.

"Non, absolument pas," he says, and the sharpness in his tone makes you wince reflexively. "You don't tell me what I owe the press. You advise. I decide."

There's a pause. You picture him with a phone pressed to his ear, one hand already gesturing even though whoever he's talking to can't see it. You picture it because you've watched him do this a hundred times already—on the tour bus, backstage, in the narrow space between the dressing rooms where he thinks no one's paying attention. He talks with his whole body. His free hand moves in arcs and slashes, punctuating sentences, conducting invisible orchestras. You've caught yourself watching more than once, then immediately looking away before he notices.

You should walk away now. You know this. Every functioning neuron in your brain is screaming at you to turn around, find another hallway, another bathroom, another solution that doesn't involve standing here listening to a conversation you have absolutely no right to hear. But you don't move. Your feet stay planted. Your breathing goes shallow. You're listening now, fully and deliberately, and you know it.

"Daniel Molloy," Lestat continues, and your brain screeches to a halt on the name like a car hitting ice. "Oui, that Daniel. The one with the fucking book deal and the messiah complex." He laughs, short and bitter, the sound of it scraping against the walls. "He wants an interview. A conversation, he says. Toujours les mêmes mots."

Your stomach tightens involuntarily. Daniel Molloy…? You know that name. Journalist. Cultural critic. You weren’t a fan of his work. He is the kind of interviewer who doesn't ask questions—builds traps out of your own words and waits for you to step into them. He's written profiles that launched careers and obituaries for reputations that were still technically alive. You've read his work. Everyone's read his work. It's brilliant and merciless and the kind of thing that makes you grateful you're not famous enough to be on his radar.

Lestat keeps talking, his voice sliding between French and English like he's testing where the anger fits best, where the consonants land hardest.

"No, I don't care that it would be 'good optics,'" he snaps, and you can hear the air quotes around the phrase even though you can't see him. "Je ne suis pas un putain de produit. He doesn't want a puff piece and you know it."

A beat of silence. You imagine the person on the other end trying to interject, trying to steer him toward reason.

"He wants blood," Lestat says flatly. "He always does."

You shift your weight carefully, pressing your back against the wall, suddenly hyperaware that you are absolutely, categorically not supposed to be hearing this. Your internal monologue kicks into overdrive. Of course Daniel Molloy wants him. Of course Lestat attracts journalists like moths to a fucking flamethrower. Of course this is happening while I'm standing here like an idiot in a hallway I'm not even supposed to be in.

"And before you say it—non," Lestat adds, his voice dropping lower, losing some of its theatrical edge. "I'm not afraid of him."

Another pause, longer this time, stretching out until you wonder if the call dropped. When he speaks again, there's something different woven through the words—less bite, more thought, a careful deliberation that sounds foreign coming from him.

"I'm… cautious."

That word lands on you harder than you expect. You've seen Lestat arrogant. You've seen him cruel, cutting, viciously alive onstage. You've seen him dismiss crew members with a glance and dissect your playing with surgical precision. Cautiousness is new. Lestat de Lioncourt was anything but cautious. Cautious suggests vulnerability. Cautious suggests there are things he doesn't want dragged into daylight, not because they'd tank his album sales or ruin the brand, but because they still hurt when touched.

Your jaw tightens. This is not my business. This is so far beyond not my business that I should be writing an apology letter to the concept of professional boundaries. You should walk away. Right now. Immediately. Instead, you stay exactly where you are, barely breathing, straining to hear every word.

"He says he wants to talk about the music," Lestat continues, and the sarcasm is thick enough to choke on. "Oui, bien sûr. And I'm the Virgin Mary. He wants the story beneath the story. The contradictions. The failures."

A sharp exhale, audible even from where you're standing.

"He wants me honest." There's another pause. You imagine the lawyer on the other end—because it has to be a lawyer, who else would Lestat be arguing with about press strategy?—listing reasons, risks, contingencies, all the careful corporate language designed to protect assets and manage liability. Lestat listens. And the silence stretches. You count your own heartbeats, waiting for him to interrupt, to cut them off mid-sentence the way he always does. He doesn't. He just listens, and that silence feels heavier than anything he's said.

Finally, he laughs. It's quiet, self-aware, edged with something that sounds uncomfortably close to resignation.

"Mon dieu," he murmurs, so soft you almost miss it. "You say it like honesty is a liability."

You feel something shift in your chest at that—annoyance, yes, because you're still annoyed at him on principle, but you know Lestat doesn't avoid painful topics. You've noticed that. He doesn't deflect or obfuscate or hide behind PR-approved sound bites. He throws himself into the sharp edges headfirst, like maybe if he controls the impact it won't cut as deep. Daniel Molloy interviewing him feels less like a meeting and more like two forces specifically designed to collide, each one waiting to see who flinches first. Immovable object versus unstoppable force? Make that two of the latter.

"No," Lestat says after a long moment, and his voice is firmer now, the decision made. "Not yet. I'll decide when. And where."

His tone sharpens again, armor sliding back into place with audible clicks. "And if he thinks he's dissecting me without my consent, he's forgotten who I am."

The call ends abruptly. You hear the faint sound of the phone being shoved back into a pocket, hear his footsteps shift, hear the telltale creak of leather as he moves.

Shit. You straighten instantly, your brain scrambling into overdrive. You are about to be caught standing here like a complete idiot with guilt written all over your face. You have exactly half a second to decide whether to run, hide, or commit to the bit and pretend you belong here. Your options are limited. The hallway doesn't have side doors. There's no alcove to duck into, no convenient supply closet to disappear behind. You're exposed, obvious, and about to be discovered.

You choose chaos because of course you do. Running would look worse and hiding is impossible. The only card you have left to play is audacity.

You step out into the intersection where the hallways meet just as Lestat rounds the corner. You almost collide. He stops short, pulling up fast enough that you can hear the scuff of his boots on concrete. You stop too, close enough to see the surprise flash across his face before he locks it down. For a split second, maybe two, the air between you is thick with mutual shock—and then his eyes narrow, sharpening into focus, calculating exactly how long you've been standing there and how much you heard.

"How much of that," he asks, his voice carefully calm, dangerously level, "did you hear?"

Your heart kicks up into your throat, but your mouth moves faster than your brain, the way it always does when you're cornered.

"Enough to know your lawyer hates their job." He stares at you. You watch the calculations happening behind his eyes—anger, curiosity, irritation. You've surprised him. That doesn't happen often, you suspect. People don't usually catch Lestat de Lioncourt off guard.

"You were listening," he says. It's not a question. It's an accusation, flat and direct.

"I was trying to piss," you shoot back, crossing your arms defensively. "You just happened to be monologuing about journalists in surround sound. Not my fault you project like you're still performing for the cheap seats."

His mouth twitches despite himself, just barely, the corner of it lifting in something that's not quite a smile but isn't entirely displeasure either.

"You have impeccable timing," he says dryly.

"Yeah, well," you say, shifting your weight, trying to look less like you were actively eavesdropping and more like you were an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire. "Molloy, huh. That's… a choice."

His expression hardens immediately, the brief flicker of amusement vanishing.

"You don't get an opinion," he says sharply.

"I didn't give one," you reply, holding your ground. "I said it was a choice. Big difference, y’know… Observation versus judgment."

He studies you for a long moment, eyes moving over your face like he's searching for something specific—judgment, maybe, or pity, or schadenfreude, or any of the dozen other reactions people usually have when they catch a glimpse behind the curtain. You give him none of those things. You're irritated, sure, because you're always at least slightly irritated around him. But there's no triumph in you, no sense of having caught him in a moment of weakness. Just that same infuriating steadiness that's been driving him insane since you arrived, the same refusal to react the way he expects.

Finally, he exhales, long and theatrical, rubbing one hand over his face in a gesture that's half frustration and half exhaustion.

"You weren't supposed to hear that," he says, and there's no anger in it anymore. Just statement of fact.

"No kidding," you say dryly.

He looks at you again, really looks this time, his gaze direct and assessing. "You're not going to run your mouth," he says. Well, shit. That was not a question. You snort. "Please. I'm temporary, remember? I like staying employed. And I don't give a shit about your press circus. Whatever you're doing with Daniel Molloy is so far above my pay grade it's not even in the same atmosphere."

Something in his shoulders eases, just a fraction, tension releasing in increments.

“Daniel Molloy doesn’t interview,” he says, voice lowering with faint disdain. “He dissects. He keeps asking until there’s nothing left worth hiding—and then he publishes whatever survives.”

You hesitate. You should leave it alone. You should nod, make some neutral noise of agreement, and extract yourself from this conversation before it gets any more complicated. But you're constitutionally incapable of letting things lie, especially when someone's clearly working themselves up to a bad decision right in front of you.

"Well—you sound like you're considering it anyway," you say.

His smile returns, crooked and self-mocking, the kind of expression that makes him look younger and more reckless.

"I always consider the dangerous options," he says. "They're more interesting."

"Figures," you mutter under your breath.

Self-destructive bastard.

He steps closer, narrowing the distance between you until you have to tilt your head slightly to maintain eye contact. His voice drops lower, more intimate, like he's sharing a secret.

"And you?" he asks. "What would you do if someone wanted to strip you down to the truth in front of the world? If they wanted to take everything you've carefully constructed and dismantle it piece by piece until there was nothing left but the raw, ugly parts you've spent years hiding?"

You don't answer right away. You think about bad gigs in worse venues. You think about manipulative bandmates and predatory venue owners and all the times you've had to become someone else just to make it through the night. You think about how much of you is already armor, how many versions of yourself you've built and discarded, how little of the original remains.

"I'd tell them to fuck off," you say finally, meeting his eyes. "And then I'd decide whether I wanted to prove them wrong or prove them right."

He gives a quiet, indulgent laugh, like you’ve just confirmed a suspicion. “Of course you would,” he says.

You roll your eyes, breaking the moment, stepping back to reestablish distance. "Are you done with your existential crisis, or can I go use the bathroom now?"

He steps aside with exaggerated courtesy, one hand sweeping out in a theatrical mockery of a bow. “After you, avorton,” he says, the old name dropped back into place. “I’d hate to be blamed for your inconvenience.”

As you move past him, you can't help adding, voice deliberately casual, "For what it's worth—Molloy's an asshole, but he's not stupid. If you do it, do it on your terms. Don't let him set the parameters."

He watches you go, eyes unreadable. He says nothing. You don't look back, but you can feel the weight of his gaze following you down the hallway, thoughtful and unsettled and maybe, just maybe, slightly less hostile than it was two minutes ago.

Whatever Daniel Molloy wants, you know one thing for certain now: Lestat de Lioncourt doesn't hate you. Not in the clean, uncomplicated way he probably prefers. He might find you irritating. Inconvenient. Persistent in ways that don’t align with his plans. But the look he gave you wasn’t contempt. It was as if you’d introduced variables he hadn’t bothered accounting for.

That should be reassuring. Instead, it registers as a complication you didn’t ask for and don’t have the bandwidth to manage. Because irritation you can work with. Being noticed is a different problem entirely. And that realization is starting to feel like a much, much bigger problem.

