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⋆⁺₊⋆♱ What You Couldn't See 🕯️⛧

Vampire Prince!Scaramouche x Blind!Reader [GOTHIC VICTORIAN AU]

anon . ݁⋆ i imagine the plot somewhat like this: humans being terrified of vampires because of the outbreak and all that, but User has a family full of aristocrats and lives in an estate (read more of the request here)

warnings (cw) .ᐟ yandere ꒰ manipulation ꒱ obsessive behavior・captivity ꒰ blood drinking・biting x loss of virginity ♰ dark romance ꒱ power imbalance ♰ unreliable narrator x psychological horror ꒰ chase scene ꒱obsessive behavior, ❝ dead dove ❞ porn with (a lot of) plot x sweet ending

word count 17k+ (don't ask)

authors note . ݁⋆ gifs at the beginning and my eyeball dividers (you’ll see when you read, sorry if they’re creepy) are all edited by me on flipping canva. please don’t repost/use the gifs, as they’re made specifically for this fic and probably wouldn’t work in other context, but the dividers you can use. cross-posted onto AO3. the reader has a similar aesthetic to Columbina. PART 2

LINKS₊˚⊹♡ ˚✎𓂃 masterlist | home | ao3 | kofi | discord server

You’ve never seen the sun.

You know it exists. You’ve heard of its existence. You’ve read of its existence.

And sometimes you can feel it.

You can feel it when the maids forget to close your curtains all the way, when the warmth of it creeps across your bedsheets and finds your skin.

It feels like being held.

It feels like something vast, something ancient is reaching through the glass just to touch you, just to remind you that you exist in a world that you’ll never witness.

You were born blind.

Your mother says that you came into this world with your eyes sealed shut, and when you finally did open them, or think you did, there was nothing behind them.

Emptiness.

Just darkness that has never, not once in 18 years, lifted.

You don't know what darkness looks like. You don't know what anything looks like. The concept of sight is as foreign to you as flight is to a fish. Fish don’t know of the world outside the sea, and they don’t know how some animals, like birds, can be free and fly anywhere. You feel like a fish, one that’ll never truly grasp freedom because you were born incapable of the tools needed for that.

You understand colors, scenery, and sight in general exist. You understand that other people are lucky enough to experience it. But… It’s something you’ve never had, so you’re incapable of missing it.

What you miss is freedom. … Even if you’ve never had it.

Your room is your entire world. It’s large, you know that much. You know it’s large by the way you’ve mapped every inch of it with your hands and feet, memorized the distance from your bed to your vanity, from your vanity to your window balcony, from the window to the door that is always…

always locked.

Your family says it’s for your protection. Vampires are everywhere, they tell you. The outbreak has made the world even more dangerous for someone like you.

Someone fragile. Too fragile. Someone helpless. Too helpless.

Someone…

blind.

They never say it, but you know it’s what they mean. You hear the servants whisper it sometimes when they think you can’t hear, but being blind since birth has made your hearing way too absolute, so nothing goes unheard with you.

You’re at your vanity today, in what feels like it could be morning, or late afternoon… You don’t know. Your concept of time has always been shitty because, in an enclosed space, most of your life has made it hard to learn what time feels like through your senses.

You’re running a brush through your hair for what feels like the thousandth time in this hour. The bristles catch on a small tangle, and you work through, repeating this process over and over. It’s something to do, something that’ll fill these endless hours.

You reach, and your fingers find a soft ribbon on your vanity, satin. You like that fabric a lot, it’s nice to feel, it’s not an understatement that you like soft things in your room. Soft always feels pretty to touch. You tie the ribbon into a tiny bow and clip it into your hair without needing to see, your hands already knowing the motion by heart.

Then, you grab your signature, the lace eye mask, delicate, so delicate, and you settle it over your closed eyes like it’s so a part of you that you would even consider it your second skin. You’ve worn one for as long as you remember; you change the fabrics sometimes, but you only wear it in white. Your mother started putting them on you when you were a child, said it made you look more comfortable… more at peace.

You think it just makes people less uncomfortable around you.

Less unnerved by the girl with the eyes that never open.

You hear a knock at your door.

You turn toward the sound, even though turning does nothing for you, because what would you even see? But even so, it’s just a habit that comes naturally, and you’ve been taught to be polite. "Yes?"

"It's me." You recognize the voice as your brother's, and you hear the lock click and feel the air change when the door swings open. You hear his footsteps cross the threshold, heavy boots on hardwood, and then the door closes behind him.

You turn back to your vanity, faced straight in front of your mirror that you’ll never see, picking up your brush, to again, brush your hair uselessly because at least it’s something to do. “You’re leaving today… I know, I just don’t know why I’m always the last one to hear about it.”

Like, I don’t matter enough.

You hear him cross the room to you. “Yeah… for a few days.” You feel him stop beside your chair, the slight displacement of air when he does. "There's a nest about two days' ride from here. Mother wants it cleared before it spreads."

"And Father?" You ask, pausing your movement with the brush as you do, like you’re almost scared of being alone without family, even for a couple of days, even though you’re never allowed outside your room without supervision, and your movements pick up again.

“Father?” he repeats, “Staying here, of course.” He pats your head as he continues, "Someone needs to manage the estate while we're gone."

You nod, because this is how it always goes. Your mother or father going with your brother for a hunt, and either parent stays behind to run the household… because you can’t. You’re incapable of overseeing the workers and the farmers, and the endless business dealings that keep your family weathering.

You stay in your room. Always in your room. Forever and always useless.

You drop your brush onto the table and fully turn your body where you can feel his. "... Can I come with you?" The words slip out before you can stop them, because they’re a habit.

You’ve asked before, and you won’t stop asking ever, because your voice is all you have. And yet… the answer is always the same.

"You know you can't." Your brother says, with a sigh, almost like he’s bored with this useless question of yours, but also feels bad about your incapabilities that make his reason.

Your voice picks up slightly, desperate for this time to be different. “I could help, my hearing is better than yours, you can’t deny that. I can detect them before you even- “

"And what would you do when you detected them?" He decides to cut in; his tone feels gentle, but also firm. "Run? Fight? You can't see them coming, little sister. You can't defend yourself."

“I could learn…” you start.

“No.” he finishes, final.

You sense him reaching out, and then you feel his touch, his gloved hand on your shoulder, he squeezes, just briefly, as if affection could dismiss what you’ve been wanting for forever.

"I brought you something," he says right after and your irritation fades oddly quick, replaced by curiosity, interested in anything new you could feel.

Your brother always brings you things from his hunts: trinkets, trophies, little pieces of a world you’re not allowed to experience firsthand.

He takes your hand, and you feel press something into your palm, it feels like cool metal with an intricate design. You run your fingers over it, mapping the shape, and it feels like a brooch, well, you assume it’s one with the circular shape, filigree around the edges.

"It belonged to a vampire countess," he mentions. "Mother put a stake through her heart last week... I thought you might like it."

"It's beautiful." You can't see it, but you know. The craftsmanship is exquisite beneath your fingertips. "Thank you, brother."

"Stay safe while we're gone." He kisses the top of your head, the way he's done since you were small. "Don't cause trouble for Father."

You let out a giggle, fingers still exploring the trinket as your head is tilted at the direction you feel your brother is at. "When have I ever caused trouble?"

He laughs, saying goodbye, and you hear the door to your room open, then close just as quickly, and then you hear the familiar and never foreign sound of the lock clicking into place.

And you’re alone again.

The hours pass slowly.

You read for a while, your fingers tracing over the raised dots of your books, but the story doesn’t hold your attention today. It’s a romance, which is one of your favorites, about a woman who falls in love with a man she shouldn’t. The villain of the piece, the one everyone warns her about.

You've always liked the villains.

Not because you think they're good. But because you understand them, in a way.

The books paint them as monsters, as irredeemable creatures of darkness, but you know that no one is born a monster. Something makes them that way. Trauma, or circumstance, or the simple cruelty of a world that refuses to show them kindness.

Not a lot of monsters do exist in the world you seem to live in, a lot of these are fiction, fake, or just myths. The only monsters that exist, the only ones you’ve heard about are vampires.

You wonder something stupid sometimes, stupid to you, you wonder what it would be like to meet one…

A vampire.

Your family has a history with them, generations of your family have been hunting them for centuries, and you’ve grown up on the typical propaganda your parents teach you.

That they’re wicked, bloodthirsty, that they’re dangerous, have inhuman speed and strength. You’re supposed to hate them, it’s what you’ve been raised to hate.

And you do because they’re monsters.

But sometimes, late at night, when loneliness feels like it might swallow you whole, you wonder if being a monster might be better than being nothing at all.

You set the book aside and make your way to the window. The route is familiar to you. Twelve steps from your bed, turn left, four more steps, and your fingers find the cool glass. You crack it open, just slightly, and the air rushes in.

It’s spring, you can smell it, and it’s your favorite season. The sweetness of blooming flowers in the garden, the dampness of recent rain, sounds of the sprinklers starting to go off.

You press your palm to the glass and close your eyes, even though they're already closed behind your mask, and you breathe.

This is as close as you get to the outside world.

You can hear the workers in the distance, the thud of someone chopping wood. You can hear voices too, too faint to make out the words. The estate is always busy during the day, full of people you've never met and never will.

You stay at the window for a long time.

Eventually, you close your window and return to your vanity. Sit down to brush your hair again. Tie a new ribbon. Change from your morning gown into an afternoon dress, soft white cotton with lace at the collar and cuffs.

You like soft things, white things. Light things, even though you've never seen light.

Your mother says you dress like a doll, maybe you do, and maybe that’s all you are.

A pretty thing to be kept on a shelf, looked at but never touched, protected but never freed.

You're brushing your hair again, for the thousandth time, when something changes.

The feeling is subtle at first, you can’t quite name it, but you freeze, brush halfway through your hair and listen.

The birds have stopped singing.

That’s the first change you notice. The constant chatter of sparrows and other beautiful birds that usually fill the air outside your window has gone… silent.

And beneath that silence, you sense something else.

A presence, one that doesn’t belong here.

Something is wrong.

You set down your brush, letting your panic settle in, listening to whatever strange instinct that you feel. Your heart is beating fast, and you don’t understand why. You shouldn’t feel scared, you shouldn’t ever feel scared because your room is safe. The door is locked, the windows are too high for intruders to climb, and your father is home.

But the silence drags on for too long, and your senses that most people take for granted, are screaming that someone is very, very wrong.

You could ring the bell by your dresser and wait for your father to come, hope he or a servant hears so you can’t alert them of the danger you sense.

Alert them of what danger? Nobody listens or would listen if you even tried to alert something you couldn’t describe. Maybe it’s nothing anyways, maybe you’re starting to go insane from the boredom up here and are hallucinating feelings.

Maybe the birds flew away because it’s about to rain?

You get up and walk up to your window, cracking it open, listening for anything.

