a vampire's heart
vampire!zayne x f!reader
⭑.ᐟ collab with @heartyluv
summary: zayne chose to exist for eternity so he could research the death of his beloved bride. but what happens when his bride is reincarnated 600 years later and shows up as his new medical intern?
contains: nsfw, mostly historically accurate (1840s), gore (anatomical dissections + surgery), zayne's having a religious crisis (christianity), reader doesn't remember zayne, swearing, zayne (kinda) loses control, reader vomits once, 14.5k words
moodboard ⟶ fic
Coming up...
“Is there some affliction you are experiencing, Zayne? If so, you don’t have to keep it from me,” you respond, your voice delicate and attempting to calm the raging storm you sense brewing beneath the surface.
He scoffs, “Keep it from you?” Shifting to face you now, he glares down at you and mutters, “What is there to hide when you are my affliction?” The vampire inches closer, his eyes shining; it appears unnatural.
You shudder as he continues, “Is our reunion by God’s hand? Does He intend to salt the wound He inflicted on me centuries ago?”
But first...
Welcome to the 1840s. I’m your host, Star Girl, and allow me to orientate you in this world. Please fasten your seatbelts as we journey back to the time of no sewage systems, cramped urban living, and poor hygiene.
Key attractions of our destination include:
operating theatres were called ‘theatres’ because an audience watched the surgery
in the 1840s, anaesthetics were introduced in two forms: ether and chloroform, the latter of which became widespread in the following decades
miasma theory had not been disproved yet ⟶ by miasma theory, the cause of disease was from ‘bad air’ (miasma) sent by God to punish humans for their misbehaviour
surgeries, before anaesthetics, prioritised minimising patient suffering over precision
surgeons did not wash their hands or change their clothes before or between surgeries
operating theatres were never cleaned
bloodletting was widely practised from ancient times until the late 19th century
the average mortality rate of surgery was 80% ⟶ Robert Liston once amputated a leg in less than 2.5 minutes; the procedure killed the patient and Liston’s assistant from infection, and a witness died from shock
cemeteries were popular for strolls and picnics in the 19th century, functioning as a public park does nowadays
This fic embraces most of these characteristics, while suggesting that our lead, Dr Li, has some knowledge of future scientific advancements. For the surgery, I used the operating theatre setting and pulled the rest out of my ass😁
Zayne dips his hands into a bowl of chlorinated lime. Cupping his palm, he sloshes it up to his forearm and repeats the process on his other arm. He stares out the window, overlooking the medical school’s cemetery.
The sun is distilled by fluffy clouds, painting the landscape white. There’s frost lining the windowsill, a testament to the snow sticking to the headstones. Pure flecks drift from the heavens, leftovers from last night’s blizzard.
Those hazel eyes—their shine long extinguished—see, but they don’t see. What is another day when you will exist for eternity?
The solution splashes over the rims of the bowl, and Zayne’s head immediately snaps down to his submerged forearms. Taking them out, he dries himself off and turns around. He’s alone in the examination room, except for the body lying on his table, that is.
An unwilling cadaver, how unfortunate yet common for criminals. The doctor picks up the crumpled piece of paper that came with his specimen.
Name: Mr Walter Clark Born: 1809 Crime: Stole four sheep
Zayne sets the paper on the bench behind him before grabbing a scalpel. He drives the sharp blade into the centre of the deceased’s chest and drags it down to the navel. The stench of blood is overwhelming, yet the doctor’s thirst is kept on a tight leash.
He may no longer be human, but he is not so beastly as to drink from his specimens.
Mr Clark’s eyes—bloodshot and very much open—seemingly gaze up at Zayne as he leans over and rips the criminal’s skin back with his bare hands. Pale skin is tainted by crimson blood; a familiar sight.
The doctor grabs his chained hooks and hooks back the cadaver’s hanging skin and muscles. He then takes a hammer to Mr Clark’s sternum and shatters the ribcage—it’s in his way. What Zayne is most interested in lies beneath.
The heart.
Zayne couldn’t care less for the afflictions of man if they did not bring him closer to you. You who were fated to pass from some ailment the night before your wedding all those years ago. The coroner had deemed that your death was by miasma.
Ah, yes, miasma. The infamous, brutal killer of millions throughout history until the work of John Snow and Louis Pasteur proved otherwise in the 1850s. Only… a few years from now.