You find the bathroom eventually. It's exactly as depressing as you expected—stained tile, a mirror that's seen better decades, and a hand dryer that sounds like it's trying to achieve liftoff. You wash your hands for longer than necessary, staring at your own reflection like it might have answers. It doesn't. You look tired. You look like someone who just accidentally stumbled into someone else's emotional crisis and doesn't know what to do with the information.

What the fuck was that? you think, gripping the edge of the sink. What the actual fuck was that?

Because that wasn’t standard behavior. That wasn't the Lestat you've been dealing with for the past forty-eight hours—the one who calls you avorton like it's your legal name, who corrects your timing with the kind of condescension usually reserved for remedial music classes, who looks at you like you're a stain on his otherwise immaculate existence. That Lestat you understand. That version tracks. That version is functional. He’s cruel. You’re in the way. The rules are legible.

But the man in that hallway—the one who admitted to being cautious, who looked at you like maybe, just maybe, you weren't entirely disposable—that's not a complication you have any interest in navigating.

You dry your hands on your jeans because the dryer is useless and loud and you can't handle any more noise right now. Your brain is already too loud. He doesn't hate you, it keeps insisting, unbidden and unwelcome. Shit. Shit shit shit.

You leave the bathroom and navigate back through the venue's intestinal hallways, following the sound of the drum tech running through fills. The band's supposed to start the full soundcheck in fifteen minutes. You need to get your head on straight. You need to stop thinking about the way Lestat's voice dropped when he said cautious, stop replaying the moment he smiled at you—really smiled, not that sharp-edged performance smile he uses on everyone else.

You're so busy not thinking about it that you almost miss the stairwell door opening ahead of you.

Almost.

Lestat emerges first, because of course he does, moving like he owns not just the venue but the concept of venues in general. He's changed his shirt—this one's even more unbuttoned, if that's physically possible, and you briefly wonder if he's trying to see how much chest he can expose before someone tells him this is a soundcheck, not a strip club. Behind him, the tour manager follows, clutching a tablet and looking harassed. Behind her, two of the other band members trail along, engrossed in their phones.

You step to the side, intending to let them pass. Professional. Uninvolved. Definitely not thinking about anything that happened five minutes ago.

Lestat sees you and stops walking.

The tour manager nearly collides with his back. She makes an irritated noise, sidestepping around him while firing off something about stage positions and lighting cues. He ignores her completely. His eyes lock onto yours with the kind of focus that makes your stomach flip in a way you absolutely refuse to acknowledge.

"There you are," he says, like he's been looking for you. Like you're late to something you didn't know you were invited to.

"Here I am," you agree carefully, eyes narrowing. What fresh hell is this?

The bassist—former bassist, you remind yourself, the one whose wrist you're currently replacing—glances up from his phone, frowning. "...everything okay?" he asks, looking between you and Lestat like he's trying to decode a conversation he walked into halfway through.

"Everything," Lestat says, not breaking eye contact with you, "is perfectly fine. The avorton and I were just discussing artistic philosophy." The way he says it makes it sound like an accusation and an invitation simultaneously. You have no idea what he's playing at. You hate that you want to know.

"That's a generous description of me trying to piss in peace while you had a meltdown in a hallway," you say flatly, because if he's going to be weird about this, you're not going to make it easy for him.

The lead guitarist chokes on his coffee. The tour manager's head snaps up from her tablet, eyes wide. Lestat's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes that looks dangerously close to amusement.

"A meltdown," he repeats slowly, savoring the words. "Is that what you're calling it?"

"Would you prefer 'emotional processing moment'?" you offer. "Or maybe 'aggressive feelings time'? I'm flexible."

Jesus Christ, shut up, your brain screams at you. Stop antagonizing the man who can fire you with a text message. Your mouth, as usual, doesn't listen. It never does. You've got a pathological inability to let things go, a constitutional deficiency in the self-preservation department, and right now, both those traits are working overtime.

The tour manager cuts in before Lestat can respond, her voice sharp with the authority of someone who's had to manage actual crises and doesn't have time for whatever this is.

"We're on in ten," she says, gesturing toward the stage entrance. "Can we save the philosophical debates for after we confirm the monitors aren't going to explode?"

Lestat waves a hand dismissively but starts moving, the others falling into step around him. You hang back, intending to follow at a safe distance. That plan lasts approximately three seconds before Lestat glances over his shoulder and pins you with a look.

"Walk with me," he says. It's not a request.

Fuck. You catch up, falling into step beside him because apparently your survival instincts are on permanent vacation. The hallway narrows as you approach backstage. The others pull ahead, probably sensing that whatever's about to happen, they don't want to be near it. Smart. You should take notes.

"You have a remarkable talent," Lestat says conversationally, "for saying the exact wrong thing at the exact wrong time."

"Yeah, well, you have a remarkable talent for being a pretentious dick, so I guess we're even."

He laughs. Actually laughs—low and genuine and surprised enough that it sounds involuntary. “Most people know better than to speak to me that way,” he says.

"Most people are smarter than me," you mutter.

"Or more cowardly," he counters, and there's something in his tone that makes it sound less like an insult and more like... respect? Maybe? You can't tell. Reading Lestat is like trying to read a book where someone's torn out random pages and replaced them with lyrics from concept albums.

The backstage area opens up ahead—the usual chaos of equipment cases, cable runs, and crew members moving with purpose. The stage itself is visible through the wings, lit by harsh work lights that make everything look overexposed and unreal. Your bass is already there, propped on a stand near the monitors. Someone's been thoughtful. Or at least professional.

Lestat stops just before the wings, turning to face you fully. The work lights cast strange shadows across his face, making his features look sharper, older, more severe.

"What you heard," he says quietly, and now there's no performance in his voice, no artifice, "stays between us."

"Obviously," you say, because what the fuck else would you do with it? Sell it to TMZ? Post it on Reddit? "I'm not an asshole."

"Debatable," he murmurs, but there's no heat in it.

You cross your arms, defensive. "Look, I don't care about your Daniel Molloy situation. That's your business. I'm just here to play bass and not fuck up your setlist. Whatever existential crisis you're having about journalists who want to psychoanalyze you for public consumption—that's so far outside my job description it might as well be on another planet."

He studies you for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then, unexpectedly, he reaches out and adjusts the strap of your bass where it's slung over your shoulder, his fingers brushing against the fabric of your shirt. It's a weirdly intimate gesture, casual and proprietary in a way that makes your skin prickle.

"You're very good at pretending you don't care," he observes, stepping back.

"I'm not pretending. I genuinely don't care." Liar, your brain supplies helpfully. You care so much it's embarrassing.

"Mm." He doesn't believe you. Worse, he looks like he finds your denial entertaining. "We'll see."

Before you can formulate a response that isn't just incoherent sputtering, the tour manager's voice cuts through the backstage noise. "Lestat! We're waiting on you!"

He turns away, dismissing you as easily as he initiated the conversation, and strides toward the stage like he's walking into a coronation. You watch him go, your heart doing complicated things in your chest that you're going to ignore until they go away.

This is fine, you tell yourself firmly. This is totally fine. He's just fucking with you because he's bored and you're convenient. It doesn't mean anything.

You follow him onstage, picking up your bass and slinging it properly over your shoulder. The instrument settles against your body with familiar weight, grounding you. This, at least, you understand. Music makes sense. Chord progressions follow rules. Time signatures have structure. You can control this.

The soundcheck starts routinely enough. The drum tech counts off, the guitarist runs through a riff, the monitors feed back briefly before someone adjusts the levels. Standard. Professional. Boring in the best possible way.

Then Lestat starts singing.

You've heard him before, obviously. You've listened to every album, watched every available live recording, studied his vocal runs and phrasing until you could predict his breathing patterns. You've done your homework. You're prepared.

Except you're not.

Because hearing him through speakers is nothing—nothing—compared to hearing him six feet away from you, his voice filling the empty venue like it's already packed with thousands of people. It's not just technically perfect, though it is that. It's not just powerful, though it's that too. It's the way he inhabits every word, the way he makes even the soundcheck feel like a confession, like he's letting you see something private and devastating and beautiful.

You miss your entrance.

It's just a beat—half a measure, maybe less—but you miss it, and your fingers stumble over the strings as you catch up. It's sloppy. Unprofessional. Exactly the kind of mistake you've spent years training yourself not to make.

Lestat doesn't stop singing, but his eyes cut toward you, sharp and assessing. You can feel his judgment like a physical weight.

The song ends. Silence descends, broken only by the residual hum of amps and the faint buzz of the work lights.

"Again," Lestat says, his voice carrying across the stage. "From the top."

The drummer counts off. You force yourself to focus, to lock into the rhythm section and ignore everything else. This time, you nail it. Every note perfect, every transition clean. You play like your job depends on it, because it does.

The song ends again. This time, the silence feels different—less judgmental, more evaluative.

"Better," Lestat says, and it's not quite praise, but it's not condemnation either. "Though I wonder what distracted you the first time."

You did, you theatrical asshole, you think viciously. You and your stupid voice and your stupid face and the stupid way you look at me.

Out loud, you say, "Monitor feedback. Threw off my timing."

It's a blatant lie. Everyone knows it's a lie. The monitors are fine. But Lestat lets it slide, his mouth curving into that knowing smile that makes you want to throw your bass at his head.

"Of course," he says smoothly. "How unfortunate. Let's continue."

The soundcheck proceeds. You don't miss another entrance. By the time you're running through the third song, you've found your rhythm, locked in with the drums and settled into the groove. This is what you're good at. This is where you belong—in the music, not in whatever complicated psychological warfare Lestat seems determined to wage.

But you can feel him watching you. Even when you're not looking at him, even when you're concentrating on the fretboard or counting measures, you can feel his attention like heat on your skin.

It should be unnerving. It should make you uncomfortable.

It does.

But it also makes you play better, sharper, more precisely. Like you're trying to prove something. Like maybe—just maybe—his opinion matters more than you want it to.

Fuck, you think as you nail a particularly tricky transition. I'm so screwed.

The venue in Santa Monica is bigger. Nicer. The kind of place with actual dressing rooms instead of converted closets, with catering that doesn't come from a gas station, with security that looks like they could actually stop a crowd if things went sideways. You arrive early because that's what you do, and you're directed to a dressing room that's labeled "Band" in neat printed letters.

Not "Guest Musician." Not "Green Room." Just "Band."

You stare at the sign for a moment longer than necessary, trying to figure out if it's a mistake or a message. Then you push the door open and walk inside.

The room is empty. Clean. There's a couch that looks recently reupholstered, a mini fridge stocked with water and energy drinks, a table with actual food—fruit, cheese, crackers arranged like someone gives a shit about presentation. A mirror surrounded by bright bulbs. Hooks on the wall for jackets and gear.

You set your case down carefully, like the room might realize you don't belong here and revoke access.

Your phone buzzes.

Soundcheck at 3. Don't touch my guitar. —L

You stare at the text. Then type back: Wouldn't dream of it. Also, fuck you.

Three dots appear immediately. Then: See you at three, avorton.

