wc: 5968
one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten,
eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen
Pure-blood vampires were supposed to be dying out, that much Judas Sparks knew with a certainty that felt older than memory itself. Before the long sleep took him, their numbers had already thinned to something fragile, something whispered about rather than seen. Legends instead of rulers. And yet, here he was, awake again, drawn violently back into the world not by time’s gentle passage, but by something far more deliberate. Something hungry. Something calling his name through the marrow of the earth itself.
Kyle Garrick, his servant, though the word had always sat wrong in both their mouths, had been the one to summon him back. A hybrid, balanced precariously between monstrous power and human restraint, Kyle had waited years for Judas to rise again. He had asked, pleaded, demanded even, for his master to return to the living. But Judas had never stirred. Not for five years. Not for ten. Not even for twenty. Until that afternoon.
The blood moon had hung heavy and swollen at the highest point in the sky, painting the world in a violent, crimson hue. The air had trembled with the sound of distant howls, werewolves calling to something ancient, and the frantic screech of birds scattering from the trees. And beneath it all, creeping through the unseen spaces between shadows, they had come. Shadows drawn not just to darkness, but to him. To his blood. To what he was. Or perhaps, more dangerously… what he could become. Pure Shadows did not rise without consequence, and something in the balance of power had shifted enough to make Judas Sparks worth hunting again.
When his eyes opened, it was not with confusion, but with awareness sharpened to a blade’s edge. Brown laced with a deep, unnatural red, his gaze fixed immediately on the ceiling above him, stark white and almost offensively clean. He could see everything, the delicate drift of dust particles suspended in the air, illuminated by thin ribbons of sunlight slipping through sheer curtains. The light touched his skin without burning, only warming, brushing over his pale, tanned complexion like something testing his existence.
Like it wasn’t entirely sure he belonged among the living again. The bed beneath him shifted as he sat up slowly, the silk sheets whispering against his skin, folding and creasing as though reluctant to release him. There was a heaviness in his limbs, not weakness, never that, but the weight of time itself settling back into place. Twenty years of stillness, undone in a single breath. Judas exhaled softly, controlled, before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His bare feet met the floor with quiet certainty. No hesitation.
No disorientation. Only calculation. With a measured motion, he reached up and parted the sheer curtains draped around the bed, the fabric sliding smoothly beneath his fingers. The room beyond revealed itself in slow increments, as though he were reacquainting himself with a world that had continued on without him. Jackson, Mississippi, his domain once, though now it felt like something distant, altered in ways he could already sense but not yet see.
He moved toward the door with unhurried grace, each step deliberate, silent. His hand settled on the handle, fingers curling around it with quiet strength. For a brief moment, he paused, not out of uncertainty, but awareness. Something was different. The air itself felt heavier, charged with the presence of forces that had not dared move so boldly before. The house was silent in a way that pressed against the ears, thick, unnatural, wrong.
Judas stilled just beyond the threshold, his senses sharpening instinctively, reaching outward into the stillness. And then he heard it. Breathing. Not one. Not two. Four. Slow. Steady. Alive. His brows furrowed, a faint crease forming between them as the realization settled in. Only he and Garrick were permitted within these walls, no exceptions, no intrusions. The air shifted around him as something colder slipped beneath his skin, something instinctive and territorial. In the span of a heartbeat, Judas moved.
A blur of motion carried him down the staircase, his presence barely disturbing the air as he descended. The wood didn’t creak beneath his feet; it didn’t dare. He rounded the corner sharply, then slowed with sudden precision, each step softening into something quieter, more deliberate. Predatory. He stopped just at the edge of the wall, pressing into the shadow it cast, listening again. Measuring. Calculating.
And then, A hand seized his wrist. The movement was swift, controlled, and undeniably strong. Judas was pulled forward and down in one fluid motion, his back arching sharply as he was dipped low, caught off guard for the briefest fraction of a second. A hiss slipped past his lips, sharp, instinctive, dangerous, but it died just as quickly. Brown eyes met his. Familiar. Grounding.