It’s silent outside, perfect, unnatural silence compared to what you’ve listened to merely 15 minutes ago.

And then, distantly, a scream.

It cuts off almost immediately, far too quickly, and you press your hand to the glass, desperate to hear anything more, but there’s nothing after that scream, just dead silence again.

"Father?" you call, instinctively hoping he might hear even though you assume him to be downstairs in his study. You try again, louder. "Father!"

Nothing.

You close your window and move to your door, feeling the handle, try it even though you know it’s locked. It doesn’t budge, obviously, and you pound on the wood with your fist, but the sound seems to disappear into the silence, swallowed up by whatever wrongness has descended on your home.

"Someone!" you shout. "Please! Something's happening!"

Nothing again.

You back away from the door, your breath coming too fast. You’re trapped more than ever, it feels like the walls are closing in, and you can’t do a thing about it.

You give up banging when your wrist goes sore and achy, and you walk slow, in defeat towards your soft, large, ‘safe’ bed.

Minutes pass, long minutes, or hours. You can’t tell, you’ve stopped focusing on time, only focusing on your own spiraling thoughts as time passes.

Footsteps.

You finally, finally hear something close by your room. Someone walking through the halls of your home, opening doors, leaving them open, the sounds drift up from the floor below you, distant at first, then getting closer by the second.

Your father, it has to be. He’s coming back to check on you, tell you that everything is fine, that the scream you heard was nothing, that you’re safe, that he’s safe.

But why would he check every room before yours?

The footsteps climb the stairs to your floor.

You stand, smoothing your dress with shaking hands. The footsteps move down the hall, pausing at each door, and you count them, waiting as they get closer and closer.

They stop outside your room.

The doorknob twists, but doesn’t budge. Then you hear the lock to your room click, and the next thing you hear is the door swinging open.

“… Father?" You ask, voice small, standing by your bed, body facing the direction of your door.

It's silent for what seems like way too long. Then you hear a voice that isn’t your father’s.

"Interesting."

You scramble backward, your back hitting your vanity, and you knock something over. A perfume bottle that you hear shattering on the floor. The sound makes you flinch, but you quickly try to balance yourself against the table, swallowing big.

“Who’s there?” You ask, clearly frightened, not used to hearing a boy's voice that isn’t your brother's or father's. "Who are you? Where's my father?"

Your door stays open as you hear the boy’s footsteps cross the threshold into your room, fully.

The animal part of your brain keeps sending signals to run even though there’s nowhere to run.

"So you're the one they keep locked up here." His voice sounds young, now that you’ve heard him say more than one word. He also sounds amused in a way that makes your panic spike even more. "I was wondering what was in this… locked room."

"Get out." You reach behind you, fingers closing around the handle of your hairbrush. It's a pathetic weapon, but it's all you have. "Get out of my room!"

"That's not very hospitable." He's moving again. You track him by sound, but he's circling you, and you can't keep up. “… Though I suppose you have reason to be upset."

"Where is my father?" You grip the brush tighter. "What did you do to him?"

It's quiet, and you can sense that the boy has stopped moving, distance kept from you as he speaks again, and when he speaks, his voice is softer than what you heard before. "I'm sorry to tell you this. But your father is dead."

The words hit you like a physical blow, like a dagger to the stomach. You believe him immediately, because that’s never something to joke about, and it all does add up. You stagger back, your legs feeling weak, and you catch yourself on the edge of your vanity. "No." You say, even though you know.

"A vampire attack." He sounds sympathetic, and almost what you can assume as slight trauma in his tone, but it does sound oddly fake, "I arrived too late to save him. I'm sorry."

"You're lying." You shoot back, quickly, still in denial, your words not matching your thoughts.

"I wish I were." He replies.

Your… father. Your father, who has protected this estate for decades, who has hunted more vampires than anyone else in the region, who kissed your forehead last night and tucked you in, and did the same the night before that, and the night before that, every night for years.

Dead.

“Why are your eyes covered?” He asks suddenly, random. “Did you get some sort of surgery recently done or-”

You cut him off. "Who are you?" Your voice cracks on the last word. "How did you get in here?"

"My name is Scaramouche." Footsteps again, closer now. "My father does business with yours… Did business," he corrects, and there's something in his tone that you can't quite read. "I came to pick up some documents, and I found the door unlocked. I found-" He stops. "I found what I found."

"And you just happened to come upstairs?" Your question sounds weaker than an accusation of anything; no heat found, just despair, still processing your father's demise.

"I was looking for survivors." He sounds close now, very close, and you have no room to create distance because you’re already against your vanity. "The whole estate has been hit. Everyone downstairs is dead. I thought maybe someone up here had been spared." He pauses before adding, "It seems I was right."

You’re shaking, body trembling all over, and you don’t make an effort to hide how affected you are at this information… but it’s not that you don’t care, it’s that you can’t control yourself. You can’t control how weak you feel currently, how helpless and small you feel.

"I don't believe you." You muster out with your lips quivering, head tilted slightly down so he can’t see your eyes closed behind the mask.

“… About which part?" He says back, and there’s just the slightest hint of a tease in his words.

"Any of it… All of it." You raise the hairbrush, pointing it vaguely in his direction. "You could be a vampire yourself for all I know."

You hear him laugh, and it throws you off balance at how little you expected to hear one after an accusation like that.

"If I were a vampire, you'd already be dead." His voice is calm for someone you’re suspecting. "I'm not here to hurt you… I'm here to help."

“Help?” you say, palm tightening on your hairbrush. "By breaking into my room?"

"By saving your life, actually." His footsteps move again, and you tense, but he seems to be backing away, as if he could sense you want space. "The vampires are still out there. Most of them have moved on, but some might come back… This house of yours isn't safe anymore. I need to get you somewhere secure."

You let out a fake laugh, crossing your arms, head turned to the side. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Then you'll die."

The bluntness of his words makes you flinch. He doesn’t say it in a cruel manner, though; he says it matter-of-factly, like it’s nothing but an obvious truth that he’s ready to watch you learn the hard way.

"I will wait for my mother," you say. "And my brother. They'll be back in a few days-"

"A few days?" He sounds almost incredulous. "You think the vampires will wait a few days before coming back to finish what they started? They'll return tonight, as soon as the sun sets. And they’ll find you in your room… alone… defenseless. Does that really sound like something you’d want?"

"I'm not defenseless."

"Really? Said by the one holding a hairbrush."

Your cheeks burn at how right he is. You know a hairbrush isn’t a good defence weapon, it’s not even a weapon in general, but you don’t let go of it, because doing that might let him think you trust him.

"Look," he says, and his voice softens again, similar to the tone he gave when he told you your father is dead, "I understand you're scared and that you don't trust me. But I'm the only person standing between you and the same fate your father just met. Can you at least let me help you?"

Say no. Tell him to get out. Scream at him. Tell him to let you mourn in peace.

But…

He’s right. You’re alone in a house full of corpses. The family you have that aren’t corpses are days away…

And…

You have no way to defend yourself against creatures that move faster than any sound your ears that are better than most can pick up.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” You ask, voice small and unsure. “How do I know this isn’t some trick?”

"You don't." He's honest, at least. "But what choice do you have?"

None.

You have no choice at all.

Slowly, reluctantly, you move past where you sense him and lower yourself onto the edge of your bed. You can’t stand any longer because of the grief eating you inside. You lower your head and press a hand to your mouth to stifle the sob that threatens to escape.

Your father is dead.

Your father is dead, and you're alone with a stranger, and everything you thought you knew about your safe, sheltered life has just shattered like glass.

"You're blind."

The statement catches you off guard. You raise your head, even though you can't see him, can't see anything.

"Yes." You respond, voice tiny.

"I thought the mask before was for some kind of surgery, but you don’t react to my movements," he says, like he's working something out. "And your eyes seem closed beneath it… Why is that?"

"They've never opened." You lie, they can open if you want to, but you choose to keep them closed under the mask at all times. And you don't want to feel the need to explain such an odd choice to a stranger.

He takes note of that, and it’s quiet for a while; you can’t tell if he’s nodding at what you said, or staring into the mask deeper. But finally, as if he got the concept of a girl like you being blind, he says, in a quiet tone, “That must be… difficult.”

"I manage… I’ve gotten this far at least." You say, voice threatening to break as you talk, as you’re still trying to hold back tears, trying not to look smaller than you already feel in front of this stranger.

You hear footsteps again, ones that seem like he’s getting closer to you, but they’re slow this time, careful, aware, like he’s approaching a frightened animal.

"I'm going to sit next to you," he says, tone so gentle in a way that any people pleaser hearing it would say yes in a heartbeat. "...Is that alright?"

You’re too tired and so… scared to even muster up a no. You don’t give him a response, and you feel the bed dip beside you. He’s a little too close for someone who's a stranger to you, but you don’t move away or tell him to move.

Being this close to him, you don’t feel warmth next to you… It feels like he himself is cold.

"I won't let anything happen to you." His voice is soft, really soft, and you can sense confidence in it that makes you believe him, just a little bit, but not enough. "I promise."

Your head is tilted down, and your fingers are toying with the edge of the lace on your dress as you think before asking, “Why do you even care? I’m just some blind girl you’d be better off leaving behind… You could just go to your home, where it’s probably safe, but… You aren’t.

“I don’t know why I care to stay.” He sounds surprised as he speaks, as if the words are foreign in his own mouth, as if his own answer to you is something he’s never said before. “But I can’t allow someone to die defenseless, especially if I have a chance to save them before they even reach that level of danger.”

And with that, you start crying. Tears are sliding down your cheeks beneath the mask you wear, and your breath is hitching. And what you feel next is a touch you’ve never felt before. A touch by a gloved hand, his hand, on your face, tilting your head, probably in his direction, and brushing away the wetness with care a stranger shouldn’t have.

His thumb traces the curve of your cheek as you don’t make an effort to pull away. He does it gently, tenderly, and you’re so desperately lonely, more than ever, that you lean into the stranger's touch.

"You're so young," he says, not commenting on your tears. There's something strange in his voice, something you can't identify. "How old are you?"

You swallow before saying, "I’m eighteen."

"... Eighteen?" He repeats it like he's savoring the word. "I'm nineteen. Just a year older than you, shame we haven’t met until now. Just as much as it is a shame your parents choose to keep you locked in a room, not knowing it doesn’t keep you safe, just traps you, especially when there could be danger right outside your room… or in it."

You let him finish, before managing out a, “You sound older than that… nineteen.” You feel his thumb brush over your cheek as you talk, wiping a tear for you, and that makes your voice come out tiny at the end.

“Do I?” You hear him make a soft laugh, thumb moving on your cheek again. “Maybe you’re right. I’ve seen a lot for my age.”

His gloved fingers trail down your cheek, along your jaw, and then they're gone. You miss the contact immediately, and you feel pathetic for doing so.

"Wait here," he says. "I need to make sure the way out is clear. Then I'll come back for you, I promise."

"Don't leave me."