You pocket your phone and resist the urge to throw it against the wall. He's going to drive you insane. Actually, clinically insane. You're going to end up on a true crime podcast: Local Musician Snaps, Destroys Rockstar's Vintage Guitar Collection, Cites 'Justified Rage' As Defense.

You spend the next hour running through warm-ups alone, fingers moving across the frets in familiar patterns. Scales. Arpeggios. Muscle memory exercises that quiet your brain and steady your hands. You don't think about Lestat. You don't think about the way his voice had dropped to something almost vulnerable in that hallway. You don't think about how he'd looked at you like maybe—just maybe—you were more than temporary.

You especially don't think about the fact that you're starting to care whether he hates you or not.

This is a job, you remind yourself firmly. This is a temporary position with a definite end date. You're here to play bass, collect a paycheck, and leave. That's it. Nothing else matters.

Your brain nods along agreeably. Your traitorous heart, however, has other ideas.

At 2:55, you make your way toward the stage. The venue is empty of audience but full of crew—people running cables, adjusting lights, testing monitors. Professional chaos. The kind of organized disorder that happens right before a show.

You're halfway across the floor when you hear his voice.

"—don't care what the booking agent said. If there's a barricade that close to the stage, someone's getting crushed. Move it back or I walk."

You look up. Lestat is standing near the front of the stage, facing down a venue manager who looks like he's regretting every life choice that led to this moment. Behind Lestat, the tour manager watches with her arms crossed, expression carefully neutral.

"Mr. Lion-court," the venue manager starts, in that placating tone people use when they're dealing with someone they think is being unreasonable, "the fire code requires—"

"I don't give a fuck about fire code," Lestat interrupts, voice sharp and cold. "I give a fuck about the people who came here to see me perform, not get trampled because your venue is too cheap to hire adequate security." He steps closer to the manager, and there's something predatory in the movement. "Move. The. Barricade."

The manager's face goes red. "We have a contract—"

"And I have a lawyer," Lestat says pleasantly. "A very expensive one who loves contract disputes. Would you like me to call her? Because I promise you, that conversation will cost you significantly more than moving a fucking barricade."

There's a moment of tense silence. Then the venue manager nods stiffly and pulls out his radio, muttering something about reconfiguration and liability.

Lestat watches him retreat, expression unreadable. Then he turns and catches sight of you standing there, frozen like you've just witnessed something you weren't supposed to see.

His expression shifts. Not softening—Lestat doesn't do soft. But something in his eyes changes, some of the hard edge bleeding away.

"Enjoying the show?" he asks, walking toward you with that fluid, predatory grace that makes your pulse stutter.

"Just wondering if I should add 'ringside seats to contract negotiations' to my resume," you say, trying for casual and landing somewhere closer to nervous. Because that's what you are—nervous. Not scared. Nervous. There's a difference and you're clinging to it to calm your nerves.

He stops in front of you. Close but not touching. "I don't like bullies," he says, and there's something raw underneath the words. "And I especially don't like bullies who hide behind regulations and insurance policies."

You blink. Process that. "You were protecting the audience."

His gaze slides back toward the stage, toward the barricade being adjusted with hurried obedience. “They come to see me.” A faint, superior curve to his mouth. “I’m generous enough to permit them to walk out alive afterward. Not everyone I meet is afforded that courtesy.”

You hesitate, then abort the sentence halfway because there’s no version of it that doesn’t give something away.

"That's..." you start, then stop, because you don't know how to finish that sentence without revealing too much. That's decent of you sounds condescending. That's hot is wildly inappropriate. That's making me reconsider everything I thought I knew about you is way too honest.

He tilts his head like he’s waiting. Then: “Unexpected?” He smiles. “You’d be amazed how often I hear that from people who thought I’d already shown them everything.”

"You try pretty hard to maintain the image," you point out.

“Because it works,” he replies. “Fear simplifies people. They stop asking for things.” His eyes rake over you, dismissive. “You’re the exception. You keep looking for nuance like it’s owed to you.”

Your throat goes dry. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Liar," he says softly, and steps past you, heading toward the stage.

You stand there for a moment, heart hammering, trying to remember how to breathe normally. This is bad, you think. This is so, so bad. You're not supposed to like him. You're supposed to tolerate him long enough to survive the tour and then never think about him again.

Except.

Except he's not just the asshole who calls you avorton and corrects your timing with condescending precision. He's also the man who stops soundcheck to protect audience safety. Who admits to being cautious about journalists because one of them got too close. Who looks at you sometimes like you're not disposable at all.

Fuck, you think eloquently. Fuck fuck fuck.

You follow him onstage because that's what you're paid to do, and you absolutely do not spend the entire soundcheck hyperaware of where he is, how he moves, the way his voice wraps around every word like he's trying to seduce the empty room.

You absolutely don't miss another entrance because you're too busy watching him.

(You do. He notices. He doesn't say anything, but the look he gives you is knowing and amused and infuriating.)

The soundcheck ends. The venue empties of crew as everyone scatters for the dinner break. You're packing up your gear when Lestat appears beside you, moving with that supernatural quiet that shouldn't be possible in boots.

"Walk with me," he says.

Again…? You look up, surprised. "Where?"

"Does it matter?"

"Kind of, yeah. Last time someone said that to me, I ended up helping them move a body." It's a joke. Mostly. The bassist you replaced in your previous band had a concerning relationship with true crime podcasts and an even more concerning lack of boundaries.

Lestat's eyebrows rise. "I'll keep that in mind if I ever need to dispose of evidence." He waits, patient in a way that doesn't feel patient at all. “Come,” he adds. “I’m feeding you.”

"Why?" The question comes out more suspicious than you intend.

“Because you’re inefficient like this,” he replies. “Apparently you haven’t eaten. You’re compensating with caffeine and attitude, and I don’t tolerate liabilities on my stage.” “Tough Cookie noticed. She’s been helpfully informing me, at length.” The words drip with irritation. “The rest of them have opinions now. I find this exhausting, and because of that, I’ve decided you’re my problem for the evening.”

He turns away, already assuming compliance. “Don’t make this tedious, petite chose.”

That last part is said quietly, almost reluctantly, like the admission costs him something.

You should say no. You should make an excuse about needing to rest or run through the setlist one more time or literally anything that doesn't involve spending more time alone with Lestat de Lioncourt.

"Okay," you hear yourself say instead, because apparently your self-preservation instincts died somewhere around the second time he called you petite chose.

His expression shifts briefly—calculation replacing surprise. “Good,” he says. “There’s a place nearby. Inconvenient, unimpressive, and entirely adequate.” A pause, deliberate. “You’ll dislike it. Which means you’ll come.”

"Sounds perfect," you mutter, slinging your bag over your shoulder and following him offstage.

The restaurant is exactly as advertised—a hole-in-the-wall Thai place with fluorescent lighting, plastic chairs, and laminated menus that look like they've survived multiple health code violations. The smell hits you as soon as you walk in: lemongrass and chili oil and garlic, rich and overwhelming in the best possible way.

Your stomach growls audibly.

Lestat’s attention flicks to you the moment your stomach betrays you. His mouth curves, pleased, like he’s just been proven right about something trivial.

“Predictable,” he says. “Mortals always are. Leave them unattended long enough and the body starts making demands.”

"Shut up," you say without heat, sliding into the booth he’s already claimed.

He takes the seat across from you and settles in with lazy authority, posture relaxed, presence absolute, like the furniture adjusted itself out of respect. “You can pretend you’re unaffected,” he adds mildly, eyes tracking you without apology, “but biology is honest. It tells me things you won’t.”

He glances at the menu, then back at you, amused. “Eat. I don’t enjoy distractions when I’m speaking.” Somehow, he makes the cheap plastic chair look like a throne. It's infuriating. He's infuriating.

The waiter appears—a tired-looking middle-aged woman who takes one look at Lestat and doesn't recognize him. Or if she does, she doesn't care.

"What do you want?" she asks in accented English, pen poised over her notepad.

Lestat orders in Thai. Fluent, casual, completely unselfconscious. The waiter's expression shifts from bored to surprised to approving. She nods, scribbles something down, and looks at you expectantly.

"Uh," you say eloquently. "What he said?"

She nods again and disappears into the kitchen.

You stare at Lestat. "You speak Thai."

He barely looks impressed by your surprise. “I speak whatever benefits me,” he says, reclining with lazy entitlement. “Languages are tools. People are more cooperative when you understand them.”

"Of course you do," you mutter. “Is there anything you’re not insufferably competent at?”

"Tolerating mediocrity," he says immediately, eyes sharp. "Pretending to care about things that bore me. Suffering fools." He pauses, swirling his drink with deliberate laziness. "And I'm spectacularly bad at golf. Not because I lack skill—I simply refuse to waste immortality chasing a ball around manicured grass with men in ridiculous pants."

You laugh before you can stop yourself. The sound surprises both of you.

His eyes narrow. "What's funny?"

"You," you say. "The idea of you at a country club. I'm picturing you getting kicked out for telling some CEO his swing looks like a dying giraffe."

"Close," he says. "I told him he moved like rigor mortis had set in early. His wife found it hilarious. He did not." Something cruel flickers across his face. "I may have also fucked his wife in the club bathroom. That probably didn't help."

You blink. "Jesus Christ."

"What?" He leans back, arms spread. "She was bored. He was tedious. I provided a service."

"You're unbelievable," you say.

"I'm honest," he corrects."You've been performing this whole time. Playing the professional. The competent hired hand who doesn't make waves. It's tedious."

"I have a personality," you snap, defensive. "I'm just smart enough not to show it to people who can fire me."

"Fire you?" He laughs, short and sharp. "Please. You think I'd waste the effort? If I wanted you gone, you'd already be gone. The fact that you're still here should tell you something."

"That you're lazy?" you suggest.

"That you're useful," he says, voice dropping into something colder. "You can play. You don't fawn. You push back just enough to be entertaining without being genuinely irritating." He tilts his head. "You're a curiosity. A toy I haven't broken yet."

Your stomach clenches. "I'm not a fucking toy."

"Aren't you?" He leans forward now, elbows on the table, invading your space across the small surface. "You're here because I allow it. You stay because I find you amusing. The moment you bore me—" He snaps his fingers. "Gone. Replaced. Forgotten."

"You really are an asshole," you say.

"Yes," he agrees easily. "But I'm an honest asshole who pays extremely well and will make you famous by proximity. So tell me—does it really matter if I think you're disposable, as long as your bank account says otherwise?"

You stare at him. At the casual cruelty. The absolute certainty that he's right.

"You're exhausting," you tell him.

"Good," he says, smile sharp. "Means you're paying attention."

The waiter returns with drinks—Thai iced tea, sweet and creamy and cold. You wrap your hands around the glass, grateful for something to do with them.

"Why do you care?" you ask quietly. "I'm temporary. You said so yourself."

"I don't care," he corrects immediately. "I'm curious. There's a difference. Caring implies emotional investment. Curiosity is just... seeing how long a toy lasts before it breaks."

You set your glass down harder than necessary. "I'm not a toy."

"So you keep saying," he observes. "Which makes me think you're trying to convince yourself more than me." He takes a sip of his drink, studying you over the rim. "You want to know which parts are lies? All of them. None of them. Does it matter? You're here. You're staying. Whether I'm lying or telling the truth is irrelevant to the outcome."