“Garrick?” Judas breathed, and the edge in his voice dissolved into something softer, something touched with quiet disbelief. The tension in his body eased, though not entirely, never entirely. His gaze searched Kyle’s face as if confirming he was real, that this wasn’t some lingering illusion from the depths of his long sleep. The shift in him was subtle but unmistakable. Where there had been sharpness, there was now something gentler, threaded with confusion and something unspoken beneath it.
Kyle Garrick didn’t release him immediately. Up close, the difference in him was clearstronger, steadier, something forged in the twenty years Judas had been absent. His grip remained firm, grounding, as if he needed the contact just as much. “Judas…” Garrick exhaled, his voice unmistakably British, low and roughened at the edges like he hadn’t quite decided if this moment was real yet. “You’re finally awake.”
There was a pause, just one, where the weight of those years hung heavy between them. Then, softer, almost disbelieving, he added, “Took your bloody time, didn’t you?” Gaz’s grip loosened, though not entirely gone, as he steadied Judas and guided him upright again. There was something careful in the way he did it, not out of fear, but out of respect for the shift in balance that had just occurred. Judas was awake now. Truly awake. And that meant everything had changed.
“I’m sorry for invitin’ people over,” Gaz muttered, his accent curling around the words as he glanced toward the adjoining hall. There was a hint of something almost sheepish beneath his usual composure. “Didn’t have much choice. I’ll introduce you, yeah?” Judas didn’t answer immediately. His gaze lingered on Gaz, searching, weighing, calculating. Then, slowly, one brow arched, sharp, suspicious, but not outright displeased.
“…Alright.” The single word was smooth, measured. Permitting. Gaz gave a small nod and turned, guiding him around the corner and into the hall. Judas’s presence entered the space before his body fully followed. It pressed outward, cold, ancient, unmistakable. The room itself seemed to still in response. Seated across the hall, on soft blue ottomans arranged with too much casual comfort for Judas’s liking, were three men.
Waiting. Watching. The first one drew the eye immediately, a rugged British man, easily in his forties, with a presence that spoke of long years and longer wars. His face was weathered, carved by experience rather than age alone. A thick, scruffy beard and mustache framed his jaw, and beneath the brim of a worn khaki boonie hat, sharp blue eyes locked onto Judas with quiet intensity. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just observed. Measured.
The second sat beside him, posture looser but no less dangerous. Scottish, unmistakably so. His build was athletic, coiled with restless energy, and his short dark hair was cut into a rough mohawk that only added to the edge he carried. Blue eyes flicked over Judas, quick and assessing, like he was already mapping out how fast things could go wrong, and how he’d respond if they did. The third was… different. Younger. Late twenties, maybe.
Blonde hair fell slightly into his face, framing features that were softer than the other two, less worn, less hardened. His brown eyes were wide, almost doe-like at first glance, but there was awareness in them. Kindness, yes, but not weakness. He watched Judas with quiet curiosity rather than challenge, as though trying to understand him instead of measure him. Judas took all of this in within seconds. Every breath. Every heartbeat. Every flicker of tension in their bodies.
His gaze returned to Gaz, voice low and edged with something faintly dangerous despite its calm. “You’ve brought soldiers into my home.” It wasn’t a question. It was an observation. And beneath it, A warning. Gaz didn’t look away. Not even for a second. His eyes held Judas’s with a quiet steadiness that bordered on defiance, but beneath it, softer, more fragile, there was a silent plea. Listen to me. Just this once, listen before you decide.
“This is John Price,” Gaz began, his voice level, controlled, gesturing toward the older man with the boonie hat. “Captain of Task Force 141. Dark Horse Hybrid.” Price gave a slight nod, nothing exaggerated, nothing submissive. Just acknowledgment. His sharp blue gaze never left Judas, measuring him in the same way Judas had already measured him. Gaz shifted slightly, continuing, “Beside him, John MacTavish. A Sergeant. My mate.”