Your voice breaks on the last two syllables, a tiny sob leaking out from your lips right after. It sounds so childish, the very thing you hate feeling like, but the thought of being alone again in this room without a body to cling to… it makes your chest hurt with panic.

"I won't be long…" he starts.

"... Please." You cut in, voice fading in such a weak way that you suddenly feel his hand on yours, squeezing gently through the glove he’s wearing.

"Alright… I'll stay." He settles more comfortably on the bed beside you. "We'll wait here together until it's safe to move. I’ll be as patient as you need me to be, but… It’s getting late, and the sun will set soon. We'll need to be careful and leave before the others come back."

"Others?" You ask, confused at the random mention of a group.

“There was more than just one vampire, I’m assuming, one can’t just kill every person here without getting caught, especially since it’s daylight and that works against them.” He sounds like he knows a lot about this, but you don’t find that suspicious because if you were in his shoes, you’d assume the same. “I don’t see them now, maybe I came hours after they left, maybe I came just as they left, but I’m certain that they’ll return at nightfall. They always do.”

You don’t trust him as he’s still a stranger to you, but you nod at what he says, because it does make sense, and he seems to be the only option you have currently.

The hours pass in silence after that.

Sometimes he speaks to fill it, asking you small, minor things about yourself, your life, your family… It’s odd he seems so interested in you. He doesn’t need to fill the silence with questions; he could just leave, or he could just keep it silent and not interact until you’re ready, while he sits there bored. But he doesn’t, but you also don’t match the energy needed to keep a conversation flowing, you answer each other in fragments, too grief-stricken for full sentences.

Sometimes… he just sits beside you, quiet and still, and you listen to the sound of his breathing.

It occurs to you, distantly, that you haven't heard him breathe once.

But you're too tired to think about what that means.

"It's time to go."

His voice pulls you from the half-sleep you'd fallen into. You spring upright, disoriented, and his hand steadies you.

"The sun is setting," he says. "We need to leave now."

"But… I want to see my father first." Your voice still sounds broken from the crying you did; you stopped about an hour ago. You’re sore, almost emotionless on the outside, but split open in despair on the inside.

"Are you sure that's wise?"

"I need to say goodbye." Your voice is firm despite the trembling in your hands. You’re suddenly aching to meet your father's body now that the idea is in your mind. "I need to... I need to touch him one last time. Please."

He's quiet for a long moment. You can feel him considering, weighing options you can't see… or you just imagine that's what he’s doing.

"... Alright," he says finally. "I'll take you to him."

He stands, and then his hand is extended toward you. You know this because he tells you, guiding your fingers to his palm. His glove is soft, fine leather, and his grip is steady as he helps you to your feet.

"I can walk on my own."

"I'm sure you can." But he doesn't let go of your hand. "But the halls are... difficult. You told me it’s rare when you’re outside your room, so let me guide you."

You let him lead you because you’d feel even worse if you stumbled over something that could’ve been avoided with his help.

Your sense of smell has always been another good trait of yours, one that you hate, because bad smells are hard to ignore.

And what you smell when you step out of your room, holding his hand…

It’s bad.

Something copper-rich that makes you feel like you might just gag.

Blood. You're smelling blood.

"Don't let go of my hand," he says quietly, careful to speak if there’s somebody or something lurking. "And try not to touch anything."

You just nod and trust him to do everything for you, everything to keep you safe.

Trust?

Where the fuck did that come from?

He leads you down the hall, down the stairs, through rooms you've never been allowed to enter. Your free hand trails along the wall occasionally, feeling the familiar texture of wallpaper, and then something wet, and you jerk your fingers back.

"I told you not to touch anything."

"I know… I’m sorry," you say, voice weak. “I just rely on touch a lot, especially with the things I haven’t explored yet.”

He doesn’t respond, his grip just tightens on your hand… firm in a way that feels possessive.

You walk for what feels like forever before he makes a full stop.

"He's here," he says. "In front of you… About two steps."

You let go of his hand.

Take one step… Two.

Your foot bumps against something soft and heavy, and you sink to your knees.

Your hands find him by touch. The broad chest, the fabric of his coat, the familiar shape of his shoulders. Your fingers travel up, trembling, to his face… his jaw… his cheek that’s already going cold.

And then his neck. Your fingers come away wet.

"No." The word is a whimper, more panic than denial. You press your palm to his throat, feeling the ragged edges of torn flesh, the slickness of blood that hasn't dried yet. "No, no, no-"

You gather him into your arms as best you can. He's heavy like the dead weight described in some of the books you read. And he’s so cold, cold in a way that makes you break further, sobbing suddenly, ugly wrenching sobs that tear through your chest.

"Papa." You haven't called him that since you were a child. "Papa, please. Please wake up. Please don't leave me alone. Please-"

He doesn't wake up… He’ll never wake up.

You press his hand to your face, just to feel it one last time. The rough calluses on his palm. The familiar weight of his fingers. You memorize it, brand it into your memory, because this is all you will ever have of him now.

Behind you, Scaramouche watches this all play out in silence.

He watches you cry until you can’t cry anymore, how your voice sounds raw at some point, how your father's blood soaks into the fabric of your dress.

He watches… watches as you just kneel there, holding him, unwilling to let go.

And he doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt.

"We need to leave." His voice is gentle in a way that, if you were paying attention enough, he almost sounds like he’s faking kindness. "I'm sorry… really, truly sorry. But we need to go."

"I can't leave him." You yell, shocked at the desperation mixed with anger in your tone.

"You have to."

You resist the moment you feel his hand on your shoulder, trying to pull you away gently, you clutch onto your father’s coat… but… all that crying, all that grief, everything has made you too exhausted to fight back. So you let yourself get pulled to your feet.

His hand finds yours again, holding them in a way strangers shouldn’t, and he guides you away from your father's corpse.

A corpse he is the cause of.

You don’t look back when you walk away, hand in Scaramouche’s, because that would imply you could see, and you’ve never seen anything, anything in your life.

You’ve never been allowed to be normal.

You've been outside before, briefly, under heavy supervision. But this… this is different. This is the world, vast and open and terrifying, and you cling to Scaramouche's hand like it's the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

"Where are we going?" Your voice is hoarse from crying.

"My home… It's safe there. You can wait for your mother and brother to return."

You walk in silence for a while. The ground changes beneath your feet, smooth stone, then rough earth, then gravel, then something softer. Grass, maybe. The air smells like trees and night-blooming flowers and something else, something you can't identify.

The room they've given you is beautiful.

At least, that's what Scaramouche tells you. He describes it in detail: the canopy bed draped in white silk, the antique furniture, the chandelier that catches the light just so. You can't see any of it. But you can feel the softness of the sheets, the smoothness of the polished wood, the weight of the heavy curtains that you've never been able to move.

"Can I open the window?" You ask one day.

"Not right now." His voice is gentle, apologetic. "It's not safe."

"... But I want to feel the sun."

"The sun is dangerous right now. They’re still vampires in the area. They might see the light from your window and know someone's here."

It doesn’t make sense, none of it does. But you're in a strange place, dependent on a stranger's kindness, and you don't have the energy to argue.

"Okay..."

He visits you every day. Or every night, you've started to realize. You can never quite tell when he arrives, but it always feels like evening, like the world has gone dark and quiet outside your sealed windows.

It’s weird he never shows up during the day.

He brings you food prepared by servants you’ve never met, carried up on silver trays. Sometimes he feeds you himself, guides the utensil to your lips, and the intimacy of it should make you feel embarrassed… but you’re not.

Because you’re falling in love with this strange… kind stranger.

Well, is he a stranger anymore?

It’s stupid how quickly you’ve fallen for him. It’s been a week, and you barely even know him… but he’s the only person you have now, the only voice in your silent world, and when he touches your hand or brushes the hair from your face, you feel something warm bloom in your chest.

"Tell me about yourself," you say one evening, or morning… You can't tell anymore.

"What do you want to know?" He responds, casual, ready to share whatever it is you want.

"Anything… Everything." You're sitting on your bed, your back against the pillows, and you can feel him next to you, how he moves closer to you. "I don't even know what you look like."

"... Would you like to?"

"Yes."

You feel him take your hand, slow, and raise it to his face. "Go ahead," he says. "See me."

Your fingers tremble as they make contact with his skin… his skin is cold, colder than it should be, colder than anyone’s skin you’ve felt. But it’s smooth, and you feel that makes up for it.

"Why are you so cold?" You ask.

He leans into your touch, and you can hear a slight sigh come from him, as if this relaxes him. "I run cold... I always have."

You map out his features, feel the sharp line of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the soft curve of his lips. His cheekbones are high and prominent, and his face is narrow and elegant.

"You're beautiful," you whisper, even though you can't see him.

He tilts his head at your touch. "... Am I?"

You smile, tiny in response. "I can feel it."

His hand covers yours, pressing it flat against his cheek. He's still wearing his gloves, even though you wish he weren't.

"What color are your eyes?" you ask even though color is foreign to you.

"Do you even know color?” He chuckles, playful in a way. “It’s dark violet… almost indigo, in some lights."

You nod, fingers still exploring. "That sounds pretty… What about your hair?"

"Similar, actually. Very dark, with hints of blue." You feel him shift, leaning closer. "Does that help? Can you see me now?"

"I don’t see, Scara.” You giggle, comfortable around him enough that you use a nickname now, “But I think I can imagine." You're building him in your mind, piece by piece, as you speak. "You're taller than me?"

“Im sure you can feel that I’m a little taller than you, but, unfortunately, not by much.” He laughs softly. "I'm quite short, by most standards."

"And thin?"

"Very."

You lower your hand from his face, and you feel him catch it before it falls. He holds your hand between both of his… gloved ones.

"Can you take off your gloves?" you ask.

He pauses, with clear hesitation at your question, squeezes your hand just once before saying, “If that’s what you want, then I will.”

You hear a soft sound of leather being removed, and then you feel his bare hand in yours. It’s cold just like his skin, but smooth, and soft, and you trace the lines of his palm, the shape of his fingers, and he pretends it doesn’t tickle.

"You're freezing." You note, again.

"I told you… I run cold."

You come up with a solution. “We should go outside, in the morning, when the sun is warm. It’ll help… and I like the outside air.”

You feel him go still beside you, like what you just said is something nonnegotiable, something he couldn’t ever possibly agree to.

For reasons you don’t know yet.

Then, as for what you’d assume to be a distraction, his free hand comes up to touch your cheek, and you sense him getting closer, leaning in.

"We can't go outside," he murmurs, and his lips brush yours.

You’ve never been kissed before, this is your first one, and he does it softly, and you don’t even know what to do. His mouth moves against yours, gentle, but also patient for you, and you try to follow his lead because this is something you definitely want.

When he pulls back, you're breathless.

"It's not safe," he whispers against your lips, continuing his last murmured statement while his thumb rubs over your lips. "I won't risk you."