"That's fucked up," you say flatly.

"That's reality," he counters. "You can pretend we're having some meaningful connection, or you can accept that you're here because you're competent enough to be useful and interesting enough to keep around. For now."

"For now," you repeat.

"Everything is temporary, avorton," he says with exaggerated patience, like he's explaining something to a child. "Even immortality gets boring eventually. The question isn't whether I'll tire of you—I will—but whether you'll last long enough to matter."

"You're exhausting," you mutter.

"And yet you're still sitting here." He leans back, arms spread across the booth like he owns the entire restaurant. "You could leave. Walk out. Quit. But you won't. Do you know why?"

"Because I need the money…?" you suggest.

"Because you want to see where this goes," he says. "For all your talk about professionalism and boundaries, you're desperate to know if I find you as fascinating as you find me." His smile turns cruel. "And the answer is: not quite. But close enough to be entertaining."

"I have never looked at you like that," you interrupt, face burning.

"Like what?" he asks innocently. "Like you want to fuck me? Because you do. I can see it every time your eyes linger a little too long. Every time you bite your lip when I'm talking. Every time you get that angry flush on your face—" He gestures at you. "Like right now."

"That's not—I'm not—" You're sputtering. You hate that you're sputtering.

"You're terrible at hiding what you feel," he continues, relentless. "It's written all over your face. The anger, the attraction, the embarrassment at being called out. You can't separate them because they're all the same thing—frustration at wanting something you know you shouldn't want."

"This is a bad idea," you say finally, desperately trying to regain some control of the conversation.

"What is?" he asks. "This dinner? This job? This pathetic attempt at pretending you're here for purely professional reasons?"

"All of it," you snap.

"Probably," he agrees, utterly unbothered. "But bad ideas are so much more interesting than good ones, don't you think?"

The food arrives before you can respond—plates and bowls covering the small table, steam rising in fragrant clouds. Pad thai. Green curry. Spring rolls. Sticky rice. More food than two people could reasonably eat.

You stare at it. "This is too much."

"I didn't ask for your opinion on portion sizes," he says. "Eat. You're no use to me if you pass out from low blood sugar."

"How romantic," you mutter.

"I'm not trying to be romantic," he says, picking up his fork and pushing food around his plate without actually eating any of it. "I'm trying to keep my temporary bassist functional. There's a difference."

You grab your fork and stab at the pad thai with more force than necessary. "You know what? Fuck you."

"Maybe later," he says lightly. "If you ask nicely."

The food is incredible. Rich and spicy and complex, each bite a revelation. You eat in hostile silence, furious at him, furious at yourself, furious at the fact that despite everything he just said, you're still sitting here.

And he knows it.

His smile says he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

Eventually, Lestat speaks. "Tell me something true."

You look up, wary. "Why?"

"Because I'm bored," he says bluntly. "And you're marginally more interesting than staring at the wall. Entertain me."

"I'm not a performing monkey," you snap.

"Could've fooled me," he says. "You've been performing since the moment I hired you." He leans forward. "Tell me something real, or I'll make something up about you and it'll be significantly less flattering."

You glare at him. Consider telling him to fuck off. But there's something in his expression—not vulnerability, but predatory curiosity—that makes you realize he's not going to let this go.

"I almost quit music," you say finally, voice flat. "Two years ago. I was broke, burnt out, sleeping on couches and playing dive bars for drink tickets. My mom called me every week begging me to come home, get a real job, stop embarrassing the family." You shove rice around your plate. "I was one bad gig away from proving her right."

"How pedestrian," he says. "And yet here you are. What stopped you? Some inspirational moment of clarity? A mentor who believed in you?"

"Spite," you say shortly. "I didn't want her to be right."

"Ah." He leans back, looking genuinely interested now. "Spite. Now that's honest." He picks up his drink. "It is underrated as a motivator. Much more reliable than passion or talent."

"Is that what keeps you going?" you ask, somewhat bitterly. "Spite?"

"Among other things," he says. "Spite. Rage. Boredom. The pathological need to prove I'm better than everyone else in the room." He pauses. "Also, I'm constitutionally incapable of letting anyone else have the last word. It's a compulsion."

"I've noticed," you mutter.

"Your turn," you say, trying to regain some control. "Tell me something true."

He considers you for a long moment, like he's deciding how much truth you can handle. "I'm terrified of being forgotten," he says finally. "Not death—forgetting is the real ending. When the last person who remembers you dies, when your name stops being spoken, when you become nothing but a footnote... that's true death."

You blink, surprised by the genuine admission. "That's why you do all this. The shows, the image. You're trying to make yourself immortal."

"Trying implies I haven't succeeded," he corrects. "I am unforgettable. I've made certain of it."

"Modest," you mutter. "Is it working?"

His eyes sharpen. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Look for weakness," he says. "Look for the soft underbelly. There isn't one. This is what I am—ego and spectacle and absolute certainty that I'm better than everyone else. If you're looking for vulnerability to exploit, you'll be disappointed."

"I wasn't—"

"Yes, you were," he interrupts. "You pounced." He leans back. "But to answer your pathetic attempt at depth: yes, it's working. You'll remember me. In five years when you're playing corporate events. In ten when you're teaching bored teenagers how to hold a bass. In twenty when you're dying alone because you wasted your youth chasing someone who never gave a fuck about you—you'll remember me."

The cruelty lands like a slap. "What the fuck is wrong with you?."

"What?" He spreads his hands innocently. "You wanted honesty. I'm being honest. You'll carry me with you like a scar. Whether you want to or not."

"You're a fucking asshole," you say.

"Yes," he agrees easily. "But you already knew that. You're still here anyway. Which makes you either stupid or masochistic. I haven't decided which yet."

"Must be exhausting," you bite out, "maintaining this level of asshole twenty-four seven. Never letting anyone see anything real."

"What makes you think this isn't real?" he asks, voice sharp. "This is the most honest I've been in centuries. I don't pretend to be better than I am. I don't pretend to care about things that bore me. I don't pretend you're anything more than temporary entertainment." He leans forward. "The mask is my face. I've been performing so long there's nothing left underneath. Just ego and hunger and the absolute conviction that I'm the most interesting thing in any room I walk into."

"That's bleak," you say.

"Most people spend their lives pretending to be something they're not, hoping someone will love them for the performance. I've simply accepted that the performance is all there is." He gestures at himself. "Take it or leave it."

You want to argue. Want to tell him that's bullshit, that you saw something else when he stopped soundcheck to protect his audience. That there's more to him than he's admitting.

But you remember the way he'd framed it—"protecting investment."

"You stopped soundcheck earlier," you say anyway, stubborn. "To move the barricade. That wasn't just ego."

"Wasn't it?" He tilts his head. "Dead fans don't buy merchandise. Injured fans sue. I was protecting my brand. If you saw something noble in that, you were projecting."

"I don't believe you," you say.

"I don't care what you believe," he says. "Belief is irrelevant. I am what I am, regardless of how you choose to interpret it." He picks up his fork, examining it like it's mildly interesting. "You want me to be complicated. Layered. You want there to be some trauma that explains the ego, some wound that makes me sympathetic. There isn't. I'm simply better than most people and honest enough to admit it."

"You're impossible," you mutter.

"Everyone else performs morality and compassion while secretly being selfish. I'm just selfish without the performance. It's more honest." he snaps back.

You stab at your curry with unnecessary force. "Has anyone ever told you that you're insufferable?"

"Constantly," he says cheerfully. "And yet here you are. Still eating my food. Still listening to me talk. Still trying to figure out if I'm worth the effort." He smiles. "Well—spoiler alert: I'm not. But you'll try anyway, because humans are predictably stupid that way."

You want to leave. Want to throw your napkin down and walk out and never look at him again. But you don't. Because he's right, damn him. You're still here. Still listening. Still trying to find something underneath the cruelty that makes it worth staying.

And he knows it. His smile says he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

“If you're about to say something sentimental, I'd hate to have to fire you for it." he observes.

You want to throw the curry at his head. Instead, you let it go because you're too tired to interrogate his slip-ups and too hungry to stop eating. But one of his comments sit in your brain, poking at you. Centuries. He'd said centuries. Like he actually meant it.

The vampire thing, you think. He's really committed to the vampire thing.

Except.

Except there's the cold scent that clings to him. The way he moves too quietly, too smoothly. The lines under his eyes that aren't tiredness. The fact that you've never actually seen him eat anything.

Don't be ridiculous, you tell yourself firmly. Vampires aren't real. He's just a method actor with excellent commitment and a flair for the dramatic.

You finish your curry. Lestat watches you eat with an expression that's somewhere between satisfied and hungry. Not hungry for food. Hungry for something else you're not ready to name.

"We should go," you say finally, pushing your plate away. "Show starts in two hours."

"Plenty of time," he says, but he signals for the check anyway.

The waiter brings it. Lestat pays in cash, leaving a tip that's probably twice the cost of the meal. The waiter's eyes widen. She says something in Thai that makes Lestat respond in kind.

Outside, the light is already gone. The sky holds onto a dull gradient of color that looks residual rather than present, the last trace of day bleeding out behind low cloud and concrete. What remains is the smell—salt dragged in from the coast and the stale aftertaste of traffic that never really clears.

You walk side by side back toward the venue. Not touching. Carefully maintaining distance. But the space between you feels charged, electric, like one wrong move would close it entirely.

"Thanks for dinner," you mutter grudgingly as you leave the restaurant.

"Don't," he says immediately. "Don't thank me. It wasn't generosity. You're useless to me if you pass out from malnutrition, and I don't have time to train another replacement."

"Jesus, you really can't just accept a simple thank you, can you?"

"Why would I?" He lights a cigarette with fluid grace, even though you're pretty sure he doesn't actually need to smoke. "Accepting gratitude implies I did something worthy of it. I fed you because you're my instrument. This is maintenance, not kindness."

You glare at him. "You're unbelievable."

"You've said that three times tonight," he observes. "Find new material."

You bite back a retort and start walking toward the venue. He falls into step beside you, silent for maybe thirty seconds before speaking again.

"I'm going to make tonight's show hell for you," he says conversationally. "Just so you're prepared."

You stop walking. Turn to face him. "What?"

"Tonight. Onstage." He takes a drag from his cigarette. "I'm going to push you. Change tempos. Call songs we haven't rehearsed. See how far I can take you before you break."

"Why?" you demand. "What's the fucking point?"

"Because I'm bored," he says simply. "Because I want to see if you're actually worth keeping or if you're just competent enough to be boring." He steps closer, invading your space.

Your brain stutters over that. "You're doing this for entertainment?"

"What else would I do it for?" He looks genuinely puzzled. "Personal growth? Artistic integrity? Please. I do everything for entertainment. That's the only thing that matters—whether something amuses me or bores me. Right now, you amuse me. Let's see how long that lasts."

"You're a sociopath," you say flatly.

"Probably," he agrees, unbothered. "But I'm a successful sociopath with a sold-out tour and unlimited resources. You, on the other hand, are a temporary bassist who needs this job. So let's not pretend we're on equal footing here."