The Scottish man’s posture changed at that, subtle, but there. A grounding presence. His eyes flicked briefly to Gaz, something protective flashing through them before settling back onto Judas. “Werewolf hybrid,” Gaz added. MacTavish didn’t speak, but there was a faint curl at the corner of his mouth, something almost challenging, like he wasn’t entirely bothered by the tension filling the room. “And him, Gary Sanderson. Sergeant. Another werewolf.”
The blonde man inclined his head slightly, offering something quieter than the others, less guarded, but no less aware. His brown eyes lingered on Judas with a careful kind of curiosity, like he was trying to understand rather than confront. Gaz exhaled softly before continuing, tone shifting, more personal now, more deliberate. “I invited them here because… I wanted to tell you I found my mate.” There was a pause.
A small one, but it carried weight. “And,” he went on, voice tightening just slightly, “because they’re looking for someone. Name’s Simon Riley. Used to be their Lieutenant. A Pure Shadow.” That, at least, stirred something faint behind Judas’s otherwise composed expression. Gaz noticed. “He cut ties after a man named Vladimir Makarov killed one of their own,” Gaz continued, quieter now. “Went off-grid. Hunting him. Haven’t seen him since.” Judas lifted a single finger.
Not abruptly. But not angrily. Just enough to stop him. “That’s enough, Garrick.” His voice was smooth, controlled, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop with it. Judas turned his head slightly, gaze sliding past Gaz and back to the three men seated across from him. Evaluating again. Reassessing. Then, almost lazily, he asked, “Why is this my concern?” There it was. The line. The boundary.
Gaz’s jaw tightened, lips pressing into a thin line as he turned away, stepping toward the window. Light filtered across his face, but it didn’t soften him. If anything, it made the tension in his expression more visible. “They want help finding him,” Gaz said, quieter now, but no less firm. A pause. Then, almost reluctantly, “I may have… mentioned… that you can tap into people’s memories.”
Silence. “And,” Gaz added, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, voice dipping just slightly, “that you used to be a U.S. Naval Captain.” Another pause. “…F-22 fighter pilot. Operator.” That did it. The air shifted again, sharper this time. Judas didn’t move immediately. But something in him stilled in a way that felt far more dangerous than motion. Slowly, very slowly, his gaze returned to Gaz. There was no softness in it now. “…You told them,” Judas said quietly. Not loud. Not explosive. But far worse.
Measured. Each word placed with deliberate precision. “You volunteered my abilities… and my past… to strangers.” The word lingered. Strangers. His head tilted just slightly, eyes flicking once more toward Price, then MacTavish, then Sanderson. When he looked back at Gaz, there was something colder there now. Something ancient. Something that remembered exactly what it meant to be exposed. “How generous of you.”
No raised voice. No outward anger. Just a thin, razor-edge calm, the kind that always came right before something broke. The shift in the room was subtle, but Judas caught it instantly. Movement. From his peripheral, the Scottish man rose. Not rushed. Not aggressive. But deliberate enough to draw attention. Judas didn’t turn immediately, he simply allowed his gaze to slide toward him, slow and assessing, as if deciding whether the interruption was worth acknowledging.
MacTavish stepped forward just enough to close the distance without crossing into outright disrespect. There was a tension in his posture, something restrained beneath the surface, like a wolf holding itself back from baring its teeth. His blue eyes met Judas’s, steady, unflinching. Then he spoke. “Listen-” his voice came rough and warm, thick with a Scottish accent that curled around every word, grounding it in something human despite everything else in the room. “Ah ken ye don’t know me… an’ ye’ve nae reason tae trust me.”