"But-"

But he kisses you again, and that cuts you off. This kiss is deeper than the first, as he slides his hand into your hand, cradling the back of your head, and tilting his own head into the kiss. You melt into it… into him. And when he breaks away this time, you’ve forgotten what you were going to say, all you just want is more of that feeling he just gave you.

"Trust me," he says. "I'll keep you safe. I promise."

And you trust him way more than anyone in your position should.

More days pass after that… or nights, you don’t know.

You've lost track entirely.

He kisses you now. Often. His hands find excuses to touch you, your shoulder, your waist, the small of your back. Always through gloves, always careful, but the touches are becoming bolder. More intimate.

He kisses you a lot after that day, after that first kiss. Often… really often. His hands find excuses to touch you, your shoulder, your waist, the small of your back. Glove gone, because now he knows you don’t care about the cold. The touches are careful, but they’re also becoming more bold as the days go on… more intimate.

You don't mind, of course. And of course you want more.

"Scaramouche?"

"Mm?"

He just finished feeding you lunch, and he set the tray aside, setting onto the bed beside you. His presence has started to feel too much like home.

“I like it when you kiss me… touch me and all, it feels nice.” You start, voice small, nervous even as your head is tilted down, hand curling at your duvet. “I want more…”

He’s quiet as you speak, after you speak. You feel him looking at you, even though you can’t see his gaze. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." You respond, eager, but shy.

You feel his hand cup your cheek, turn it to face his direction, and you lean into his hand instinctively.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs. "Do you know that?"

“But…” you shake your head, tiny. "I can't see myself."

"I know… But I can." His thumb traces your lower lip. "You look like a doll. Like something precious that should be kept under glass."

"... Is that how you see me?"

"It's how I want to keep you." He leans in, and his lips brush yours. "Safe... Protected. Mine."

The word sends a shiver through you. Mine.

He kisses you, his tongue sliding past your lips. You gasp, and he swallows the sound, his hand fisting in your hair. The kiss goes on and on, dizzying, overwhelming, and when he finally pulls back, you're panting.

"More?" he asks.

"Please."

His mouth moves down your jaw, along your neck. His lips are soft against your skin in a way that makes you whimper, involuntarily at each kiss.

"You smell incredible," he breathes against your skin. "Has anyone ever told you that?"

"No."

"You smell like..." He trails off. His mouth lingers at the curve of your neck, just above your pulse, and you feel his breath go shallow. "Like everything I've ever wanted."

You don't understand what that means. You feel his lips pressing kisses to your throat now, gentle and almost reverent, and you tilt your head back to give him better access.

"Lie back," he says. "Let me take care of you."

You obey his words, taking it as permission for what you were already going to do. You sink back into the pillows, your white nightgown riding up around your thighs. You hear him move, feel the mattress shift as he positions himself over you.

“Have you ever been touched before? He murmurs, pressing more kisses down your throat as he asks.

"No." You breathe out.

"Good."

His hands find the hem of your nightgown, and you feel his fingers slide beneath, skimming up your thighs, and your breath catches at that.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he says against your mouth.

You've never wanted anything less in your life for him to stop.

He moves down your body, trailing kisses along your collarbone, your chest, the swell of your breasts through the thin fabric. And then he's sliding lower, pushing the nightgown up, disappearing beneath the sheets.

"... Where are you going?"

"Relax." His voice is muffled now, distant. "You'll see."

You won't see, you think. You never see.

But then his lips are on your thigh, pressing soft kisses to the sensitive skin, and you stop thinking entirely.

You feel him make a nip at your skin, just slightly, and you let out a soft whimper before you can stop yourself.

"Did that hurt?" He sounds curious, not concerned, curious.

"N-no. It felt..." you start, voice tiny.

"Good?" he finishes for you.

"Yes," you agree.

You feel him smile against your skin. And then his fingers are hooking into your underwear, sliding the soft satin down your legs, and you're bare beneath his gaze.

His mouth finds you, and you can feel his tongue licking up through your folds, a sensation you’ve never felt before, and you cry out. It’s nothing like the vague descriptions in some of the smut you’ve read… occasionally, it’s overwhelming… consuming.

"Ah... Scara..."

"That's it." His breath ghosts over your sensitive flesh. "Say my name."

His tongue circles your clit, teasing, tasting, and your hips buck involuntarily. He pins them down with one hand, holding you still.

"So sensitive." He sounds delighted. "And you can't even see what I'm doing to you. You can only feel it."

Every touch feels magnified tenfold. This is what being blind has given you… this heightened awareness… this desperate sensitivity.

He slides a finger inside you, and you gasp.

"Tight," he murmurs. "We'll fix that."

He works you open slowly, one finger, then two, stretching you while his tongue continues its assault on your clit. It feels too much by the way you can’t help but squirm, but it also feels like not enough, and also just everything all at once.

"Hah... please... I need..."

"What do you need?"

"I don't know... more... something..."

He adds a third finger, curling them up, finding a spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your closed eyes. His mouth seals over your clit, sucking gently, and you shatter.

The orgasm crashes through you like a wave. You cry out, your back arching, your hands fisting in the sheets, and he works you through it, relentless, drawing out every last tremor.

When you finally come down, he's crawling back up your body. His mouth finds yours, and you can taste yourself on his tongue.

"Good?" he asks.

"Yes... hah... yes..."

He pulls back and you can hear the rustle of fabric, the soft sounds of clothes being removed. And then his hands are on your nightgown, sliding it up, over your head, leaving you completely bare.

"You're beautiful," he says again. "So beautiful."

His hands run over your body, mapping your curves, and you wish desperately that you could see him. See what he looks like above you, naked and wanting.

"Can I touch you?" You ask.

"Yes."

He guides your hand down, down, until your fingers close around him… what you’d assume to be a cock. He feels hard, and the shape of it seems big. It’s heavy in your palm, and warm, warmer than the rest of his cold skin.

"Oh..."

"Do you feel what you do to me?" His voice is strained. "How much I want you?"

You nod, speechless.

He moves your hand away and positions himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against you. Your breath catches at the feeling, realizing that this is really happening, that you’re really losing your virginity.

"This will hurt," he says. "At first."

"I know."

"I won't be gentle."

"... I don't want you to be, Scara."

And with that, he pushes inside, one thrust, all the way.

You scream, not from pleasure, not yet, just from the sudden fullness, the pain of being stretched beyond what you thought possible. He swallows the sound you make with a kiss, his mouth claiming yours, his hands pinning your wrists above your head.

"Shh." His lips move against yours. "Breathe."

You try to listen and breathe, but it’s hard when he’s inside you, especially so impossibly deep, filling every inch of your body. But you don’t feel pressured, as he’s very patient, holding you still and letting you adjust.

"Does it hurt?"

"Y-yes..."

"It won't for long."

He starts to move, it’s slow at first, long strokes that pull out almost all the way before pushing back in. His thumbs simultaneously rub soothing circles on your belly, a strange counterpoint to the ache between your legs.

And then the pain starts to fade... Replaced by something else. Something warm and building.

"Oh... hah..."

"There we go." He picks up the pace slightly, noticing. "That's it. Feel me."

And you do, you feel every inch, every thrust, every time he angles his hips to hit that spot inside you. Your moans grow louder, more desperate, and he swallows each one with kisses.

His mouth finds your neck again, and he kisses, sucks, and marks the skin there. He’s obsessed with your throat, you realize, with the way his lips keep gravitating there, always lingering.

"Can I..." You gasp as he hits that spot again. "Can I ask something?"

"Anything."

"Will you... Will you bite me?"

He goes still.

For a moment, you think you've said something wrong, that you’ve gone too far. But then his hips start moving again, harder than before, faster, and his voice is rough when he speaks.

"You want me to bite you?"

"Yes... please... I want..."

"Are you sure?"

"Ngh... yes... please, Scara..."

His teeth sink into your neck.

It’s not hard enough to actually break your skin, but it’s hard enough that it hurts, that it makes you cry out, that it makes the pain mix with pleasure in a way that you can’t tell them apart. He bites you again, and again, marking your throat with red impressions of his teeth.

"Mine," he growls against your skin. "You're mine."

"Yours... hah... I'm yours..."

He's fucking you harder now, losing control, his breath ragged against your neck. And then he's tensing, burying himself deep, and you feel him spill inside you.

And when he cums inside, something he does happens by accident.

His teeth clamp down hard on your neck. His teeth don’t even feel like teeth when he does it; it feels like a knife piercing your skin, something sharp, not like human teeth.

You let out a confused whimper in response to it, and his hips are stuttering, groaning against your throat, and the pain you feel fades into a strange, floaty warmth.

When he pulls back, his mouth lingers on the bite, kissing it, licking at something wet that trickled down your neck.

"Sorry," he murmurs, still inside of you. "Got carried away."

"S'okay..." You're drifting, boneless, blissed out. "Felt good anyway..."

He laughs softly, and you feel his thumb trace the bite mark, pressing gently, and you wince.

"I left a mark." He points out.

"I don't mind..."

"No?" He kisses the spot again, more focused on kissing that than your own lips, and then he licks it, slow and deliberate. "I'll have to be more careful next time."

Next time. The words warm you from the inside.

He shifts, pulling out of you, and you whimper at the loss. But then he's lying beside you, pulling you into his arms, and you curl against his chest.

"Will you stay?" you whisper. "Tonight? Sleep with me?"

"Yes."

"You never stay."

"I'll stay tonight." His arms tighten around you. "I'll stay as long as you want me."

You press your face against his chest, feeling safe in someone's arms, something that has always felt foreign to you until now.

"I love you," you whisper, 3 words you’ve never said to anyone once before.

He goes still at your murmured confession, not expecting to hear those words from you so soon, but he doesn’t mind it. His hand finds your hair, and he strokes it gently in a way that makes you curl into him further.

"I know," he says. "I love you too."

You fall asleep like that.

Wrapped in the arms of a monster you can't see.

You wake up to him still on your bed, his hand still on your hair, like nothing changed after you went to sleep.

Well… except for the fact that your nightgown is back on. You remember falling asleep naked in his arms, but now the soft fabric is back, covering you, and you wonder if he dressed you while you slept.

"You're awake."

His voice rumbles through his chest, vibrating against your cheek. You lift your head, even though lifting does nothing for you, even though you can't see him, no matter which direction you face.

"How long was I asleep?"

"A while." His hand starts to begin it’s pattern of stroking you hair. "You needed it."

You settle back against him. The silence is comfortable, easy in a way you've never experienced with another person. You've spent your whole life alone, and now you're not, and the relief of it is almost overwhelming.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

"Tell me about your family." You trace a small circle on his chest with your finger. "Your father… What's he like?"

Theres a brief pause, almost imperceptible, but you catch it. "He's a busy man," Scaramouche says. "Always working. I don't see him often."

"And your mother?"

Another pause, a longer one this time.

"My mother," he repeats, and there's something strange in his voice… something heavy. "My mother is... complicated."