"I could quit," you point out.

"You could," he agrees. "But you won't. Because you need the money. Because this is the biggest opportunity you'll ever have. Because despite everything—despite knowing I'm using you, despite knowing I'll discard you the moment you bore me—you want to prove you can handle it." He smiles. "You're predictable. It's almost disappointing."

"Fuck you," you snap.

"Maybe later," he says lightly. "If you survive the show."

"I'm not sleeping with you," you say immediately.

"I didn't ask you to," he counters. "I simply observed that watching you play is aesthetically pleasing. The way your hands move. The concentration on your face. The little tell you have right before a difficult transition—you bite your lip." He takes another drag. "It's... distracting."

Your face burns. "You're—you're watching my mouth while I play?"

"Among other things," he says. "I'm a visual creature. I notice details. Your mouth is expressive. It gives away what you're thinking before you speak."

"That's—Jesus Christ, that's—"

"Honest?" he supplies. "Yes. I could pretend I don't notice these things. Pretend I don't think about what you'd look like if I—" He pauses, considering whether to finish that sentence. "But I don't lie. Not about what I want. Lying is for people who care about being liked."

"You're inappropriate," you manage.

“I'm telling you exactly what I think, exactly what I want, exactly how I see you. You can hate it. You can be uncomfortable with it. But you can't say I'm not being honest."

"Honest doesn't make it okay!"

"I never said it was okay," he says. "I said it was true. You decide what to do with that truth."

You stare at him, trying to formulate a response that isn't just incoherent rage.

"Come on," he says, dropping the cigarette and crushing it under his boot. "We have a show tonight, and you have approximately that long to decide if you're going to quit or prove me wrong about you being predictable."

He walks away, leaving you standing there with your heart pounding and your fists clenched and absolutely no idea what the fuck just happened.

You stare at him. Your pulse is too fast, your skin too hot, and you're rapidly losing the battle between professional distance and the part of you that wants to grab him by his stupidly unbuttoned shirt and kiss him just to shut him up.

"You can't say shit like that to me," you manage, running after him. "I work for you."

"Technically, you work for my tour management company," he corrects. "And only temporarily. Remember? Which means I can say whatever I want, and you can either deal with it or quit." he stops and turn his head to you. “Your choice.”

"That's not better!"

"I didn't say it was better," he says. "I said it was true” You take a step back, needing distance. "This is insane. You've spent the past week treating me like I'm—a piece of gum stuck to your shoe." "Because you were annoying me," he says bluntly. "You were too competent to fire and too mouthy to ignore. It was irritating."

"Was?" you repeat, catching the past tense.

"Is," he corrects. "You're still irritating. But now you're interesting too. Irritating and interesting is better than just irritating."

"Wow," you say flatly. "What a compliment. I'm so flattered."

"You should be," he says, utterly serious. "I rarely find mortals interesting for more than an evening. You've managed almost two weeks. That's practically a record."

"A record," you repeat. "For what? Most entertaining temporary employee?"

"For anything," he says. "I told you—people bore me quickly. You haven't yet. I'm curious to see how long that lasts."

"So this whole time," you say slowly, "when you've been calling me ‘avorton’ and correcting every fucking thing I do and making my life miserable—"

"I was seeing if you'd break," he finishes.

"You are unbelievable," you mutter.

"So you keep saying," he observes. "It's getting repetitive. Find a new insult."

You want to punch him. Actually punch him in his perfect, smug face. "What do you want from me?"

"Want?" He considers the question like it's novel. "I might want to keep you around until you bore me. Which might be a week. Might be a month. We'll see."

"That's the most fucked up thing I've ever heard," you say.

"Really?" He looks genuinely surprised. "That's mild compared to most of my thoughts. I'm being nice."

"This is you being nice?" "In a sense. Most people don't get honesty. They get whatever version of me serves my purposes at the time. You're getting the truth. You should be grateful."

"Grateful," you repeat incredulously. "You just told me I'm a temporary amusement you're going to discard when you get bored, and I should be grateful?"

"Yes," he says simply. "We’ve established this. At least you know where you stand. Most people spend years trying to figure out what I actually think of them. I'm telling you directly: you're interesting. For now. Enjoy it while it lasts."

You stare at him, trying to find words that aren't just incoherent rage.

"Say something," he prompts.

"You're the most arrogant, self-centered, emotionally stunted asshole I've ever met," you say finally. He’s only lucky he’s hot.

"Thank you," he says, like you've complimented him.

"That wasn't a compliment!"

"Wasn't it?" He smiles. "You called me arrogant. I am. Self-centered. Absolutely. Emotionally stunted—well, that's debatable, but I'll allow it. You're being honest. I appreciate honesty."

"I hate you," you inform him.

"No, you don't," he says with infuriating certainty. "You hate that you find me attractive. You hate that I'm right about you being predictable. You hate that you're still standing here arguing with me instead of walking away like a sensible person would." He steps closer. "But you don't hate me. If you did, you'd have quit already."

You want to tell him no. Want to tell him he's completely wrong and he doesn't know anything about you.

But you can't. Because he's right, and you both know it.

"You're insufferable," you mutter.

"I know," he says cheerfully. "But I'm also hot, apparently. You said so yourself."

Your face burns. "...What? I did not—"

"You said I'm lucky I'm hot," he reminds you, clearly enjoying himself. "Which implies you think I'm hot. Which means I'm not the only one being inappropriate here."

"I never voiced out loud—"

"An admission," he interrupts. "You admitted you're attracted to me. That's progress. I appreciate progress."

"I'm going to murder you," you say through gritted teeth.

"You've threatened that twice now," he observes. "Getting repetitive again. Either do it or find new threats."

You start walking toward the venue, fists clenched, face burning. He follows, keeping pace easily.

"For the record," he says casually, "I'm aware you're attracted to me. I have been since day one. The way you look at my mouth when I'm talking. The way your pulse speeds up when I get too close." He pauses. "I notice everything. It's a gift."

"Stop talking," you demand.

"Why? This is fun. You're fun when you're angry. All flushed and sputtering and trying to pretend you're not affected." He grins. "It's adorable. Almost makes up for the mediocrity of the rest of humanity."

"I hate you," you say again.

"You've said that three times now," he points out. "And yet you're still here. Still following me. Still playing my music." He holds the backstage door open with exaggerated courtesy. "Curious, isn't it?"

You walk through without looking at him, because if you do, you might actually hit him.

"See you onstage, avorton," he calls after you. "Try not to miss any cues. I'd hate to have to replace you when you're just getting interesting."

The show is electric.

Not good. Not great. Electric. The kind of performance that feels like it's being channeled from somewhere else, like the music is playing you instead of the other way around. The venue is packed, bodies pressed together in the heat and dark, the crowd moving as a single organism. The energy is palpable, visible, a living thing that feeds back into every note you play.

And Lestat is on fire.

He moves across the stage like a man possessed, all grace and deliberate provocation. He plays to the crowd, to the cameras, to you. Especially to you. Every time he crosses to your side of the stage, he makes eye contact. Every time he hits a high note, he throws his head back in a way that exposes his throat. Every time the lights catch him right, he looks inhuman.

Too beautiful… dangerously so.

You play like you're trying to prove something. Maybe to him. Maybe to yourself. Every transition is clean. Every fill is precise. You're locked in so tight with the drummer that you might as well be the same person. And when Lestat changes something—tempo, key, arrangement—you follow instantly, anticipating his moves before he makes them.

It's the best you've ever played. And you fucking hate that it's because of him.

The encore ends with a song you've never rehearsed. He calls it out—just the title, no explanation—and launches straight into it. You have maybe three seconds to remember the chord progression before your hands have to move. You nail it. He shoots you a look from across the stage, sharp and triumphant. You want to strangle him. The crowd goes insane.

When you finally walk offstage, you're drenched in sweat, your hands are shaking, and your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your teeth. The adrenaline is still singing through your veins, making everything too bright, too loud, too intense.

Lestat is right behind you. His hand catches your elbow—firm and possessive—pulling you aside as the rest of the band heads toward the dressing rooms.

"That," he says, "was exactly what I knew you could do."

"Get your hand off me," you snap, wrenching your arm free. "You don't get to pull that shit. Calling songs we haven't rehearsed is sabotage. That's not how this works."

"And yet you kept up perfectly," he points out. "Almost like you're exactly as good as I thought you were."

"Almost like I'm too stubborn to let you make me look incompetent," you shoot back.

He laughs, breathless and delighted. "You're interesting when you're angry. It's the only reason I haven't replaced you yet." His eyes drag over you, assessing. "God, I could fuck you right now."

Your brain short-circuits. "What."

"You heard me." He tilts his head, studying you like you're something he might consume. "All that defiance, that fire—it's delicious. Makes me want to see how long it takes to break you. Or bend you. Whichever comes first." He steps even closer. "You were magnificent out there, in your limited mortal way. And I want—"

"Lestat!" The tour manager appears, clutching her tablet like a shield. "Press is here. You've got ten minutes before the meet-and-greet."

His expression shifts instantly—smooth, charming, the monster tucking itself away behind the mask. "Of course, of course," he purrs. "Tell them I'll be ravishing shortly."

She nods and hurries off, already talking into her headset.

Lestat turns back to you, and the cruelty slides back into place. "Run along now. Go cool off, catch your breath, whatever it is you mortals need to do to recover." He reaches out and adjusts the strap of your bass where it's digging into your shoulder—not gently, just enough to make the touch feel like ownership. "And don't think about leaving. Find me later. I'm not finished with you yet."

Then he's gone, swept away by handlers and obligations, and you're left standing in the corridor with your fists clenched and your blood boiling and the sick, shameful awareness that some twisted part of you wants to follow him anyway.

You make your way back to the dressing room. Strip off your sweat-soaked shirt and grab a clean one from your bag. The room is empty—everyone else is either dealing with press or collapsed somewhere in exhaustion. You should eat something. Drink water. Do all the responsible post-show things that keep musicians functional.

Instead, you sit on the couch and stare at nothing, trying to process the fact that Lestat de Lioncourt just said he wanted to fuck you.

One way or another.

Your phone buzzes. A text from the unknown number.

Bus leaves at 2am. Next stop is San Francisco. Don't be late.

You stare at it. Two in the morning. That's three hours from now. You could grab a shower at the hotel, maybe catch an hour of sleep if you're efficient about it.

Your phone buzzes again.

Also, you played beautifully tonight. I meant what I said. —L

Your heart reacts before your brain can intervene, an irritating, involuntary lurch that feels like a personal betrayal. You immediately tell it to shut the fuck up. This is the same man who spent the evening dismantling you in front of a room full of people, who oscillates between contempt and attention like it’s a sport. Praise from him isn’t reassurance—it’s a problem.

You stare at the message, reread it, try to locate the angle. Is this another mind game? A correction? A setup for something worse? You don’t understand him. You understand cruelty. You understand dismissal. You understand being tolerated because you’re useful. This—this sudden softness dropped into the middle of sustained hostility—doesn’t fit any pattern you recognize.

You start typing. Stop. Delete it. Start again. Nothing you draft feels safe, or correct, or immune to being used against you later.