If there is one thing Zayne couldn’t believe in—besides God—it was the concept of miasma. Perhaps because it was divined. Perhaps because it didn’t make practical sense in hindsight. Likely both.
The doctor closes his eyes, the world going black as his hands soak up his specimen’s blood. Zayne casts his mind back to those fateful few weeks before your demise, when you had claimed you were experiencing frequent chest discomfort and nausea. You had even vomited from it at times.
He was sceptical but remained calm for you. He was your support until the very end, and held you when an affliction of the heart struck. What affliction? That’s why Zayne is here. He’s determined to discover the cause of your death, even if it will never bring you back. That’s why he agreed to this… condition.
It was a simple trade. His humanity for inhumanity. Without his beloved bride, how could Zayne live on? He couldn’t. So he chose to exist instead.
The vampire sighs, his nostrils flaring as blood curls the short hairs. His eyes snap open, and he returns to examining Mr Clark’s chest cavity. The criminal’s heart looks the same as many other hearts Zayne has seen. No scarring, ruptures, or enlargement. Perfectly normal.
What a waste.
Greyson, his second-in-command, often reprimands the doctor for not spending more time dissecting the cadavers. Zayne is leading the advancement of Europe’s scientific understanding. The vampire did initially, and still does sometimes. But Zayne also isn’t going to let another minute of his prolonged existence slip by if it is filled with useless productivity.
He heads back to the chlorinated lime and washes himself off again. Greyson will be disappointed that he’s already finished up with this cadaver, especially since a new intern is starting today. Zayne was briefed on their arrival last night, long after office hours. Just another young medical student hoping to save lives.
A slight smile tugs at the vampire’s lips—his eyes as lifeless as the snowy cemetery outside. Many aspiring doctors’ dreams have been crushed under his watchful eye and careful instruction. So too shall this new intern’s be.
It’s for the best, really. Demand for cadavers is high enough already. Preventing new anatomists prevents the monarchy from introducing new hangings for minor crimes. And Europe has Zayne and other surgeons to bring about the Enlightenment.
Crushing dreams is the ethical thing to do in this situation, right?
Zayne catches Greyson’s familiar scent and hears his steady heartbeat thrumming down the hall. His footsteps echo, accompanied by a lighter pair. His accomplice’s scent is… Jasmine? And their heart beats rather quickly. Nerves? Or something else?
Zayne’s still stuck on who-must-be-the-new-intern’s smell. Fresh jasmine, fragrant and soft. It reminds him of the jasmines he laid you to rest with centuries ago. He sniffs the air like some dog, his senses piqued in ways they haven’t been in years.
The door bursts open at the same time Zayne removes his clean hands from the chlorinated lime and wipes them off on a nearby rag.
Greyson announces, “Dr Li, this is Miss L/n. She is your new medical assistant.” Zayne sets the damp cloth on the bench and slowly pivots.
For the first time in over 600 years, Zayne’s green eyes brighten as they trail over you. Perfect. Completely, utterly perfect. Maybe God does exist, because in some cruel card He’s dealt Zayne, you’ve been returned to him.
Your cheeks are filled with that rosy liveliness, and you’re playing with your necklace—the one he made for you as a wedding gift, Zayne notices—out of nervous habit. You gnaw on your lower lip, anxious under his scrutinising gaze as the doctor commits you to memory and weighs you up against his past bride.
“Uh, well, I will leave you two to become acquainted,” Greyson says, desperate to leave this awkward atmosphere behind. He darts to the door, but before he can exit, Zayne calls his name. Greyson rounds on his heel, waiting for his superior’s instruction.
The head doctor gestures to the cadaver and says boredly, “I’m finished. Have the next brought in.”
“Yes, Dr Li,” the second in-charge agrees before heading off.
You stand there, staring at this man you swear you’ve met before. But that’s silly. Of course, you haven’t met before! You’re not even from these urban parts. But his voice is like a distant dream, and those eyes have peered at you in the dark, you’re sure of it.
Zayne turns his attention to you and addresses you coldly, “Wash your hands.” Your eyes widen, a million thoughts racing in your head as you grapple with his three simple words.
“Sorry?” You ask while shaking your head, trying to calm your buzzing mind.
Fuck. You sound exactly the same, too. If Zayne were in another universe—a universe where you remembered him—then he would have run to you and twirled you around his arms and kissed you until you begged for mercy. His sweet woman walks this Earth once more, and as of this moment, the vampire resolves to keep you here by any means necessary.