He lifted his hands slightly, not in surrender, but in honesty. Open. Real. “An’ maybe ye dinnae want tae get mixed up in this. Fair enough.” A breath. Then, softer, but heavier, “But please… for the love o’ Saturn, help us.” The words landed differently than the others had. Less calculated. Less careful. There was something raw in them, something that didn’t belong to strategy or rank. MacTavish took another small step, just enough for the light to catch fully on his face.
“My bonnie-” he glanced briefly toward Gaz, something fond and fierce flickering there before he looked back at Judas, “-he’s spoken real high o’ ye.” There was the faintest hint of a smile then, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Said ye’re a charmer. Said ye’d help.” The room went quiet again after that. No one moved. No one spoke. Judas regarded him in silence, his expression unreadable, but his gaze… sharp. Searching. Weighing not just the words, but the intent behind them. Then, slowly, his head tilted. “…A charmer?”
(Jude’s a little egomaniac when it comes to his appearance! (^_-) Judas echoed softly, voice smooth as silk, though something darker threaded beneath it. His eyes flicked, just briefly, to Gaz. Then back. “And here I thought Garrick knew better than to sell me so cheaply.” There was no immediate refusal. But there was no agreement either. Only that same dangerous calm, and the unmistakable sense that Judas Sparks had not yet decided whether Simon Riley was worth the trouble… or if the men standing in his home were.
Soap’s brows shot up instantly, zero hesitation, zero survival instinct. “Oh no, he was goin’ on about how he’d hit that as-” He didn’t get to finish. Gaz launched. One second he was standing, next he’d closed the distance entirely, slamming into Soap and clamping a hand firmly over his mouth. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence, MacTavish!” The momentum nearly sent them both crashing straight to the floor, but they didn’t fall.
They stopped. Abruptly. Held. Judas’s hand was planted squarely against the middle of Soap’s back, fingers splayed wide, steadying both men with effortless strength. The ease of it was almost insulting, like holding up two fully grown soldiers required nothing from him at all. For a moment, everything froze. Soap blinked, eyes darting sideways, suddenly very aware of the warm hand at his back, of just how close Judas was behind him.
Gaz, still half-draped over him, glared like he might actually commit murder this time. Judas, however, Judas looked amused. Not just amused, pleased. A slow, dangerous kind of triumph curved at the edges of his mouth as his gaze settled on Soap. “No, no…” Judas murmured smoothly, voice low and laced with something almost playful now. “Let him finish.” His fingers pressed just slightly more firmly into Soap’s back, not forceful, just… grounding. Intentional.
Soap swallowed hard against Gaz’s hand, eyes flicking between his mate’s murderous glare and the ancient predator casually holding him upright. Gaz’s voice dropped, sharp and warning: “You better not, MacTavish. A pause. Then, through clenched teeth, “I was drunk.” Soap made a muffled sound against Gaz’s palm, eyes narrowing slightly before he huffed, shifting just enough to try and pry himself free.
When he finally managed to speak, his voice came out rough, thick with that unmistakable Scottish lilt, defiant despite the situation. “Whit? Ye were!” he shot back, words tumbling fast. “Dinnae act like ye didnae go on a whole ramble ‘bout him.” His eyes flicked back toward Judas again, just for a second, something curious, something bold flashing there. “Sayin’ he’s all mysterious an’ dangerous, an’ that ye’d-” Gaz’s hand clamped harder.
“Finish that and I will end you.” Soap huffed again, muffled, but his eyes were grinning now, reckless, entertained, completely unbothered by his own poor decisions. Behind him, Judas let out the faintest breath of a laugh. Low. Soft. Interested. “Oh, I do hope he does,” Judas murmured. And just like that, The tension in the room had shifted. Not gone. Never gone. But twisted into something far more dangerous, and far more interesting.
Judas released them without ceremony, his hand slipping away from Soap’s back as though the moment had already lost its novelty. He stepped back, unhurried, untouched by the near chaos he’d just effortlessly controlled. The room seemed to exhale with the distance he created. He moved to the opposite ottoman, soft blue, positioned just where the sunlight spilled in through the sheer curtains. The fabric of blue, white, and gold shifted gently in the breeze, casting moving patterns of light across his skin.