Before you can decide whether to ignore it entirely, the dressing room door opens.

You look up, already braced, expecting Lestat.

It's the guitarist—the lead and sometimes rhythm section guy whose name you finally learned is Larry. He's carrying two bottles of beer and looks slightly less put-together than usual.

"Hey," he says, offering you one of the bottles. "Thought you might need this."

You take it because refusing would be weird and you don’t have the energy to explain yourself to anyone right now. “Thanks.”

He drops into the chair across from you and takes a long pull from his own beer, like he’s earned it. “Hell of a show.”

“Yeah,” you say. It comes out flat.

"That last song," he continues, "the one he called out of nowhere. That was fucked up, even for Lestat."

"It was fine," you say immediately, irritation flaring before you can stop it. "I handled it."

“I know,” Larry says. “That’s why I brought you a drink instead of a defibrillator.” He eyes you over the bottle. “He doesn’t usually spring that kind of shit on someone who’s been here less than a month.”

"I figured."

"And you passed." Larry takes another drink. "Which means you're staying. Congratulations. You've officially survived Lestat's hazing process."

You blink. "That was hazing?"

"All of it," Larry confirms. "The insults. The impossible tempo changes. The general psychological warfare. He does it to everyone new. If you fold, you're out. If you fight back..." He gestures at you with his bottle. "You're in."

"That's fucked up," you say flatly.

"Yeah, but that's just Lestat." Larry shrugs, leaning back in his chair. "That's who he is. Has been since day one."

"What do you mean?"

Larry grins, like he's remembering something absurd. "Six thirty on a hot, sticky Saturday night, two years ago. We were in the attic studio, just jamming, y'know? Trying to figure out if we've got anything worth playing. And then the doorbell rings." He shakes his head. "This guy walks in—long blond hair, clothes that probably cost more than our equipment—and introduces himself as a vampire."

You stare at him. "He what?"

"Dead serious. Says, 'I'm Lestat de Lioncourt, and I'm a vampire.' Then tells us he wants to sing with us. Says if we trust him, he'll make us all rich and famous. That on a wave of—what did he call it?—'preternatural and remorseless ambition,' he'd carry us out of those shitty rooms and into the great world."

"And you just... believed him?"

Larry laughs. "Hell no! We thought he was insane. But then he sang." His expression shifts, becoming something almost reverent. "And suddenly it didn't matter if he was crazy. We would've followed him anywhere after that."

You sit with that for a moment, trying to imagine Lestat showing up unannounced and declaring himself a vampire like it was a job qualification.

It tracks, somehow.

"So everything with him is a test," you say slowly. "Everything is theater."

"Exactly. And if you can't handle the performance, you don't belong on his stage." Larry finishes his beer and stands. "But you handled it. And now he's already..." He trails off, shaking his head.

"Already what?" you press.

Larry gives you a long look. "You really don't see it, do you?"

"See what?"

"The way he looks at you," Larry says. "Like you're the only person in the room. Like you're a puzzle he's trying to solve." He pauses. "Like you matter."

Your throat goes tight. "I don't—that's not—"

"I'm not saying anything," Larry says, holding up his hands. "I'm just saying, I've toured with the man for years, and I've never seen him give anyone the kind of attention he gives you. Make of that what you will."

He finished his beer and heads for the door, then stops. "Anyway. Good show. Try to get some sleep before the bus leaves. San Francisco's a long drive."

Larry leaves you alone with your beer and your thoughts, neither of which are particularly comforting.

You finish the beer and check your phone. It's barely past eleven. Still three hours before the bus leaves. You should shower. Sleep. Do literally anything productive.

Instead, you find yourself wandering through the backstage corridors, following the sound of voices. You're not looking for him. You're absolutely not looking for him. You're just... walking. Clearing your head.

You're such a fucking liar.

The corridors twist and branch, identical concrete and industrial lighting stretching in every direction. You follow the sound of laughter—crew members, probably, or lingering fans—but each turn takes you further from the noise instead of closer. The venue is bigger than you thought, a maze of service hallways and storage rooms and doors marked with labels that mean nothing to you.

After fifteen minutes of aimless wandering, you give up. If Lestat wanted you to find him, he would have made it easy. He's theatrical like that. The fact that you can't locate him means he doesn't want to be found.

Or maybe he's already left.

Or maybe he's with someone else, some other fan with better hair and fewer questions about his personal life.

Stop, you tell yourself firmly. Stop spiraling. He said to find him later. Later doesn't mean right now.

You make your way back to the green room—the one with a proper name on the door now. The room is empty when you arrive, which is both a relief and a disappointment. You drop your bag by the door, kick off your shoes, and collapse onto the couch that's probably seen more bodily fluids than a hospital gurney.

The cushions smell like leather cleaner and someone's expensive cologne. You sink into them and stare at the ceiling, trying to process everything that's happened in the last three hours.

The show. The performance. The way Lestat had watched you onstage like the rest of the venue had ceased to exist. The thing he’d said afterward—low, blunt, deliberately destabilizing—dropped so casually it had stalled your thoughts mid-sentence and left you standing there trying to remember how breathing worked.

And then the meet-and-greet.

You hadn’t actually seen anything. No hands, no mouths, no proof beyond proximity and assumption. Just the mental image your brain supplied without permission: him leaning in, someone smiling up at him, his attention sliding easily into a place you hadn’t realized you were guarding. You picture it anyway. Of course you do. That’s what your brain does when it’s tired and overstimulated and making up stories to justify its own irritation.

The reaction hits fast and ugly.

Jealousy—baseless, speculative, and completely unearned.

You hate that it even registers which is stupid and completely unprofessional. This is exactly the kind of emotional misfire you've spent years training yourself not to have. You tell yourself you’re annoyed on principle. On account of professionalism. On the sheer audacity of him saying what he said and then going back to being Lestat de Lioncourt in public, all charm and access and practiced intimacy.

You do not tell yourself it bothers you because you wanted that attention to stay yours.

That would be ridiculous.

So you shove the thought down, hard, and tell yourself to get a grip.

You don't even like him, you think. He's an asshole. He calls you a runt, a maggot. He makes your life deliberately difficult just to see if you'll break.

Except.

Except maybe you do like him. That is the problem. That's the entire fucking problem.

You close your eyes and let yourself think about it. Really think about it, without the professional distance and defensive sarcasm you usually hide behind. You try to treat it like a technical issue: identify the malfunction, isolate the cause, fix it. The trouble is that feelings don’t obey logic, and you don’t have a manual for wanting someone who has spent the last two weeks treating you like an inconvenience that learned to talk.

Lestat de Lioncourt is undeniably attractive. That fact exists whether you approve of it or not. He’s not “cute.” He’s not “hot” in the casual, forgettable way. He looks built for attention, like someone designed around the idea of being watched. Sharp cheekbones, a mouth that seems designed specifically to make you forget your own name, eyes that hold on too long. The way he moves like gravity works differently for him, like he's operating under physical laws the rest of you aren't privy to; controlled in a way that makes you aware of your own clumsiness, your own human weight, your own very normal relationship with gravity.

And his hands—fine, yes. Long fingers, clean nails, musician’s dexterity with none of the damage you’d expect from someone who plays as hard as he does. He uses them like punctuation. A small gesture becomes an order, a lazy flick becomes dismissal, and when he touches anything—an instrument, a mic stand, someone else’s shoulder—like he’s deciding what belongs to the moment and what doesn’t. You hate that you notice. You hate that your brain catalogues him like this, like you’re collecting evidence for a case you don’t want to argue.

Attraction would be manageable if it stayed shallow. A problem you could laugh at and bury under work. But this doesn’t feel shallow. It feels tangled up with irritation and adrenaline and the constant pressure of trying to keep up with someone who changes the rules for sport. You don’t understand why your mind keeps circling back to him when all he’s done is be cruel, dismissive, invasive. You don’t understand why your body reacts to his attention like it’s a reward instead of a warning.

You try to tell yourself it’s just intensity. Proximity. The fact that he’s everywhere, in every room, in every rehearsal, in your phone, in the setlist, in the way your day is scheduled around his whims. Your nervous system is stuck in a loop and your brain is confusing survival with interest. That explanation is clean.

But it also doesn’t fully cover it.

Because there are moments—rare, brief, irritatingly memorable—where his cruelty shifts into something else without becoming kind. He never stops being mean, but sometimes the meanness stops being random. Sometimes it feels aimed. Specific. Like he’s paying attention in a way you didn’t ask for and don’t know what to do with.

And you keep reacting.

You keep thinking about him when you shouldn’t. You keep replaying his voice, his timing, the exact cadence he uses when he decides he wants to corner you verbally and see what you do. You keep remembering the way he looks at you when you don’t give him the reaction he wants—like it annoys him, like it intrigues him, like he’s already planning the next way to push.

You don’t know why you like him. You don’t even know if you do like him, or if your brain just latched onto the nearest dangerous distraction because the alternative is admitting how tired you are. But the feelings are there, complicated and humiliating and completely out of proportion to what he’s earned. And that’s the part that makes you want to put your fist through a wall—not because you’re falling for him, but because you can’t find the off switch.

Stop, you tell yourself again. Stop being a disaster.

He told you you're disposable, your brain supplies helpfully. He called you ‘petite chose’ and meant it as an insult. He's made it very clear you're temporary.

But then he'd said other things too. Things about wanting you. About being better when you're angry. About watching you play being the most erotic thing he'd experienced in years.

Your body responds to the memory before your brain can stop it. Heat pools low in your stomach. Your pulse picks up. You shift uncomfortably on the couch, legs pressing together.

And then, unbidden, unwanted, you feel tears prick at your eyes.

What the fuck?

You press the heels of your hands against your eyes, trying to force the tears back. This is ridiculous. You're not crying. You don't cry over complicated feelings for emotionally unavailable musicians who may or may not want to fuck you.

But the tears come anyway. Not sobs. Just silent, stupid tears that slide down your temples because you're lying on your back and gravity is a bitch.

It's not desire or shame but your subconscious trying to process pain you don't want to acknowledge. The pain of wanting someone who'll probably destroy you. The pain of being attracted to someone who's made it clear you're temporary. The pain of feeling things you're not supposed to feel for someone you're supposed to just be working with.

You wipe at your face with your hands—temples, cheeks, the backs of your ears. Your skin comes away wet. You stare at your palms in the dim light.

"It's sweat," you mutter to no one. "It's just sweat. I'm just hot from the show. That's all this is."

Liar, your brain supplies.

You sit up, scrubbing at your face more aggressively. Get it together. You're a professional. You're a goddamn adult. You can handle having complicated feelings for someone without falling apart on a couch like a teenager.

But the thing is, you're not sure you can handle it. It wasn’t as simple as "Lestat is hot and I want to sleep with him." though you wish it was that. Just that. Except it involves actually caring about what he thinks. Actually being hurt when he dismisses you. Actually feeling jealous when he pays attention to someone else.

And you don't know what to do with that.

You've spent years cultivating a very specific approach to sex and relationships. Very sex-positive. Very open. Very "everyone should do what works for them and it's all equally valid." You've internalized the messaging about how there's no wrong way to be, as long as everyone's consenting and communicating.