“I said, wash your hands. You will not examine a body with me if you do not do so,” he states as if it’s the norm.
You challenge him without a second thought, “Why? No one washes their hands to examine cadavers. Surgeons don’t even wash their hands before performing surgery.”
He mumbles, so quick and quiet you barely register that he spoke at all, “Mouthy as always.” It dawns upon you, seeing the rapid movement of his lips, that you may have just lost your position before you even began
“I mean—”
Zayne cuts you off, “If you are to work under me, then you must follow my instructions. And I instruct you to wash your hands before and after any dissections or procedures. Is that clear?” His voice is reminiscent of the bone-chilling winds outside. You nod and quickly move around the table, not even looking at the open body as you come up to the doctor.
He slides the bowl over to you, the blood-ridden water oscillating as you stare at it.
You ask, confused, “Will this not make things worse?”
Zayne counters, “How many times must I ask you to wash your hands, Miss L/n?” His jaw tenses as you gaze at him for a moment too long.
You hastily apologise, “Right, okay, sorry. Sorry, Dr Li. I’m washing my hands now.” You push up your sleeves and seemingly struggle with such a simple task.
The vampire backs away from you as you fuss with the cuffs of your newly given coat. It’s been worn by almost every intern Zayne’s had since joining Oxford’s most prestigious medical school. It reeks of bleach—Zayne’s special touch to the washing load—and your sweet scent.
He nearly smiles upon observing how big it is on you. The shoulders are far too prominent, and the hem hangs by your clothed calves. How cute. Desire overcomes him to roll up the sleeves for you, but you’re a big girl, and you get it eventually. He watches as you dunk your hands in the bloodied water and frantically rub your hands together.
Your heart is beating even faster; it pounds in Zayne’s ears. His sharp eyes pick up on sweat rolling down the side of your neck, right near your hairline, to below the collar. He’s so ravenous for you, he could lap it up and be satisfied.
But satisfaction is an interesting concept, especially for a man who is doomed to exist for eternity. Sure, his thirst can be tamed. But quenched? That’s something entirely different.
The vampire revises his statement: he’s so ravenous for you, he could lap it up and be momentarily content.
You remove your hands from the water and reach over to grab the cloth next to Zayne. He flinches on instinct, your body far too warm and close.
“Sorry,” you mutter as you wipe your palms.
The doctor shakes his head slightly and sighs, “No. You must wash your hands properly. Have you never been taught how to wash your hands?” Your eyes go wide, your brows lift, and your lips part from your shock.
You stutter, “O-of course—”
“Then wash them again, to the elbow this time,” he demands. A small, exasperated ‘ah’ escapes your lips as you stare at him.
Zayne clarifies, “That was not in jest.”
“I… I didn’t say it was,” you huff frustratedly while chucking the rag down and scrubbing your forearms in the solution. A micro smile ghosts his lips for a split second, unnoticed by your human eyes.
The vampire murmurs, “But you thought it.” He doesn’t need to read minds to know what you were thinking. And from the way you scoff and grumble to yourself, he knows he was right. How couldn’t he be right? Zayne is the man who loves you with every fibre of his being. Who defied death to spend forever investigating yours.
However, now that you’re back, that does complicate things.
As you’re wiping your hands for the second time, the door slams open. An assistant wheels in a fresh body for you two to examine. Zayne removes his hooks and other tools from Mr Clark’s corpse before approving the dissected body’s removal. The doctor helps the assistant set up the next specimen on the table; a 28-year-old Mrs Sarah Baker, who was hanged for robbing a brothel.
Once the door shuts, you pad over and ask, “So, what do you want me to do, Dr Li?” Placing down his freshly cleaned tools, Zayne glances at you over his shoulder.
“First, don’t come so close to me. Second, move to the other side of the table. I will delegate as we proceed with the dissection,” he orders sternly. Is it some cosmic force drawing you two together, or do you still lack the concept of spatial awareness? At least when it comes to your vampiric lover. Zayne chalks it up to a third option: jitters.
The doctor slices through the deceased’s chest and abdomen with the same, controlled, brute force as he usually does. You wince as blood pools out. Dear Lord, she’s fresh.
You breathe out, “Jesus Christ,” as Zayne rips back the skin. His hazel eyes flicker to you, burning like an emerald flame as he hands you his set of chained hooks.