Judas lowered himself into the seat with quiet elegance, crossing one long leg over the other as though he were settling into a throne rather than a living room. For a moment, he said nothing. He simply sat there, hands folding neatly in his lap, posture relaxed, expression almost serene. The sunlight brushed over him, catching in the faint red undertones of his eyes, softening something that otherwise felt ancient and untouchable.
Then, finally, “Why,” Judas began, voice smooth and even, “should I help your mate’s team, Kyle?” The name was deliberate. Personal. A quiet reminder. Gaz straightened, one hand settling firmly on his hip as he met Judas’s gaze without hesitation. His chocolate-brown eyes held steady, unwavering, refusing to bend under the weight of that calm, predatory stare.
“Because, Hotshot,” Gaz replied, his British accent sharpening just slightly around the nickname, “I asked you to.” A pause. “And I know you will,” he added, quieter now, but far more certain. “Even if you don’t want to.” Silence stretched between them. Not empty. Charged. Judas’s lips pressed into a thin line, the faintest shift betraying that the words had landed exactly where Gaz intended them to.
His gaze lingered on him, longer this time. Deeper. Then, with a soft exhale that almost resembled resignation, “You know me too well.” There was no bite to it. No real resistance left. Just truth. And somewhere beneath it, It wasn’t hesitation that settled over Judas. It was inevitability. The decision had already been made long before the words left his mouth, etched somewhere deep beneath pride, beneath irritation.
Beneath the quiet resentment of being volunteered. Judas Sparks did as he pleased… but when it came to Kyle Garrick, pleased had always been a flexible thing. He shifted slightly on the ottoman, the movement subtle but deliberate as he straightened his posture. The languid ease from moments before sharpened into something more formal, more commanding. Sunlight still brushed across him through the sheer curtains, but now it framed him differently, not soft, but sovereign.
Authority settled over him like a second skin. “First of all,” Judas began, voice smooth, composed, leaving no room for interruption, “I accept this mission to find your man.” There it was. Final. Binding. A faint pause followed, not for effect, but for weight. “Second,” he continued, lifting his gaze to the three soldiers before him, “you will follow my rules.” The temperature in the room seemed to dip again, that quiet, ancient power threading through his tone, not raised, not forced, but absolute.
“All of them.” His head tilted just slightly, eyes narrowing a fraction as he looked between Price, Soap, Roach, and this man Simon Riley’s absence like he could already see the man they were chasing. “Do I make myself clear?” The silence that followed wasn’t empty, it was acknowledgment waiting to take shape. And it did. John Price stood. The movement was steady, grounded in years of command that mirrored Judas’s own authority in a different form. He stepped forward without hesitation, closing the distance between them until he stood directly in front of the ancient vampire.
For a moment, the two men simply looked at one another. Leader to leader. Predator to soldier. Then Price extended his hand. “Crystal,” he said, voice low, firm, carrying that unmistakable British grit. No resistance. No argument. Just acceptance, and expectation. Judas regarded the offered hand for half a second longer than necessary. Not out of doubt. But out of habit. Then, finally, he reached forward. Their hands met, firm grip, unyielding. A contract without paper. An agreement without signatures.
And just like that, Judas rose from the ottoman with the grace of someone who owned every inch of the space, letting the soft light of the afternoon drape over him like a cloak. Every movement was precise, deliberate, commanding attention without effort. He stood tall, long legs shifting just slightly as he positioned himself in front of them, the air around him charged with a quiet, unyielding authority.
He let his gaze sweep across the three men, Price, MacTavish, and Sanderson, before settling back on Gaz. There was no theatrics, no drawn-out preamble. Just calm, absolute control. “Rules,” he began, voice low and smooth, carrying that subtle danger that made ears prick and hearts steady at the same time. His hands fell to his sides, relaxed but precise, like a predator measuring its surroundings. “One: do not hide information from me. At any point. Ever.”