"Complicated how?"

"She lives here. In this estate." His hand stills in your hair. "She's… powerful. Important. Everyone knows her name, fears it, respects it. But… she's never been much of a mother to me."

You wait, sensing there's more.

"She's neglectful," he continues, quieter now. "Always has been. Too busy with her own concerns to notice her son. Too wrapped up in her own world to care about mine." He laughs, but it's hollow. "I hate her sometimes. Most of the time, actually. But somewhere, deep down, I suppose I still..."

He trails off. You press your palm flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat, not questioning why you can’t find it.

"I'm sorry." You say, clear sympathy in your voice.

"Don't be." His hand resumes its gentle stroking. "It's just how things are."

"Can I meet her?” You ask, more curious than eager. “Your mother?"

He tenses when you ask that, and he tries to cover it up, acting normal by continuing his rhythm in your hair. "Maybe," he says. "Someday. I'm not sure."

You accept the non-answer, it’s what you’re used to. Your whole life has been built on them.

"Scaramouche?"

"Mm?"

"My mother and brother." You swallow. "Do you know if they're back yet? From their trip?"

The silence that follows after what you say feels different than any question you’ve asked. It feels heavier, makes you feel oddly tense.

"Why do you want to leave so badly?" He says in a tone lacking of any emotion, in a way that sounds scary and not at all like the sweet boy you’ve grown to love.

It catches you of guard, definitely, and you shake your head immediately, frantically even.

“I don’t… not at all, Scara. I would never want to-” You stop, realizing what you just said without giving it a single thought. Never. You just fucking said never. You clear your throat, trying to fix your words. “I just… I want to know if they’re safe… that’s all. It has nothing to do with me wanting to leave.”

You feel him shift beneath you, feel his hand move from your hair to cup your cheek. That motion would normally make you feel secure, safe, loved by him. But right now… you’re just confused at his behavior, confused on why he can’t just give you a proper response without having you fall apart first.

"I visited your estate two days ago," he says finally. "To check. And they weren't there."

Your heart drops hearing those words. It’s been two weeks, they should be back by now on there trip, should’ve been back days ago, but what Scara’s telling you makes you think they never made it back… or did, and got killed by the very thing they’re skilled at hunting.

"What do you mean they weren't there?"

"I didn’t just look, also. I asked around… not your dead servants, but I asked your neighbors, anyone alive in the vicinity…” His thumb traces your cheekbone, it seems like he’s doing it to comfort you, but to you it feels like he’s mocking you. "I’ll be nice and say they're possibly missing."

All blood drains from your face as you process his words, you feel your body go cold just like his… you feel the relapse of emotions you felt the day your father was murdered.

Your father is gone. Your mother… and your brother are missing.

You have no one.

… no one but him.

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head in denial, hoping that the worst isn’t as true as it seems. “No… that can’t be right. They were supposed to come back… they always do, I never worry about them when they go on hunting trips… I just feel sad that I’m never allowed to come with them. I wish I was now… I wish my brother wasn’t such a stupid asshole that only sees me as something weak… because maybe then, I’d be able to say goodbye.”

You burry your face in Scara’s chest, trying not to sob, but the tears threaten anyway. “I’d rather die with them, than not be with them at all.”

Scara watches this display of your… emotions without uttering a word, none until you’re finished.

“Shh.” He starts, voice soft and nothing compared to the uncanny, emotionless one like before, he strokes your head as you cry onto his chest. “I’ll check every day for you, I promise. I’ll go back and look, over and over, day and night if I have to. And the moment I see them, I’ll bring them to safety and tell you immediately.”

The words don’t help, not at all, because how would something as a promise you’ll never be able to see experience, actually, and I mean, actually make you feel better.

“Let me come with you…” You sit up, desperate, clinging onto his shoulders. “Please, Scara. I want to go home… I want to feel my house again, smell it, actually open the curtia-”

He cuts you off, “You can’t.” His tone is calm in a way that it makes an insane contrast with how much you’re currently spiraling.

"Why not?" You say, just as desperate as your words before.

"It's not safe." He says it like it’s already been decided, confirmed.

“I don’t care if it’s safe or not!” Your voice cracks. “What the hell, Scara, they’re my family… my fucking family! I’m an adult, not just some child that wants to be locked all the time, I can fend for myself, I’m sick and tired of being forced to stay in bed like if I even stepped out of it, I’d be in danger.”

"You can't come with me." His words are, again, firm and final. You’ve heard them before, a thousand times, coming from the very people you’re so desperate to find.

You're too fragile. Too delicate. Too blind.

But there’s a difference here because Scaramouche doesn’t say any of that. He doesn’t call you helpless, he doesn’t point to your disability as the reason. He knows your senses are strong, he’s seen you navigate his estate, memorize the layout of your room, detect his presence before he speaks. He knows you’d be more useful than him at searching, that your hearing could pick up things his eyes might miss.

So why won't he let you?

"They’re vampires out there," he says, as if reading your thoughts. "The ones who attacked your home. They're still in the area. I won't risk you."

Vampires.

You think of your father, his throat torn open, his blood soaking into your hands. You think of the creatures that did that to him, the monsters that hunt in the night, and hatred rises in your chest like bile.

"I hate them." The words come out bitter. "I hate vampires. They're disgusting creatures. Monsters. They killed my father, they destroyed my life, and I hope every single one of them burns."

Scaramouche doesn't respond.

You keep going, unable to stop yourself.

"My family has hunted them for generations. We've killed hundreds, thousands. And it's not enough. It'll never be enough. They're a plague, a disease, and the world would be better off if every last one of them was wiped from existence."

Still nothing.

You take a breath. "But..." You pause, uncertain. "I would like to meet one. Someday…"

"What?" Scaramouche finally responds.

"A vampire." You turn your face toward him, even though you can't see his expression. "In my books, they're always described as hideous. Monstrous. Twisted things with rotting flesh and hollow eyes. But… I don't believe that. I think they must be beautiful. Terrifyingly beautiful. And I want to feel one, just once. Even though I know it would be impossible. Even though they'd kill me before I could get close."

It’s quiet in the room, and you wonder if you’ve said something wrong, you wonder if he hates vampires as much as your family does, that maybe he was raised the same as you, but isn’t weird like you.

"You imagine them as beautiful," he repeats slowly.

"... Yes."

"Even though you hate them."

"I can hate something and still find it fascinating." You shrug. "I've never been able to separate the two."

He doesn't respond to that. Instead, he changes the subject entirely.

"Have you ever opened your eyes?"

The question startles you because no one has ever asked that before. People assume you can't, that there's something wrong with them, that keeping them closed is a medical necessity rather than a choice.

"No."

"Never? Really?"

"I choose to keep them closed." You touch the edge of your lace mask, feeling the delicate fabric beneath your fingers. "I can't see anyway. Opening them wouldn't change anything."

"Then why keep them closed?"

You hesitate because this is something you’ve never told anyone, not even your family. Something private, sacred, held close to your chest like a secret.

"You’ll probably find it stupid… but I'm saving them," you say finally. "For someone special."

"Someone special?"

"Someone who'll stay with me for eternity." The words come out soft, almost reverent. "Even in a human life. Someone who'll love me and protect me, but who'll also let me feel protected on my own. Someone who'll trust me to keep myself safe. Someone that I love enough to open them for."

You pause, your chest feeling tight.

"Someone who'll love me forever."

The silence that follows is so heavy you could drown in it.

"Only a vampire can love you forever."

You tilt your head, confused by his response, and let out a nervous giggle ,thinking what he said to be a joke. "What?"

His lips find yours before you can say another word; he kisses you softly, gently, cutting off your confusion before it can fully form.

"I'll love you for an eternity," he murmurs against your mouth. "And you can choose when you want to open your eyes for me."

You melt into the kiss, the strange comment already fading from your mind.

Days pass.

He sleeps in your room now, every night, he crawls into bed beside you, pulls you against his chest, holds you until morning… or what you assume is morning, you never know for certain.

He still feeds you, more now that the relationship you two have seems more established than ever. You wish though, that it was different, that you could feed yourself, and he does the same infront of you. One day, as he’s feeding you, you ask, "Can I eat with you? At a table, like normal people?"

"Maybe one day," he says.

That day never comes.

The day does come for a different shared experience, one that doesn’t involve eating but involves a lot of trust and intimacy.

"Let me bathe you."

The words catch you off guard completely. You’re sitting on your bed, tracing the embroidery on your pillowcase when he says it. You were going to bathe later, in a few hours, it’s not necessary to do it now… but you shake your head, almost at yourself, continuing to trace as you respond.

"I can bathe myself."

"I know you can." You hear him move closer, feel the mattress dip as he sits beside you. "But I want to do it. Let me take care of you."

You’ve been bathing yourself your whole life, navigating through your bathroom with the ever-present fear of falling. You’ve memorized the layout of every bathroom you’ve ever used, mapped the distance from every object… you don’t necessarily need help.

But… the thought of him doing it, of his hands on you, of not having to worry about slipping and cracking your skull on the edge of the basin because he'd be there to catch you...

"Okay."

His hand finds yours, and it’s cold, as always, but you’ve stopped flinching at the temperature. Ever since that night, the first night, when his skin pressed against yours and you were too overwhelmed by the softness of it to care about the chill. He's touched you more since then, like something shifted between you and he no longer feels the need to hide.

He leads you out of your room and down a hallway you haven’t memorized yet. You count the steps as you both walk, fourteen until you turn left, seven more, then a door on the same left side of the wall.

"Bathroom," he says, unnecessarily, leading you inside and shutting the door behind you both, locking it. "Stay here."

You stand on a rug, seemingly in the middle of the bathroom while he moves around the space. You hear water running, the squeak of a tap being adjusted, the slosh of liquid filling something large and deep. A bathtub bigger than any you've had before, by the sound of it.

"Temperature's good." His footsteps return to you. "Arms up."

You raise your arms, and his hands find the straps of your nightgown. It’s a short white babydoll dress, and he slides the straps off your shoulders, slow, deliberate, and the fabric pools at your feet.

You’re naked now, fully exposed, and you can feel his gaze on you like he’s physically touching you, tracing the curves of your body, the dip of your waist, the swell of your breasts. You can’t see his expression, but you can feel the weight of his attention.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, almost to himself.

His fingers find your face and they trace along your jaw, up your cheekbones, and then higher. They go to the lalce mask you’ve worn everyday since childhood.

"Can I take this off too?"

Your breath catches at that question. No one has ever seen you without it, not since you were a baby… too young to keep it on yourself. It's part of you now, as familiar as your own skin.

But he's already seen everything else. What's one more piece?

"... Yes. You can, Scara…"

He’s gentle as he unties the ribbon at the back of your head, sliding the delicate fabric away from your face.The air feels strange against your closed eyelids, more exposed than even your naked body.

He doesn't say anything for a long moment.

"You're not opening them," he says finally.