But none of that helps when it's you. When it's your feelings. When it's your body doing things that don't make sense.

Because the truth is, you don't know if you like this. The wanting. The way your body responds to Lestat even when your brain is screaming that he's bad news. You can't tell if you like it, and you don't know what happens if you don't like it, and the whole thing feels like a betrayal of everything you thought you understood about yourself.

What if you don't want this? What if the attraction is real but the follow-through feels wrong? What if you build this up in your head and then when it actually happens, your body just... doesn't cooperate? What if you freeze? What if you panic? What if you realize too late that what you wanted in theory feels terrible in practice?

Your body betrays you constantly. When you're anxious, it shakes. When you're angry, it cries. When you're attracted to someone, it apparently decides to process that through tears and confusion and a vague sense of impending doom.

You try to betray it back sometimes. Push yourself into situations that scare you just to prove you can. Force yourself to feel things you're not sure you actually feel. Act confident when you're terrified. Play the part of someone who has their shit together when internally you're screaming.

But all that does is hurt you. All that does is leave you sitting on a couch in an empty green room, crying over a man who probably doesn't deserve the emotional energy you're wasting on him.

"Fuck," you say out loud. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

You stand up. Pace the length of the room. Try to shake off whatever this is.

Maybe you should just leave. Pack your shit, quit the tour, go back to your normal life where rockstars are abstract concepts and not real people who make your chest feel too tight and your thoughts go sideways.

But you won't. Because you're stubborn. Because you're broke. Because some masochistic part of you wants to see where this goes, even if it ends with your heart in pieces and Lestat moving on to the next temporary person who catches his attention.

You're still pacing when the door opens.

You spin around, half-expecting Lestat… or Larry again. Half-hoping for the former, if you're being honest with yourself.

It was Tough Cookie, the keyboardist. This is the second time a bandmate has walked in on you being out of it. All on the same night too. She takes one look at your face and winces. "Oh shit. You okay?"

"Fine," you say automatically.

"You look like you've been crying."

"I haven't," you lie. "Just tired. Long show."

She doesn't believe you. You can tell by the way her expression shifts into something concerned and awkward. "Listen, if Lestat said something—"

"He didn't," you interrupt. "It's fine. I'm fine. Everything's fine."

Cookie studies you for another moment. Then she nods slowly, clearly deciding not to push. "Okay… Well. Bus leaves in forty-five minutes. Don't be late."

"I won't."

She leaves, closing the door softly behind her. You're alone again.

You take a deep breath. Then another. You need to pull yourself together. Need to wash your face and pack your shit and get on that bus like a functioning human being.

But first, you let yourself have one more minute of sitting with the uncomfortable truth: you're falling for Lestat de Lioncourt, and you have no idea if that's going to save you or destroy you.

Probably both.

Then you stand up. Make a decision. Fuck it.

This was meant to be a temp job anyway. A few weeks. No promises. If you tell him how you feel and he dismisses it, you can just leave. Quit. Walk away and never look at him again. Go back to dive bars and drink tickets and a life that doesn't include rockstars who make your chest feel like it's being crushed from the inside.

The worst that can happen is he laughs at you. Tells you you're delusional. Reminds you that you're temporary and disposable and every other cruel thing he's already said to your face.

And then you leave. Simple.

Simple, your brain echoes mockingly. Because nothing about this is simple.

You ignore it. Grab your jacket. Check your phone—thirty-five minutes until the bus leaves. Enough time to find him, say what you need to say, and deal with the fallout.

You head out of the green room and make your way toward the parking area where the tour buses idle. The venue is mostly empty now, just crew breaking down equipment and a few lingering fans hoping for one more glimpse of Lestat. You push through the back exit into the cool night air.

Three buses are lined up. You know which one is his—the one at the front, all black with tinted windows.

The door is closed but not locked. You climb the steps, every muscle in your body coiled tight with nerves and adrenaline and the reckless energy of someone who's made a terrible decision and is committed to seeing it through.

You push the door open.

And freeze.

Lestat is there, but he's not alone.

You register the woman all at once, with the delayed shock of something you hadn’t been prepared to see.

You don’t recognize her—at least, not from anywhere specific—but your brain fills in the blanks immediately. Meet-and-greet, you assume. One of the people who paid for proximity and got more than an autograph. She’s close enough to him to erase doubt, pressed into the leather couch like she belongs there, like she’s been there before. Perfect hair, immaculate dress, the kind of effortless polish that makes you very aware of your own sweat-damp shirt and frayed patience.

Lestat’s hand is buried in her hair, casual and possessive, fingers curved like that’s exactly where they expect to be. Her hands fist in his shirt as if she’s afraid he’ll disappear if she loosens her grip.

They’re already kissing by the time your brain finishes catching up. A real, deep, consuming kiss that makes your stomach drop through the floor of the bus.

You should leave. Should back out quietly before they notice you. Should preserve whatever dignity you have left.

You try to turn around. Reach for the door handle.

It doesn't move.

You pull again. Nothing. The latch is jammed—stuck or locked or broken, you can't tell which. Your hands fumble with it, panic rising in your throat as you realize you're trapped here, forced to witness this.

"Fuck," you whisper, pulling harder. "Come on, come on—"

That's when Lestat opens his eyes.

He doesn't break the kiss. Doesn't pull away from her. He just looks at you over her shoulder, eyes locking onto yours with laser precision.

And he keeps kissing her.

Your hands stop moving. The door handle forgotten. You're frozen, unable to look away, unable to do anything except stand there and watch.

The woman makes a sound against his mouth—pleasure, satisfaction, something that makes your chest feel like it's caving in. Lestat's hand tightens in her hair, and he deepens the kiss deliberately, putting on a show.

For you.

Because he knows you're watching. Knows you can't leave. Knows exactly what this is doing to you.

His eyes never leave yours.

When he finally breaks the kiss, the woman whimpers at the loss. He trails his mouth down her jaw, slow and deliberate, giving you time to see every detail. His lips find her throat. She tilts her head back, offering access, completely lost in whatever spell he's woven.

"Lestat," she breathes.

He doesn't respond to her. His eyes are still fixed on you, sharp and bright and inhuman in the dim bus lighting.

Then his mouth opens wider than it should.

You see his teeth extend. Long, sharp, impossible fangs that catch the light as they slide down from his gums with a wet, organic sound that makes your stomach lurch.

No, your brain supplies weakly. That can't be—

But it is.

He bites down.

The woman gasps—not in pain, but in ecstasy. Her back arches, pressing closer to him, and a low moan escapes her throat. Her hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt.

And Lestat drinks.

You watch his throat work with each swallow. Watch the woman's face go slack with pleasure, eyes rolling back, completely lost to sensation. Watch as Lestat's hand slides down her back, holding her steady, keeping her close.

He never looks away from you.

The message is clear: This is what I am. This is what I do. Are you watching? Do you understand now?

Your body locks up on you in the most useless way possible. You forget how breathing is supposed to work, like your lungs missed a critical memo. Your brain immediately scrambles for an explanation that doesn’t end with you just watched a vampire feed, cycling through denial at speed—this isn’t real, vampires don’t exist, you’re overtired, overstimulated, finally losing your grip, any answer except the one standing six feet away from you wiping his mouth like this is just another inconvenient mess.

But you can't deny what you're seeing. The fangs. The blood. The way the woman is reacting like this is the best thing that's ever happened to her. The way Lestat is staring at you while he feeds, making sure you see every terrible, beautiful detail.

Seconds pass. Or minutes. Time has stopped meaning anything.

The woman's moans get quieter. Her body goes more limp in his arms. He's still drinking, still watching you, still holding your gaze like he's trying to brand this image into your brain.

Finally, he pulls back.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, careless, smearing rather than cleaning, and flicks whatever remains away without looking where it lands. The woman sags immediately, weight collapsing into him like a switch has been flipped. There’s no moment of adjustment, no effort to support her—just gravity taking over.

Lestat lets her slide down his side and onto the couch with minimal effort. Not rough enough to bruise, not careful enough to matter. Her head lolls at an awkward angle, one arm trapped beneath her, the other hanging off the edge like he couldn’t be bothered to notice. She looks peaceful only because she’s unconscious, because her body has been reduced to something inert.

He doesn’t check her breathing. Doesn’t rearrange her.

He straightens, already done with her, attention moving on as if she’s furniture that’s served its purpose.

His mouth is stained red. Blood on his lips, his teeth, a smear of it on his chin that looks obscene in the low light. His eyes are too bright—glowing faintly, inhuman, predatory.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing red across pale skin.

Then he walks toward you.

You should run. Should fight. Should do literally anything except stand there like prey frozen in headlights. But your body won't cooperate. You're locked in place, watching him approach with slow, deliberate steps.

He stops two feet away. Close enough that you can smell the copper-sweet scent of blood mixing with his cologne. Close enough that you can see his fangs slowly retracting back into his gums with that awful wet sound.

"Well," he says, voice rough and low, still carrying the residue of feeding. "Still think it's theater?"

You open your mouth. No sound comes out.

He tilts his head, studying you like you're an experiment he's conducting. "You came looking for me," he observes. "Why?"

Your brain tries to remember. You had a reason. A purpose. Something you were going to say to him.

I'm falling for you seems laughably inadequate now.

"I—" Your voice cracks. You try again. "The door. The door's jammed. I was trying to leave."

"Were you?" He steps closer. "Or were you trying to stay?"

“I—” You stop, words tripping over each other. You gesture, sharp and useless, toward the couch, toward him, toward the whole fucking situation. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know you were— that you—”

"A vampire," he supplies. Your brain stutters over that. You swallow hard, head shaking on instinct. “No. That’s not—this isn’t real. That’s not a thing.” You break off, frustrated, voice pitching sharper. “This isn’t funny, Lestat. If this is some fucked-up stunt—”

"Can't I?" He pauses, tilts his head before he takes another step closer, and you press harder against the door, your back hitting metal. "Two hundred years I've been walking this earth, avorton, and you still think you know what's possible?"

He's close enough now that you can see the blood between his teeth. Can smell the copper mixing with his cologne. Can see the way his eyes are too bright, reflecting light that isn't there.

"Why are you here?" he asks, voice dropping into that dangerous register. "In my bus… at this hour. When you should be packing your things like a good little temporary employee."

"I was—" Your voice cracks. "I wanted to—"

"You wanted to confess," he interrupts, and his smile is all teeth. Red-stained, sharp teeth. "You wanted to tell me you have feelings. That you can't stop thinking about me. That despite all your better judgment, you're falling for me."

Your blood runs cold. "How did you—"

"I can hear your thoughts, petit chose," he says, tapping his temple. "Every desperate, pathetic little thought that runs through that pretty head of yours. I've been listening to them for days." He leans in, close enough that his breath—cold and wrong—ghosts across your face. "You came here to bare your soul. To see if I felt the same. To find out if maybe, just maybe, the horrible rockstar might actually care about the disposable bassist."

"Stop," you whisper.