He paused just long enough for the weight of that statement to settle, letting it sink in, letting them understand exactly what it meant to lie to Judas Sparks. “And two…” His lips curved into the faintest, sharp smile, enough to unsettle without meaning any true malice. “…Let’s go kick ass.”
The words landed with effortless authority, more than a suggestion, an order coated in inevitability. The room was quiet after that, every man processing the fact that they had just willingly stepped into a game far larger than themselves. Judas’s brownish-red eyes glinted softly in the sunlight, a mixture of amusement, challenge, and promise. The hunt had begun.
Judas sank to his knees in front of Gary Sanderson, smooth and deliberate, the motion unsettlingly calm. He slid the gloves from Gary’s hands, fingers brushing the man’s skin for a moment longer than necessary before clasping them gently but firmly. Closing his eyes, Judas leaned in slightly, letting his body sag forward as if the act of connection itself demanded it. Gray began to creep into his skin, pallor spreading like frost, and a subtle tension gripped the air. Gary stiffened under his touch, but didn’t pull away, his instincts telling him to trust, or at least not to resist.
Inside Gary’s mind, Judas appeared, not as he was now, but as a vision layered over memory, stepping into a theater of recollections replaying with relentless clarity. Faces, movements, tactical calls, and fleeting glances swirled in slow-motion repetition. Then one stood out: a man at the back of the memory, around 193 centimeters, tactical gear covering him from head to toe, a skull-patterned balaclava hiding his face, a headset clinging to his ear. The figure seemed frozen, like the memory itself had paused in anticipation.
Judas moved closer, methodical and deliberate, and the vision responded, the masked man slowly turning toward him as if sensing the intrusion. Then suddenly, everything shifted. The memory cracked, and Judas found himself elsewhere entirely. He was in a bed that wasn’t his, soft and unfamiliar, with a thick brown throw blanket pulled over him. Naked, undercovers, the man beside him was absorbed in a thick book, utterly unaware of Judas’s presence.
Without hesitation, Judas’s hands were around the man’s throat, weight and intent pressing downward. “Who are you?” His voice was sharp but quiet, a razor of command and curiosity all at once. Dull blue eyes met his, wide with shock, startled but not frantic. The man’s mouth opened, words forming, but the vision dimmed, muffled as if sound itself had been stolen from the scene. Light faded, contours softened, and the memory dissolved, leaving Judas blinking in confusion.
He was back in front of Gary. The man’s brown eyes searched his face, hands moving in careful, deliberate motions, sign language. ‘Are you okay?’ Judas’s eyes opened fully, the edge in them tempered by a flicker of disorientation. He released Gary’s hands slowly, letting them fall to his lap, but the weight of what he had glimpsed lingered in his mind. The field of memory had shown him more than he wanted, or maybe exactly what he needed.
Gary’s expression remained cautious, confused, but patient. He didn’t speak, only waited, silent in the tension that hummed between them, offering space for Judas to collect himself. Garrick was immediately at his side, moving with a practiced urgency that betrayed both worry and familiarity. “You’ve never acted like that before, Jude,” he murmured, voice low, almost reverent. “Are you okay? You… you don’t look so hot.”
Judas’s skin gleamed with a damp sheen, more like sweat than anything else, catching the stray sunlight in thin, unsettling rivulets. His eyes, once that characteristic brownish-red, had deepened to a dark, almost liquid red, molten and hungry, reflecting a danger that pulsed beneath the surface. Garrick’s chocolate-brown gaze flicked quickly to Price, his mate, and Gary, reading their subtle tension before he made a decision. Without waiting for protest, he ushered them from the room.