"I never do, I told you."

"I know." His thumb brushes across your closed eyelid, featherlight. "Your lashes are longer than I expected."

You don't know what to say to that. You've never thought about your eyelashes. You've never thought about any part of your face, really. It's just... there. A thing you can't see, can't evaluate, can't compare to anyone else's.

He cups your face in both hands and tilts it up toward him.

And then he kisses you.

Not your mouth, though, you feel him press a soft kiss on your cheekbone… then your eyelid, so gentle you can barely feel it, then the other one… reverent.

Worshipful.

You giggle because you can’t help it, the kiss on your eyelids tickles, and it’s also so sweet. You’re overwhelmed by the tenderness of it.

He doesn’t just stop there, he kisses your mouth next, lips moving against yours, his tongue sliding past your teeth. You melt into it, your hands coming up to grip his shoulders, and you realize he's still fully clothed while you're completely bare.

"Your turn," you murmur against his lips.

"... What?"

"Your clothes." You fumble for the buttons of his shirt, your fingers clumsy. "Take them off."

He laughs, soft and amused. "Eager."

"I want to feel you."

He lets you try, lets you figure it out yourself. Your fingers work at the buttons, struggling with the unfamiliar task, because you’ve never worn buttons before, and he doesn’t help. You get three undone before you give up, frustrated.

"It's hard when you can't see what you're doing," you mutter.

"Most things are."

You can't tell if he's mocking you or sympathizing… Maybe both.

He takes over, shrugging out of his shirt, then his pants, and then he's as naked as you are. "Come on." His hand takes yours again. "Water's getting cold."

He guides you to the edge of the tub, and helps you step over the high rim. The water feels perfect, warm, but not scalding, and you sink into it with a sigh of relief. The tub is enormous, deep enough that the water comes up to your chest when you sit.

He slides in behind you.

His legs bracket yours, his chest close to your back, and you feel his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you back against him. You let your head fall onto his shoulder.

"Comfortable?" He asks.

"Mm." You say, completely lost like you’re under some kind of spell.

He reaches for something, you hear the click of a bottle opening, and then his hands are in your hair. You feel him lathering shampoo through the strands, his fingers working at your scalp.

You let out a tiny, embarrassing (to you), whimper at the feel of it.

No one has ever done this for you, never touched your hair like this… with this much attention, this much care. His fingers press and circle, finding the stops that make the tension drain from your shoulders, and you go boneless against him.

"Good?"

"So good." Your voice comes out dreamy, like you’re distantly there. "... Don't stop."

He washes your hair thoroughly, rinsing it with ahndfuls of water, and then he reaches for another bottle, conditioner, you assume, and he works through the ends, detangling with his fingers, patient and methodical.

You could fall alseep like this if you aren’t careful. Being here… feeling this… makes you want to stay here forever, floating in warm water, his hands at your hair, his body solid and real behind you.

His hands go lower… down your neck, across your shoulders. He’s washing you now, his palms sliding over your skin, leaving trails of soap. He washes down your back, the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist.

And then he goes to the front of your body. His hands cup around your breasts.

You gasp, but you don’t pull away. His palms are slick with soap, sliding over the soft flesh, and his thumbs find your nipples, he circles around them, clearly teasing.

"Still okay?"

"Yes." The word comes out breathless, and you nod. "Yes, keep going."

He doesn’t rush after your full permission, he touches you like he has all the time in the world, like your body is something to be explored and memorized, the same as you do any room you come into. He learns the weight of your breasts, the way your nipples harden under his attention, the sounds you make when he pinches just slightly.

He lingers at your breasts for way too long.

"More?" His voice is low, rough against your ear.

"Please, Scara… "

His hand slides down your stomach, over the curve of your hip… between… your thighs.

You spread your legs without being asked.

He touches you slowly here too, like he’s learning, just like everywhere else. His fingers trace along your folds, slipping through the slickness that has nothing to do with the bath water. He finds your clit, circles it ones, then twice, and you let out the cutest whimper in response.

"Sensitive," he murmurs, you’re always sensitive, one of the few things you like (and hate) about being blind. "I like that."

And because he’s obsessed with it, because he seems to always go to it, his mouth finds your neck. He presses kisses to the curve of it, and you feel his teeth, just barely, tiny nips that send shivers down your spine. You're too focused on his fingers to pay much attention, too lost in the way he's touching you, slow circles that build heat in your core, especially when he slips two fingers inside.

He learns what makes you gasp, what makes the little hitches of breath you cant control, and he exploits it ruthlessly. Pressing harder when you react, curling up in the spot that makes your eyes roll back behind your eyelids and always pulling back when you get too close.

"Scara..." You're squirming against him, trying to grind into his hand. "Please..."

"Please what?"

"I need to cum... Please let me cum."

He bites your neck, harder than before, and it’s hard enough to sting. While he does it, his curl up into your cunt, abusing that spot of yours perfectly, in the way you’ve been needing this entire time.

The orgasm crashes through you, your body arching in the water, waves sloshing over the edges of the tub. He works you through it, his fingers relentless, his mouth still pressed to your throat, tiny bites you barely register through the pleasure. You're distantly aware of his teeth breaking skin, just slightly, just enough to taste, but it's lost in the overwhelming sensation of cumming on his hand.

You slump back against him, panting, trembling, and his hand moves away from between your legs to rest on your stomach.

"Good girl," he murmurs against your skin.

You're too blissed out to respond.

He holds you like that until the water goes cold. Then he lifts you out, wraps you in a towel, and carries you back to bed. You fall asleep in a new nightgown he got for you, in his arms, still floating.

You don’t notice the small wounds on your neck until the morning, when you accidently touch it because your neck feels weird. But even then, because you cannot see the weird look to it, how it just looks like two holes punched into your skin, you don’t think much of it.

Needless to say, you’ve become dependent on him.

He's the only person you see, the only voice you hear, the only touch you feel. When he's not in the room, you sleep. You can't help it. There's nothing else to do, no one else to talk to, and sleep is the only way to make the waiting bearable.

Sometimes, when you can't sleep, you walk. Around the room, tracing the walls with your fingertips, memorizing the furniture and the layout and the exact number of steps from the bed to the door.

The door that's always locked.

You think it's been three weeks.

On what feels like the twenty-second day, something changes.

You wake up alone, as usual. Reach for the door, as usual. But when you turn the handle…

It opens.

That makes you freeze because why would the door be unlocked? Did he forget to lock it when he left? But… Scara doesn’t seem the type to make a mistake, ever.

Your heart pounds.

You've memorized your room, but… you don't know what's outside it. The hallway, the stairs, the rest of this place that might be a mansion or might be something bigger. You're terrified of unknown spaces, always have been. The thought of stepping into an area you haven't mapped makes your hands shake.

But you're also curious.

And right now, curiosity is stronger than fear.

You step into the hallway and cling to the wall, feeling the texture beneath your fingers, and you start walking, slow. You’re careful as you walk, one hand staying on the wall, the other extended in front of you.

Your goal of finally being able to get out of that room without Scara’s supervision is to find a window. Not to jump or anything sucidial in that manner, you’re happy… happy in the sense that you’re trying not to think too much of your family, and think more of how Scara treats you. You want to find a window so you can feel the sunlight again. The curtains in your room are too heavy to move, and you miss the feeling of warmth on your skin.

But you don't find any windows. Not ones you can reach, anyway.

What you find are stairs.

You navigate them slowly, one step at a time, clinging almost for dear life onto the railing. Down, down, stop, hover your foot just to make sure that what’s under is really a step, then down, down. They’re more stairs than there should be, more than any normal house would have… this place is enormous, which would be any blind person nightmare to walk through, if they’re alone.

But you manage.

You reach the bottom, and the floor is soft here, carpet maybe. And being down here, you can hear voices.

Not Scaramouche's voice.

Multiple.

You freeze hearing them, every muscle in your body going tense. The voices seem to be coming from a room nearby, the people, you assume, probably don’t see you, so your panic does fade, just slightly. You inch toward the room you hear the voices coming from, and you feel for the door, it feels ajar, which is better than it being fully open, and you press yourself against the wall, moving as silently as you can.

"-tired of this," one voice is saying. It sounds like a male’s voice, deep, rough at the edges. "Three weeks and we're still tiptoeing around."

3 weeks? That’s the same amount of time you’ve known Scara.

"The prince wants her kept alive," another voice responds. Also male, but higher, more nasal. "What the prince wants, the prince gets."

The… prince?

"But the smell." The first voice again, frustrated. "Do you have any idea how maddening it is? Human blood, everywhere, all the fuckin’ time. It's all I can focus on."

Your blood runs cold.

Human blood.

"He keeps her locked up," the nasal voice continues. "Won't let anyone near her. He won’t even let us look at her."

"The prince has always been selfish." A third voice, bored. "You remember what he did to that village last century? Killed everyone, just because one of them looked at him wrong."

The first voice laughs. "Scaramouche has always been-"

You stop breathing.

Scaramouche.

They're talking about Scaramouche.

They called him prince.

Business partners' sons aren't royalty. Business partners' sons don't have people calling them prince, don't have people talking about villages they destroyed last century.

The man you've been living with, sleeping with, kissing, loving-

"Do you think the human smell's gotten stronger?" the first voice asks suddenly. "Over the past few minutes?"

"Now that you mention it..."

You run.

You don’t think before you do. Plan? Out the fucking window you’re never allowed to feel. You don’t have time for any of that, this is life or death, these… whatever these people are, vampires, sound hungry for you.

Your hands frantically feel along the walls, your feet stumble over unfamiliar terrain, you’re looking for a door… an exit, anything…

And oddly enough…

You don’t hear those men chasing you.

You don't hear them at all anymore, and that's worse. That's so much worse, because vampires are silent, vampires are fast, vampires can move without making a sound-

You collide with a body.

The impact knocks the breath from your lungs. You stumble backward, your hands coming up instinctively, something you assume to be a defensive position. Your arms crossed in front of your face, body curled inward, the way you've read about in books.

A familiar laugh cuts through the darkness.

"That's what you'd do if a vampire ever tried to attack you? Seriously?"

Scaramouche.

Something in his voice is different… the gentleness of it has been stripped away, like the way he acted before, was all just an act he was too good at. He sounds amused, yes, but in a cruel way, a mocking way.

"You-” Your hands go down now that you know who it is, but not in a way that you aren’t ready to try and defend yourself. You're shaking, trembling all over. "Y-you're a-"

"A vampire." He finishes for your stutter, and he says it causally too, like this confession is nothing to him. "Yes. Obviously."

"You killed my father, didn’t you." You say, hurt at the betrayal, the heartbreak is painfully clear in your voice.

"Mm. He died quickly… if that helps."

Something inside you snaps.

You lunge at him, fists swinging, you can’t see where you’re aiming, can’t see if you’re even close to hitting him, but you don’t care. You want to hurt him… you need to.

Your fists connect with nothing.