“Right,” you say while accepting them from him. It’s taking everything within you not to hurl your breakfast up as you help Zayne hook the cadaver’s flesh back.
You’re not very good with blood. And organs. Especially not when they’re threatening to spill out of a corpse who likely died not even a day ago. Zayne examines the colour draining from your face as you examine the red staining your hands.
Being a medical student from a rural town, you’ve never done anything of this magnitude before. The furthest you’ve gotten is some rats, seeing as how valuable sheep are. And even then, they were dead dead before you cracked ‘em open.
The doctor asks, “Why were you selected for this role?” You look up at him and find his shrewd gaze trained on you.
Coherency flies out the window as you sputter, “O-oh, me?” He averts his eyes and shakes his head lightly, amused by your sudden cluelessness. Still the same, he tells himself.
“Who else would I be asking, Miss Intern? Surely not the deceased.” You scream at yourself to get a fucking grip. It’s been how long, and you’ve already made how many mistakes?
As Zayne grabs his hammer, you ramble, “Well, uh, the Oxford team was looking for diversity, and I’m, uh, the only female candidate who applied so…” Bang! Bang! Mrs Baker’s ribcage shatters into tiny, blood-soaked fragments.
“I see,” the doctor replies as he begins removing the larger fragments. You start picking up the pieces as well, careful not to injure yourself as you drop the bones in a nearby bowl. The deceased’s lungs and heart are bare and oh-so-gooey. You take shallower breaths as the smell of blood licks tendrils up your nose.
You’re feeling a bit light-headed as you observe the doctor use a smaller scalpel and cut the pulmonary artery. This queasy feeling rises in your tummy, bile bubbling up your oesophagus, but you will it to go down. You beg it to go down.
Zayne’s halfway through slicing the pulmonary vein when he removes his blade and gazes at you. His eyes narrow.
He announces, “You’re about to vomit.” You shake your head and go to put your hand on your mouth, but it’s covered in blood. Blood that 1) isn’t yours and 2) is terribly pungent. The time you have left until you throw up just decreased by approximately 43 seconds.
“I’m not,” you say, your voice strained as you look away from the oozing body in front of you. Zayne grabs an empty bowl for holding organs and passes it to you.
“I’m—” Fine. You close your mouth immediately and take the bowl. Stepping away from the table, you start walking to the corner of the room. But you don’t make it that far before you’re doubling over and drawing on the power of prayer to not vomit in front of the only surgeon in Europe with a 60% mortality rate.
Behind you, Zayne cleans off his hands and grabs a chair. He sets it down beside you and guides you to sit down. If it weren’t for the ongoing war between your tummy and your brain, you would have noticed how freezing his hand is; the temperature is comparable to the powder blanketing the town.
The vampire is grateful that you don’t flinch. But he’s not enthralled about the reason why. You’ve only just reunited, and this is how the first hour goes down. With him by your side as you inevitably bring up and pour forth the contents of your stomach.
Your hair is tied up, which means Zayne doesn’t have to get closer and hold your hair back. But it also means that he has no real business being this near to you at all, except to watch you throw up with a stoic expression on his face.
On the inside, he’s torn between tallying up enduring similarities of his bride, and empathising with the current you.
Vampires aren’t very good at human emotions, the doctor has come to learn. Vampiric emotions are very intense and driven by instinct (bloodlust). Yet, he has heard rumours of the undead who feel love and stay with their soulmate for a lifetime.
Is this what Zayne feels, then? Overwhelming love and relief that, in light of your spew, you are indeed the woman he’s been surviving for all of these years? That must be it.
In a rare display of affection–an inappropriate one, perhaps given how he’s a mere boss to you–he pats your back as you spit out the last little chunks.
“Ugh,” you groan, about to wipe your mouth when Zayne grabs your arm. Now, you feel his searingly icy touch. You sigh, the cold a relief from the heat bursting all over your body. He pulls out a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wipes up your swollen lips. You turn your head and gaze at him as he does, your glassy eyes fracturing his smooth, angular features.
Blinking, tears roll down your cheeks as you reckon he’s been carved from stone; he looks so ethereal. Zayne folds his handkerchief and pats your tears dry. Then, he takes the befouled bowl from your sweaty palms and places the little cloth in your hands.
He orders you to, “Go clean up. Washroom is at the end of the hall on the left, and there’s fresh water at the nurse’s station. Don’t return here. Instead, see Greyson for our new orders.”