"Why?" His hand comes up to rest beside your head, caging you in. "You wanted honesty. Here it is: I've known how you felt since the first time you looked at me with those hungry eyes. I've heard every fantasy, every doubt, every moment of confusion. I know you cried in the green room. Perhaps once touched yourself thinking about me and hated yourself for it. I know everything."

Shame floods through you, hot and visceral. "You're a fucking asshole."

"Yes," he agrees pleasantly. He tilts his head, studying you like a cat studies a mouse. "Did you really think I didn't know? That I wasn't aware of every single moment you tried to resist? It's been delicious, watching you fight it."

"This whole time—" Your hands curl into fists. "You were just fucking with me. This was all a game."

"Of course it was a game," he says, eyes glittering. "I have made it very clear. Everything is a game. Me, you... her." He gestures carelessly toward the unconscious woman. "All of you are just pieces on my board, moving exactly where I want you to move."

"I'm not a fucking game piece," you spit.

"Aren't you?" He leans in closer, nose nearly touching yours. "You're here, aren't you? Standing in my bus. Unable to leave. Exactly where I wanted you to be."

"The door—"

"Isn't jammed," he confirms. "I told you that already. You chose to stay. You chose to watch. Just like I knew you would." His voice drops to a purr. "Because despite everything—despite the fear, despite the horror, despite knowing I'm a monster—you still want me. Don't you?"

You want to deny it. Want to tell him to go fuck himself. Want to do anything except stand here with your heart hammering and your body betraying you.

"I can hear your pulse," he murmurs. "Racing like a drum." His hand moves from the wall to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there. Feeling your heartbeat. "I could drain you right now. Right here. Would you even fight me?"

"Yes," you force out.

"Liar." His thumb traces your jugular. "You'd let me bite you. You're already wondering what it would feel like. Whether it would hurt or whether you'd feel what she felt." He smiles. "Whether it would feel like pleasure."

"Fuck you," you breathe.

"Maybe," he says. "If you beg nicely."

Your hands move before your brain approves it—shoving against his chest, trying to create distance. He doesn't budge. Doesn't even sway. You might as well be pushing against a wall.

He laughs. "There it is. That fire. That's what I wanted to see." His hand slides from your throat to your jaw, gripping just tight enough to make you aware of his strength. "You came here to tell me you have feelings. To see if I'd reject you. To find out if you're just another temporary thing I'll discard when I get bored."

"Let me go," you say.

"Answer my question first," he demands. "Do you still want me? Now that you know what I am? Now that you've seen me feed? Now that you know I've been inside your head, hearing every desperate thought?"

You should say no. Should tell him to fuck off. Should salvage whatever dignity you have left.

But he's right. He's been right this whole time. You do still want him. Even now. Even like this.

"Yes," you admit, hating yourself for it. "Are you happy now?"

His smile is triumphant. Predatory. "Ecstatic."

He releases your jaw, stepping back slightly to give you room to breathe. "You're more interesting than I gave you credit for. Most humans run at this point. Most can't reconcile the attraction with the horror. But you—" He circles you slowly, like a shark. "You're damaged enough to think this is somehow romantic. That a monster could want you."

"Do you?" The question escapes before you can stop it. "Want me…?"

He stops circling. Stands directly in front of you again. "I want to see how far I can push you before you break. I want to see if you'll still look at me with those desperate eyes after I've taken everything from you. I want—" He pauses, something flickering behind his expression. "I want to keep you. For as long as you entertain me."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer you'll get," he says. “I don’t negotiate attachment, avorton. I don’t nurture it. I take what holds my interest and I decide how long it stays useful. If that's not enough for you, there's the door." He gestures behind you. "Leave. Quit. Go back to a life where no one looks twice at you and no one expects anything worth breaking for.”

You stare at him. At this cruel, beautiful, impossible creature who's offering you the worst deal imaginable.

"Or," he continues, voice dropping into silk, "you stay. You let me have you. You accept that while you’re here, you belong to my orbit. You play when I say. You stay where I put you. You stop pretending you’re immune to me. That’s as close as it gets—and maybe, if you're very good, I'll even be gentle occasionally."

"That's fucked up," you manage.

"Yes," he agrees easily. "But you're going to say yes anyway. Because you're just as damaged as I am. Just as desperate for something that feels real, even if it destroys you."

He's right. You hate that he's right.

"One condition," you hear yourself say.

His eyebrows rise. "You think you're in a position to negotiate?"

"One condition," you repeat, forcing steel into your voice. "You stay out of my head unless I invite you in. My thoughts are mine."

He considers this, head tilted. "Interesting. You want privacy even while surrendering everything else."

"Yes."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I walk," you say, even though you're not sure you could. "I don't care if you can hear every thought after that. I won't stay willingly."

Something shifts in his expression. Respect, maybe. Or just amusement at your audacity. "Very well," he says finally. "Your thoughts remain your own unless you invite me in. Do we have an agreement?"

"What exactly am I agreeing to?" you ask.

"To being mine," he says simply. "In whatever capacity I choose. For as long as I want you." He steps closer again, backing you against the door. "And in return, I'll give you everything you've been fantasizing about. The attention. The intensity. The feeling of being chosen by something extraordinary." His hand cups your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "I'll give you the best and worst experience of your life. And when it's over—when I'm done with you or you're done with me—you'll have stories no one will ever believe."

"You make it sound like a business transaction," you say.

"Everything is a transaction," he counters. "I'm just honest about the terms."

You should walk away. Should tell him to fuck himself and his manipulative mind games and his arrogant assumption that you'll just fall in line.

But your body is already leaning toward him. Your heart is already racing for different reasons. Your treacherous brain is already imagining what it would be like to be his.

"Okay," you whisper.

His smile could cut glass. "Say it properly."

"For as long as I want you… For as long as you want me," you force out, each word tasting like surrender and victory simultaneously.

"Good," he purrs. And then his mouth is on yours.

His hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back to angle your mouth exactly how he wants it, and the sharp sting makes you gasp. He uses the opening immediately, his tongue sliding against yours, and you taste blood—the woman's blood, still coating his mouth, metallic and wrong and somehow not wrong at all.

You should be disgusted. Should push him away. Should care that you're tasting someone else's blood in his kiss.

You don't.

Instead, you grab his shirt—his stupidly unbuttoned shirt that's been driving you insane for weeks—and pull him closer. Harder. Your fingers find bare skin and you dig your nails in, feeling cold flesh that doesn't yield the way human skin should.

He makes a sound against your mouth. Not quite a groan, but deeper. His other hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise, pinning you against the door, and then his whole body is pressed against yours.

There's no warmth. Just cold, solid muscle and the overwhelming presence of something that should be dead but is very, very much not.

You kiss him like you're trying to prove something. Like you're trying to match his intensity, his hunger, his absolute certainty that he owns you now. Your teeth catch his bottom lip and you bite down—not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to make a point.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes blazing with something that might be approval or might be threat. "Careful, avorton," he warns, voice rough. "You don't want to make me bite back."

"Maybe I do," you hear yourself say, reckless and stupid and completely beyond caring.

His smile is all teeth. Still stained red. Still inhuman. "Dangerous thing to offer a vampire."

"You said you wouldn't," you challenge. "Unless I'm willing."

"I said a lot of things," he counters. His thumb traces your jaw, then slides down to your throat, pressing against your pulse point. "Are you willing? Do you want to know what it feels like? What she felt?"

Your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it everywhere. "I want to fucking tear you apart."

"Honest," he murmurs. "I like that." His mouth descends to your neck, not biting, just pressing open-mouthed kisses against your pulse. His tongue traces the vein, tasting, teasing.

"Fuck you," you manage, but it comes out breathless.

"Later," he promises against your skin. "If you're very good."

Then his mouth is back on yours, harder this time, more demanding. His hands are everywhere—in your hair, on your hips, sliding under your shirt to find bare skin. His touch is cold enough to make you shiver, to make you arch into him seeking heat that isn't there.

You give up trying to maintain control. Give up trying to match him. Instead, you just surrender to it—to the kiss, to his hands, to the overwhelming sensation of being completely consumed by something that shouldn't exist.

He tears his mouth away from yours to trail kisses down your jaw, your neck, across your collarbone. Not biting. Not yet. Just marking territory. Claiming you with his mouth in ways that will leave evidence.

His teeth graze your skin—not breaking it, just a threat, a promise—and you can't stop the sound that escapes your throat. Half gasp, half moan, entirely involuntary.

"That's what I wanted to hear," he murmurs against your neck, and you can feel him smiling.

Then his mouth finds yours again and this kiss is different. Deeper. More desperate. Less performance and more genuine hunger. Like he's trying to devour you completely, trying to prove that you made the right choice in surrendering.

You kiss him back with everything you have. Every bit of frustration and desire and confusion and anger from the past two weeks poured into the way your mouth moves against his, the way your hands grip his shirt, the way your body presses against his like you're trying to fuse together.

His hand slides from your hip to the small of your back, pulling you impossibly closer, and you feel every hard line of his body against yours. Cold and unyielding and perfect in all the wrong ways.

When he finally pulls back, you're gasping for air, lips swollen and stinging. He's not breathing at all, just staring at you with eyes that are too bright, too inhuman, too fucking beautiful.

"You're perfect," he says, and there's something almost surprised in his voice. "Absolutely perfect."

"I'm a mess," you correct, very aware that your hair is probably destroyed, your lips are swollen, and you can still taste blood.

"Yes," he agrees, thumb brushing across your bottom lip. "A beautiful mess."

"We should—" You stop. Not sure what you were going to say. Stop? Continue? Figure out what the fuck this is?

"We should do many things," he says, voice dropping back into that dangerous register. "But first—" He leans in, lips brushing your ear. "First, you should probably check if you can walk. Because if you can't, I'm going to have to carry you off this bus, and people will talk."

You push at his chest, trying to create distance. He allows it, stepping back with a smirk that says he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

Your legs are shaky. You're not entirely sure you can walk. But you're not going to give him the satisfaction of admitting it.

"I'm fine," you lie.

"Of course you are," he says, clearly not believing you. "Come on. We have twenty minutes before the bus leaves. Let's get you cleaned up before Larry starts asking questions."

"What about—" You glance at the unconscious woman on the couch.

"She'll wake up in a few minutes thinking she had the best conversation of her life," Lestat says dismissively. "And she'll have a number to call if she wants to do it again. I take care of my meals."

The casual cruelty of that statement should bother you more than it does.

"You're terrible," you inform him.

"Yes," he agrees cheerfully. "But you knew that before you kissed me."

He offers you his hand. You stare at it for a moment—pale, elegant, belonging to a creature that just drank someone's blood in front of you.

You could walk away. Should walk away. Every instinct screams at you to run.

But you've never been good at doing what you should.

You take his hand.

His grip is cold, firm, absolute. His smile spreads slowly across his face—not triumphant, hungrier. Like he's already won a game you didn't know you were playing.

"You have no idea what you've just agreed to," he says softly, his thumb brushing across your knuckles in a way that feels like both promise and threat.

"Neither do you," you shoot back, even though your pulse is hammering.

His laugh is low, dangerous, delighted. He releases your hand, but the cold imprint of his fingers lingers on your skin long after he's gone.

"Oh, this is going to be fun."