He’s moved, and you don’t know where, you just know he’s not where he was, and that causes you to stumble forward, off-balance. You feel a hand catch with your wrist, twisting it behind your back, and suddenly, you’re pressed against him, your back to his chest, and you can feel his mouth at your ear.

"That was pathetic," he says pleasantly. "Try again."

You struggle, trash, try to break free of his grip. And he seems to barely even be trying, his tight grip is effortless, his body immovable like a statue. You’re fighting with everything you have, and he’s just… standing there.

"LET ME GO!" You yell, loud, ready to bite at his hand if he tries covering your mouth.

"No." He says, casual, while you’re frantic.

"YOU KILLED HIM!" Tears are streaming down your face now, soaking into your mask. "You killed my father!!” You scream, your own throat burning and your next words come out quiet, broken, “You made me think… you made me… love you-”

"I didn't make you do anything." His voice is cold, a perfect match with his body. "You fell in love all on your own. I just... helped it along."

Your voice raises again. "You're a MONSTER!"

"Yes."

"I HATE YOU!"

"Do you?"

“ILL NEVER LOVE YOU!” You don’t stop screaming, you don’t care if someone hears, you don’t care about anything but seeing your family right now. “ILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU! Do you understand that, you fucking ugly, disgusting VAMPIRE. I hope someone drives a stake though your nonexistent fucking heart and-”

"Careful." His grip tightens on your wrist. "My patience has limits."

“I don’t care, I don’t fucking CARE ABOUT YOU. LET ME GO!! LET ME GO.”

He does, and you stumble forward, nearly falling. You spin around, your hands up, and your breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Fine," he says, and he sounds bored. "You want to go? Fucking go."

You freeze, hearing something you definitely didn’t expect. “What?”

“The door is right behind you, I’ll even open it for you, so you won’t struggle to find it like I know you will. You can walk out… into the night, because it is night right now, where they’re dozens, and I mean, dozens of vampires far less patient than me, and you can fend for yourself.” He pauses and you can feel amusement, something mocking in his tone. “Is that what you want?”

Yes. No??? You… you don’t know.

"You're bluffing.” You say instead.

"Try me." He counters.

You hear footsteps, his, walking past you, and a large door creaking open from behind. Cold air rushes in, and it’s the same air you’ve been craving to feel weeks ago, and you can sense, just by it that he’s right, that it is nightime.

"There you go," he says. "Freedom, just like you want. Take it."

You want to be the brave one and run, sprint out that door and never look back.

But you’re terrified. The night is full of monsters, ones you’ve never encountered once in your life, apart from this one, and as much as you hate to admit your disability being the very think that makes you weak… you’re blind, and that ruins any chance of a proper escape you could ever have.

"That's what I thought." He sounds amused noticing your hesitation. "You want to prove you can protect yourself? That you don't need anyone? Then prove it."

You turn, following the air your feel and take a step forward, than another.

"Brave," he murmurs. "Or stupid. We'll see which."

You keep walking, out the door, into the cold, onto the ground that feels like dirt and grass and leaves. You’re also not wearing shoes, only socks, white ones with lace that cuffs at your ankles, you feel stupid remembering your lack of footwear, and you know that’ll just make this even more dangerous for you.

“How long have I known you?” He asks, suddenly.

You turn your head back toward his voice. "What?"

You hear the irritation in his voice, like he’s annoyed he has to repeat something he said that he knows made clear sense. “How long has it been since we’ve met?”

Your brows knit, confused at why this is a question he’s asking now. “I don’t know, I don’t remember.”

“Guess it then.”

You think, even though you’d rather be running right now "... Three weeks?"

"Close enough." You hear him step out after you. "I'll give you a three-minute head start."

You back up, arms crossed. "What the fuck? Excuse me?"

"Run." His voice is soft now, almost gentle, despite that one word sounding like a clear warning. "And I'll chase. That's how this works."

Your hands drop at your sides, "You're going to-"

"I'm not going to let some nobody vampire eat you." He sounds almost offended. "Just who do you think I am? You're mine. If anyone's going to kill you, it'll be me."

Your blood runs cold.

"A little tip," he whispers, and suddenly he's right behind you, his breath cold against your ear. "It's better to hide than to run too far. But even then... your scent gives you away. So either route you take, you're completely fucked."

You run before he finishes speaking.

The forest swallows you.

At least, you think it's a forest. They’re trees everywhere, you can feel them, their bark rough against your palms as you push past. You don't know where you're going, you can't see the path, can't see anything, can only feel and smell and hear.

You don’t even know hiding spots, if one you took would actually keep you hidden, or make you look obvious. Every direction you take feels dangerous, every step feels like a giant risk. You could be running toward more vampires, or running off a cliff… or just looking like an idiot, running in circles.

Your father is dead.

The thought crashes over you like a wave, nearly sending you to your knees.

He killed your father… Scara. How fucked up at you to still be reffering to him as the nickname you’ve been calling him? He’s the same man who held you, kissed you, made love to you. And he’s the same one who tore out your fathers throat and then walked upstairs, pretending to be your savior.

Your mother and brother might be dead too, because Scara told you he’d visit your estate daily, and now… with everything you’ve heard, and heard him confess to you, you wouldn’t be surprised if he did harm them, kill them.

Or worse, they might be alive, mourning you, searching for you, never knowing that you're just a few miles away, trapped by the very monster they've spent their lives hunting.

And you loved him.

You fucking loved him. You… love him.

And that’s the worse part. Because even now, even knowing what he is, what he did, theres a part of you that wants to run back or stop running and just wait. That part of you just wants to throw yourself into his arms and pretend none of this is real.

Is he a monster?

He killed your father, lied to you, manipulated you into falling in love with him.

But was he a monster when you fell in love with him? Was he one before you knew? Was he always one, or did the truth change something fundamental about who he is?

You don’t know… You don’t know anything anymore.

You just don’t understand why you?

The trees seem to shift around you… you think you’re going in a straight line, but you keep feeling the same bark, same pattern, like you’re circling back without realizing.

He's playing with you.

He’s not chasing you, he’s herding you. He’s using his speed, his silence, his knowledge of this terrain to push you in whatever direction he wants.

You spin around, reaching out, trying to detect him.

Nothing.

Then you hear a rustle to your left, you turn, heart pounding.

Nothing.

A snap behind you, you spin again.

Nothing.

He’s everywhere and nowhere at once. Circling you like prey, messing with your senses, the very senses you’ve always relied on, the ones that are supposed to be better than anyone elses.

It's not enough. It's nowhere near enough compared to a vampire.

"I can't do this anymore!" You're crying, tears streaming down your face, your voice cracking. "I'm tired! I’m so fucking tired…” You rub your head, exhausted, spiriling. “I can't-"

A laugh echoes through the trees. "Already?" He sounds delighted. "That was barely what? Two minutes."

"Please-"

"But you wanted to prove yourself, remember?" His voice comes from everywhere at once. "You wanted to show me you could protect yourself. That you don't need anyone's help."

You spin again, reaching blindly.

"Then do it."

Something shifts in the air and the next thing you feel is pain.

He slams you, hard, very fucking hard against a tree, and your back hits the bark hard enough to drive the breath from your lungs. Before you can recover, his mouth his on your neck, and his teeth are sinking in.

Sharp, knife sharp, actually, sharper than any knife, any sewing needle, it’s nothing compared to the playful nips like before.

You scream… or honestly, try to. What comes out is more of a whine, high and broken and pathetic. He bites again, different spot on your neck, just as hard, and again, and again, and fucking again. He’s relentless with it, like an animal, his mouth is everywhere, marking you, claiming you, and all you can do is hang there and take it.

"This," he growls against your skin, "is what I've wanted to do since the moment I saw you."

"Please-" Another bite cuts you off. "Please, I don't want to die-"

"I'm not killing you." His tongue drags across a bleeding wound, and you shudder. "Just tasting... You're too valuable to waste."

"I don't want to be a vampire-" You're sobbing now, ugly and desperate. "I don't want to be a monster like you-"

His teeth sink again, harder this time, obviously for your comment of calling him a monster, and it’s hard enough to make you scream for reach. The sound echos through the forest, and he groans against your neck like it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.

"Call me that again," he murmurs. "See what happens."

You can’t do anything else anymore… not even your voice seems to work as the blood loss is making everything fuzzy and distant. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears, in your neck also, where he’s been taking and taking like you’re a snack. All you do is whimper helplessly, hands limp at your sides.

When he finally stops biting you’re barely even conscious. You feel him, distnatly, because of how blacked out you’re feeling, him licking the wounds, cleaning the blood thats dripped down your neck, pressing soft kisses to each bite mark like an apology.

Except he’s not sorry. And he never will be.

Your legs give out.

He catches you before you even have the chance to fall onto the dirty ground. His arms slide under your knees, your back, lifting you easily, bridal style. Like someone out of one of your romance novels. The irony would be funny if you weren't too exhausted to laugh.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, as your head falls limp in his arms. You think apologizing sounds better than continuing to yell at him, at this point, and your words come out weak, barely audible from the bloodloss. “I’m so sorry, Scara… P-please… take me home… even if it’s just for a second. Let me see- I mean… feel my house again, just one more time, and you can do what you want.”

“I am taking you home, obviously,” he says, and his voice sounds calm, pleasant for someone who just tore your throat open in a forest. “My home is yours now, more than ever.”

You shake your head, a weak no coming out as you continue, “Please, Scara… I want to see my mother… my brother.”

"That’ll never happen, you don’t see y/n, remember?"

"Please-"

"You will never feel or sense their presence again." He starts walking. "Those are just terrible people who’ve kept you locked in a room your entire life. Who’ve made you feel like a burden. And you want to go back to that? They don’t even deserve you. They don’t even let you live.”

You start crying again, quiet, weak tears you’re too exhausted to wipe. “W-what? How can you even say that…” But your voice sounds so, barely audible, the weight of them feeling low in a way that seems impossible to defend yourself, your own family. “You don’t know them… they… they’re my family…”

"They're your prison." He cuts off your pathetic attempt at trying to defend, his own words heavier than yours tenfold. "But you're free now. I'll teach you to protect yourself. I'll teach you to keep yourself safe. I'll let you go outside, feel the sun, do anything you've ever wanted. I couldn’t before, because I couldn’t let you know I was a vampire just yet."

Your voice cracks, and you can feel your hair sticking to some of your tears, “B-but I don’t want-”

"With time, of course." He sounds almost reasonable. "I can't trust you yet. But it's a promise I'm confident in."

You grit your teeth, but even that’s a weak movement of yours. "I hate you."

"Do you?"

"I'll never love a monster… A vampire like you." Your tone is filled with disdain, even in this state.

"You already have." His arms tighten around you. "You're letting me carry you right now. You're fighting your own emotions, telling yourself you hate me, but you don't. If you truly hated me, you would’ve kept fighting. You would’ve clawed and screamed until I had to knock you unconscious to get you home."