“Dr Li,” you croak out, spiritually prepared to challenge him, but physically exhausted from what just happened.
He nods firmly, “Go now.” Pressing your lips together, you hum in agreement and reluctantly leave the examination room. You do as you’re told and find Greyson with the medical assistants once you’re feeling better. He informs you’ll be staying with the nurses for the remainder of your shift, as per Dr Li’s instructions.
You accept your new duties (not like you could refuse), feeling embarrassed and disheartened. Greyson pats your shoulder upon seeing how they slump and reassures you that it happens to everyone.
For the rest of the day, you help the nurses with sweeping the floor and cleaning the dining areas. It’s domestic labour—a reminder that you’re a woman and this is the 19th century.
Leaving for the day, you walk down the snowy drive, hoping to be of greater use to Dr Li tomorrow.
…˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚…
For the first month of your three-month placement, you’re stuck with the nurses. Every time you catch a glimpse of Dr Li, he’s rounding a corner, seemingly going about his day.
You try to visit him after your shifts, but you’re always sent on your merry way by Greyson. He says that you need to rest, direct orders from his superior, of course. But instead of professional concern, it sounds like Dr Li is avoiding you.
Just last week, you had entered the staff dining room for lunch when the stoic doctor was sitting at the back, by the window. Before you could approach him, however, he stood up abruptly and stalked past you, meeting your eyes for a mere moment. And at that moment, his gaze was harsh. It sent chills running up your spine, paired with the gust of cold air that whipped you as he passed by.
Since then, you’ve seen him even less. He’s like a ghost roaming these halls, existing in the examination room you’re barred from entering without special permission.
When you ask Greyson if Dr Li’s behaviour is… typical, the kind second-in-command tells you that his superior has been terribly busy, given a recent local disease outbreak. Greyson reminds you to be wary and keep yourself safe when going out into town, seeing how easily sickness spreads during winter.
Today, you walk into the medical school feeling apathetic about another day of dish washing and snow shovelling awaiting you. Imagine your surprise when Greyson greets you with urgent news.
“Dr Li’s surgical assistant has contracted the illness spreading around. He’s requested your aid in today’s surgeries.” Your heart skips an anxious beat.
You sputter, “S-sorry? Dr Li requested me?”
Greyson nods, “Yes. Surgeries will take place in the school’s operating theatre on the ground floor. The first is an arm amputation.” He tilts his head and gestures for you to follow him.
With rushed footsteps and quick breaths, you pace down the hall with Greyson as he continues explaining, “You’ll be responsible for managing the surgical tools. In other words, if Dr Li needs a scalpel, promptly hand him a scalpel.” He leads you into the dressing room and tells you to take off the bulky coat you’ve been wearing since day one, as it’ll get in the way.
Tying a blood-stained apron around your waist, you admit, “I’ve never been in an operating theatre before.” Greyson whirls around and stares at you with wide eyes. His parted lips soon fade into a nervous laugh.
Drawing closer, he squeezes your shoulder and says, “I didn’t think so. Your application stated you work well under pressure. Dr Li will be interested to see how well you tolerate noise and copious amounts of blood as well.” He breezes past you and starts down the hall, leaving you momentarily shocked and confused before your senses catch up and you run after him.
Tolerating blood? You’re expecting that. But why would you need to tolerate noise, too? Surely, it’s going to be an orderly affair. You’re not expecting tense silence, but there should be relatively little chatter, seeing as a surgery will be taking place, right?
You wish.
Approaching the theatre, it sounds like you’re approaching a town fair rather than a surgical room. Greyson pushes the door open and gestures for you to enter first. Bunching up your apron and skirt anxiously, you slip past Greyson into the theatre.
Holy hell, if this wasn’t the devil’s kingdom. The operating theatre is huge, with multiple terraces and primarily men in suits crowding around the arch’s edges. Medical students and members of the public chat jovially, some rowdy youngsters shoving each other for a better view while older men burst out into aristocratic laughter.
Excitement is palpable in the stifling air, almost electrical as Greyson lightly nudges your shoulder. You gaze up at him with wild eyes, a primal fear residing there as it dawns upon you just what you’ve gotten yourself into. He wraps his fingers around your upper arm and leads you over to the operating table.
On it lies the patient—a young man around your age—clearly nervous as he waits for his amputation. Greyson lets go of you and joins Dr Li in setting up for the surgery. The man meets your gaze, and understanding passes through your eyes about your collective fear for what’s to come. He fears for his life, and you fear not only for his life, but for throwing up on him and passing out as he potentially bleeds out beneath you.