“He just went into a bloodthirst,” Garrick muttered quietly over his shoulder, voice heavy with concern and a touch of awe. The door clicked shut behind them, the outside world cut off as if sealing a fragile, volatile moment inside. Garrick dropped down to the floor, knees brushing the carpet, and positioned himself beside Judas with care. His hands hovered over Judas’s shoulders, cautious, respectful, waiting for permission that didn’t come.
He offered his wrist slowly, deliberately, a silent plea for connection, but Judas recoiled, sharp and instinctive. “No,” Judas breathed, the word low, edged with restraint and authority. He sank closer to Garrick, pressing his forehead against the steady rise and fall of the man’s chest. The closeness was grounding, but Judas’s fingers dug into his own thigh in lieu of taking from Kyle, a tense anchor to remind himself of limits. “You know I don’t like feeding from you,” he murmured, voice muffled against Kyle’s chest, dark red eyes closing briefly.
Even in this near-frenzy of need and bloodlust, there was control. A rule. A line that Judas Sparks would not cross, not even for the man beside him, his friend, his anchor, the one person whose blood he would never take lightly. Kyle’s hand stayed steady on Judas’s wrist, gently guiding without forcing, offering support without breaking that fragile barrier. For a moment, the room held still, the quiet punctuated only by the soft, uneven breaths of a vampire balancing on the edge of hunger and restraint.
Judas didn’t fall into bloodthirst often, but when he did, it was never careless. Never reckless. It was a battle of control, one he had fought for centuries and won more often than not. Even now, with that dark hunger clawing at his insides, he held the line. Barely. He exhaled slowly against Kyle’s chest, grounding himself in the steady rhythm of another living being. The scent alone, warm, alive, threaded with something uniquely Kyle, should’ve made it worse.
It should’ve pushed him over the edge. But instead… it anchored him. Because Judas had rules. He didn’t drink from humans. Not unless there was no other choice, and even then, he made damn sure they didn’t turn. Didn’t die. He refused to be the reason someone’s life ended or twisted into something monstrous. That line had been drawn long ago, carved deep into what little morality a Pure Blood vampire could claim.
Animal blood was out of the question entirely. He hated it. The taste, the texture, the way it sat wrong in his system, it was beneath him in a way he never bothered to justify. So he simply… didn’t. Judas Sparks was, by all definitions, a picky drinker. And somehow, He survived it. He’d tested that limit once. Pushed himself further than most vampires would dare. Three years without feeding. Three years of slow, controlled starvation just to see if he could endure it. He had. But it came with a cost.
Four pounds. It sounded insignificant, laughable, even, but not for a Pure Blood. Their bodies weren’t like humans. Their tissue, their muscle density, it was unnatural, preserved in a state that didn’t degrade easily. Losing weight at all was… wrong. Impossible, by most standards. And yet he had. That alone told him everything he needed to know about what blood meant to his kind.
His fingers tightened slightly against his own thigh as the memory flickered through him, grounding himself again in the present. Kyle. There was a pattern there too. Every time Judas had edged close to bloodthirst, every single time, Kyle offered his wrist. At first, Judas had misunderstood it entirely. Thought it was reckless. Self-destructive. A death wish dressed up as loyalty. But it wasn’t. Kyle Garrick didn’t want to die. He wanted to help. More than that, he wanted connection.
Not romantic. Not twisted into something else. Family. A bond. Something deeper than words or proximity. In their world, blood wasn’t just sustenance, it was linkage. A way to tie two beings together so that pain, distress, even emotional fractures didn’t go unnoticed. So that neither of them would ever truly be alone in their suffering. Kyle wanted that. Wanted to be close enough to feel when Judas was breaking. And Judas refused.
His grip loosened slightly, breath evening out as he stayed pressed against Kyle’s chest, eyes still closed, still burning that deep, dangerous red beneath his lids. “No, Garrick…” he murmured again, quieter this time, but no less firm. Because to Judas, that line meant something different. Feeding from Kyle wasn’t just survival. It was crossing into something permanent. And for all his control, all his discipline, That was one line Judas Sparks wasn’t ready to cross.