You don't respond because you don’t have one.

"Here's what's going to happen," he says, and his voice drops, turning serious. "As long as you continue to love me, as long as you never stop, I'll keep your mother and brother safe."

Your tears suddenly stop hearing that, processing that last part faster than you’ve processed anything before.

"They're alive," he continues. "I know where they are. I've seen them. They've been back for a week, mourning your father, setting up a funeral while I watched from the shadows. Your brother misses you. Your mother sleeps in your room at night, waiting for you to come home."

Tears stream down your face again.

"But if you show hatred for me..." His voice goes cold. "If you try to run again. If you make me think, even for a second, that you've stopped loving me. I'll kill them. And your attempt to escape won't even matter, because you're never leaving anyway."

You're silent the rest of the way because of that.

Because you’re scared to speak now, scared to say anything that might sound like hate. Or love. Or both.

He carries you back to your room.

The room you’ve been staying in, you’ve assumed was for guests. But as he lays you on the bed, tucking the blankets around you, he says, "This room is yours. I decorated it especially for you."

You don't respond, but you listen.

"The rest of this mansion is dark," he continues. "Red and black to be specific. Everything is dark-toned, dark-colored, shadows and gloom. But this room..." He pauses. "This room is different. It’s white… soft, light."

You still don't respond, but he knows you’re listening.

"That's what I associate you with," he says quietly. "Light, in the middle of all this darkness."

You turn your face away.

"I left the door unlocked on purpose," he adds. "I wanted you to find out eventually… I didn't want to be dramatic and tell you myself."

You’re still silent, so much that if he didn’t know you, he’d assume you passed out by now.

"Do you have any questions?" he asks.

You do, you have so many that your head might explode. But, you feel weak, and only one matters right now to you.

"Do you love me?" Your voice is hoarse, broken. "Actually love me?"

"Yes." No hesitation. "You're the only person I've ever cared about. And I'll love you forever."

"Why me?" You turn to face him, even though facing him doesn't mean you can see him. "What about me could you possibly want? You've only known me for three weeks."

"When I walked into your room that day," he says slowly, "I felt something I've never felt before. Something as stupid as love at first sight. I've seen thousands of humans in my time on this earth. Hundreds of years of faces and bodies and souls. And you're different than any of them."

"How?"

"You dress differently… Probably because you can't see." He sounds almost fond. "You're beautiful, even with your eyes always closed. And I'm impressed with how much you manage without sight. How you need to feel things before you're comfortable with them. How your senses are stronger than any human I've ever met."

"That's my favorite part about you," he says quietly. "Your senses. The way you experience the world. It's... fascinating. Beautiful, in its own way."

You don't know what to say.

So you don’t say anything.

Eventually, he leaves.

You stop counting the days.

What's the point? Time has lost all meaning. You're here, in this room, and you'll be here forever. Whether it's been three weeks or three months or three years makes no difference.

You avoid him.

Not physically, you can’t avoid him physically, because he still comes to your room every day, still brings you food, still sits at the edge and talks to you. But the difference is that you don’t respond, or engage. You give him nothing to work with, not love, and no hate, just… emptiness.

He watches you a lot.

You can feel it, his eyes on you, all the time, even when he’s giving you space. Even when he’s standing on the other side of the room, he’s watching, waiting.

For what? You don’t have a fucking clue because you aren’t giving him shit.

You stop eating, too.

It’s not conscious, not something you’re doing in retaliation… you just can’t. The food tastes like ash in your mouth, and swallowing feels like choking, and eventually you just stop trying. You loose weight of course, which turns you into something you hate, getting weaker, more fragile, but even though that is something you hate… you don’t care at this point.

You’d be fine dying like this.

He gets mad pretty quickly.

You can hear it in his voice, when he threatens you, tells you he’ll force the food down your throat if he has to, calls you childish, pathetic, weak.

You barely flinch or react when he yells, and he hates the lack of reaction, hates how emotionless you’ve become… depressed, almost like a corpse that only chooses to move when they’re forced to. And your eyes being closed never helps that.

You eat, only to get him to go away, and you don’t let him feed you. You take the fork from his hand before he even can, and eat mechanically, joylessly, and you don’t let him touch you.

He doesn't push, surprisingly.

He respects the boundaries you've drawn, even though you know he doesn't have to. He could force himself on you. He could pin you down and take whatever he wants. But… he doesn't.

It’s like he respects you as a person in the way your family never has, even though the situation is dark.

Oh yeah, your family…

The only time he actually makes a threat about your mother and brother is when you make a mean remark towards him, specifically calling him a monster, telling him you hope he burns, anything your brain can muster out that sounds good enough to be hatred.

"Careful," he says each time. "Remember what I said."

And you remember.

And that makes you shut your mouth.

On what you think might be the twelfth day of silence, you break.

You don’t know why… you don’t know what about that day makes you crack, but when he walks into the room that evening, you don’t stay in bed, you don’t turn away from him.

You get up, cross the room, and wrap your arms around him.

He goes still at the sudden motion he hasn’t felt in days from you. You feel the tension in his body, the surprise, and you’re crying, tears soaking into the fabric of his top, and you’re holding onto him, tight, with strength you’re surprised your weak body can manage.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, your head desperately nuzzling onto his chest. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

He’s quiet for a long moment, still processing all of this, and then, finally, his hands wrap around you, pulling you closer, and you feel warm… protected when he does.

"I'm sorry," you say again. "I'll stop fighting. I'll let you love me. I'll... I'll give it back. I'll try."

He lifts you effortlessly, and carries you to your bed, carefully settling you against your pillows. You try desperately reaching for him, craving his touch back, even though it was just a second, and he settles beside you. He touches you again, his hand on your face, thumb brushing away your tears.

"I know," he says quietly. "I know you will."

He kisses away the wetness of your cheeks, and you whimper, and he doesn’t stop. He presses his lips to your closed eyes, the very ones he worships when you’re without your eye mask, and he kisses your forehead, your nose, and when his mouth finally finds yours, you melt into it.

You give in.

Completely.

When he pulls back, you feel him smile against your lips.

You realize, it’s the first time you’ve ever felt him smile before.

Like he won.

The days become easier after that.

Not good, or happy just… easier. You talk to him again, let him feed you, touch you… hold you. You don’t tell him you love him, though, you can’t, maybe not ever you feel, but you show him in other ways.

You offer him your hand.

He takes it, confused, and you guide his to your wrist. "Drink," you say.

He doesn’t ask if you’re sure, if you’re aware that the skin on wrists is thin and that cuts, punctures there hurt worse, burn even. He just lifts your wrist to his mouth, and his fangs sink in. You gasp at the pain, whimpering as he sucks, because that pain fades rather quickly into something else. Something warm and floaty… and almost pleasant.

You offer him your neck, too.

This becomes a routine. Everytime he visits your room, which is every night, you tilt your head, exposing your throat, inviting him to drink. You don’t need to say the words anymore, he understands.

He's not gentle with it at all.

You don't want him to be, anyway.

His teeth tear into you, hungry, possessive. He drinks until you’re dizzy, until you can barely stay upright, and then he licks the wounds clean, pressing apology kisses on them and he holds you as you recover.

"You're getting better at this," he murmurs one night, his mouth still pressed to your throat. "Taking it so well."

You don’t respond, you don’t talk when he feeds. You just thread your fingers through his hair and hold him closer.

He keeps his promises.

The door is unlocked now, all the time. You can leave your room whenever you want, wander the halls, explore the mansion. You still cling to the walls, still map everything by touch, but the fear is fading… slowly. And he helps you the first couple of times, teaching you what each room is, giving you a large tour while he lets you move independently, without his hand, but of course, he steps in when you’re close to tripping or falling.

He takes you outside, too.

The first time he does, you cry. Actual tears just streaming down your face as you stand in the garden and feel the breeze on your skin. The air is fresh and clean and alive, and you haven't felt anything like it since before your father died.

He watches from a distance.

You don’t know how far, you just know here there… in the shadows, keeping you safe while letting you believe you’re on your own.

When the sun rises, he retreats further. He goes into the deepest shade, where the light can't reach him. But he stays, always.

You don't know how many days have passed.

Months, maybe. It feels like months. The seasons have changed, you can feel it in the air, smell it in the flowers, hear it in the birds that sing different songs now.

You're sitting in the garden, your face turned toward the sun, when you realize something.

You love him.

Not the fake love he manipulated you into. Not the desperate clinging of a captive to her captor. Real love… Terrible, terrifying, all-consuming love.

He killed your father, kept you prisoner, threatened the rest of your living family… and yet, you love him anyway.

Maybe that makes you as much of a monster as he is.

"Scaramouche."

He appears beside you fast, and silent as always. You've stopped being startled by it.

"I want to show you something," you say, turning to your right, where you sense him.

"What?"

Your hands are shaking as you reach for your face. For the lace mask you've worn since childhood, the one you've never removed in front of anyone.

"Wait." His hand catches your wrist. "You don't have to-"

"I want to."

You pull the mask away.

You feel vulnerable much like that day in the bathroom, much like some of the nights in bed with him when you take it off, just so you can feel him kiss your eyelids again. You feel vulnerable, because you know what you’re about to do, and you’re ready for it also.

Slowly, carefully, you open your eyes.

Nothing changes for you when you do it, you can see anything you’ve never been able to see, and no doctor, nothing supernatural will ever change that.

But… the act of opening them, of revealing this part of yourself that you’ve kept hidden for eighteen years, feels monumental.

He's silent.

For a long, long moment, he's completely silent.

"Are they..." You laugh nervously. "Are they white? Do they look strange? I've always wondered if they're all one color, or if-"

"They're beautiful." His voice is reverant, fully reverant, not a mock in sight.

"What color are they?" you ask. Not that it matters, you don't know what colors look like anyway.

"I'm not going to tell you."

You knit your eyebrows, rolling the eyes only he can see. "And why not?"

"Because you don't need to know." His hand comes up, cupping your face, and his thumb traces the skin beneath your open eyes. "You just need to know that they're the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen."

You lean into his touch, your eyes still open, still staring at nothing, and you feel tears start to fall.

"I love you," you whisper head tilting in his touch, to him, it looks like you’re staring up at him, to you, you’re just falling the direction where you sense him. "I don't know when it became real. I don't know when I stopped pretending. But… I love you, Scara."

He’s quiet, again, he’s always quiet after you drop big moments on him, quiet because you’re unable to see the expression he makes, but you imagine him smiling, a pure smile on his face. His forehead touches yours, and you can feel his breath ghost across your lips.

"You asked me once," he says softly, "what kind of person could love you forever. Who could stay with you for eternity. Who could protect you and trust you and give you everything you've ever wanted."

"... I remember."

"Only a vampire can love you forever," he murmurs. "Only a vampire like me."

He kisses you.

And you kiss him back.

And somewhere in the distance, the sun begins to set.

... the blind man saw you and ran off

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