That line wasn’t small. It wasn’t just about feeding, or control, or even trust. It was everything. If Judas crossed it, if he bit Garrick, and Garrick returned it, there would be no barriers left between them. No distance. No separation of self. Kyle wouldn’t just understand Judas… he would experience him. See what he had seen. Hear what he had heard. Feel, everything. And Judas Sparks carried centuries of it.
Pain that didn’t fade with time, only settled deeper into the bones. Wars. Loss. The slow, aching erosion of everyone he had ever known. The kind of loneliness that didn’t scream, it just sat, quiet and suffocating, until it became part of you. The torment of being something ancient in a world that kept moving forward without you. Kyle would feel it all at once. Every fracture.
Every moment Judas had ever broken and stitched himself back together in silence. And that wasn’t even the part that frightened Judas the most. It was the other things. The things he never said out loud. The longing. Buried beneath all that control, all that discipline, was something almost painfully human. A quiet, persistent ache Judas had never fully rid himself of, the desire for something more than survival. Something more than power. A mate.
Not in the biological, binding sense his kind understood, but someone. Someone chosen. Someone who stayed. A family. Children. A life that didn’t revolve around bloodshed and control and outliving everyone he ever dared to care about. It was a fragile want. One he barely acknowledged even to himself. And if Kyle bonded with him, Kyle would know. Not as a thought.
Not as a confession. But as a feeling so raw and consuming it would leave no room for misinterpretation. Judas tightened his grip slightly against his own leg again, grounding himself as that truth pressed close. Because Kyle… Kyle would feel the absence of it too. The doubt. The quiet, gnawing question that Judas had carried for longer than he cared to admit, Was he even allowed to have that? Or was he too far gone?
Too old. Too broken. Too steeped in everything he’d become to ever have something as simple… and as impossible… as a life. That was the real reason Judas refused. Not because he didn’t trust Kyle. But because he did. And he refused to drag him into that kind of weight. Refused to let someone as alive as Kyle Garrick drown in centuries of darkness that were never his to carry.
So instead, Judas stayed where he was, forehead pressed to Kyle’s chest, breathing slow, controlled, fighting the hunger and the pull and the bond that hovered just out of reach. Silent. Steady. Holding that line, even if it was tearing him apart to do it. They stayed like that, still, grounded, breathing together, as time stretched and softened around them. It felt longer than it was, like the world outside had paused just long enough to let Judas regain control.
In truth, it had only been twenty-something minutes, but the tension in his body had slowly unwound, the violent edge of bloodthirst dulling into something manageable. Something contained. Judas’s grip on himself loosened first. Then his breathing steadied. Then, finally, he let go. Not abruptly. Never abruptly. He lifted his head from Kyle’s chest, the movement slow, deliberate, as if testing whether the hunger would surge back if he created distance.
It didn’t. Not fully. It lingered, low and watchful, but no longer clawing at his ribs. From beyond the door, a voice broke through the quiet. Muffled, impatient, unmistakably whining. “Gaz, ye alive in there or what?!” Judas exhaled faintly through his nose, something almost resembling amusement flickering across his features. Of course it was him.
He shifted back onto his feet in one smooth motion, rising with that same effortless grace that made everything he did seem… intentional. Controlled. As if the moment of weakness had never happened at all. Then he turned, and extended his hand. A silent offer. Kyle didn’t hesitate. His fingers wrapped around Judas’s, grounding, familiar, and Judas pulled him up with ease, steadying him once he stood. For a brief second, neither of them let go. Something unspoken passed between them.
Not resolved. But understood. Judas’s gaze lingered on him just a fraction longer than necessary before he finally released his hand, composure fully restored, at least on the surface. “Your mate sounds impatient,” Judas murmured lightly, voice back to its usual smooth cadence, though softer at the edges now. Controlled, but not cold. Another beat of his heart. Then, with a faint tilt of his head toward the door, “Shall we?”