“Miss L/n, how long do you intend to make eyes with the patient?” That familiar, cold voice. Your head snaps up. Dr Li is staring down at you, his sharp, hazel eyes piercing through your minimal confidence. It feels like he’s stepping down on your ribcage, each rung creaking beneath his weight as you try to inhale.
You stutter, “I-I—”
“Wash your hands and prepare the tools,” he orders you. Snowy fingers dance gracefully over clean cloths. You watch as they encircle the patient’s wrist and position his arm distal to the torso. Your hands shake as you push up your sleeves and dip your hands in the nearby bowl of chlorinated lime. You scrub your skin more meticulously than on your first day. After drying your arms, you start unpacking the surgical tools kit according to your training.
Sweat drips down the back of your neck and slicks up your palms. You flinch as nearby students holler at their peer that just entered. The theatre’s cacophony ramps up your nerves, a current flowing through your body as you almost cut yourself on a sharp blade.
Dr Li and Greyson are speaking in hushed tones when you suddenly retort, “We weren’t making eyes.” Zayne shifts to look at you, his harsh gaze draining your strength like a leech slurping up your blood.
Maybe too much time had passed, and now you seem like a fool, attempting to regain a shred of dignity but losing whatever was left in the process.
You press on while avoiding the doctor’s stare, “He’s scared. And with all of these people here, I would be, too.” You hear Zayne sigh; the sound of disappointment laced with exhaustion.
“Whatever self-doubt you have, expel it now. You will not operate with fear,” the vampire mutters. You continue laying out the tools while breathing in for four, holding for two, and exhaling for another four.
It’s a trick someone taught you whenever your heart was beating too rapidly (so most of the time), but you can’t remember who or when. You just remember always counting your breaths whenever you become overwhelmed.
Usual effectiveness is around 30% calmer, but due to the menagerie surrounding you, effectiveness has dropped to approximately 4%.
Dr Li gives you a stern look, his vibrant hazel eyes holding yours for a moment before he addresses the patient.
“We will begin shortly.”
Turning to you, Zayne instructs, “Administer the belt.” He notices the trembling of your hands as you pick up the leather strap, fold it, and place it between the patient’s teeth.
Zayne exchanges a nod with Greyson before announcing to the crowd, “Take your seats, gentlemen. The surgery shall begin now.” His voice echoes throughout the room, commanding an authority that makes you shiver. The buzz dims for a few seconds, dropping to a constant hum that’s no less anxiety-inducing.
Pivoting around, the doctor says to you, “Saw.” You blink at him for a second, your mind whirring with a million questions. Are you really about to do this? Is Dr Li really about to cut this man’s arm off? Can you manage to not throw up during this procedure and subsequent procedures? Will these spectators shut up? Only the Lord knows.
You thrust the saw by its handle into Zayne’s outstretched hand. Tiny scars litter his silky skin and trail up his veiny forearms. Horror creeps into your features as Greyson holds the patient’s right arm down and Zayne positions the serrated blade just above the patient’s elbow.
Nothing can prepare you for what happens next.
Dr Li saws through flesh and bone in seconds until the patient’s forearm comes clean off. Blood gushes and splatters, marring the white cloths draped over the patient. His scream is muffled by the leather strap. Ivory, jagged bone amid a sea of crimson and ligaments hangs limply. Acid claws up your throat, burning your tongue as you taste the churn of your stomach and force it back down.
“Needle and thread,” Dr Li utters calmly, with his hand waiting. You’re shaking as you pick up the needle that has luckily been threaded up securely. The doctor takes it from your sweaty fingers brusquely.
Greyson staunches the blood, but it keeps on pouring. Like rain pattering on the window, drops colliding into others to carve new paths down the glass, so does the patient’s very essence drip onto the table. It conquers the wood and tips over the edge, rapidly pooling at Greyson’s feet; the sawdust is insufficient.
He steps back to allow Dr Li to stitch up the wound. You press a perspiring hand to your mouth, forcing back bile as you watch the doctor suture major blood vessels with nimble fingers. Like he’s done this over a hundred times for hundreds of years. His speed is almost inhuman, a blur before your eyes, yet the red has not ceased.
“Pass me the scalpel and chisel, L/n,” Greyson asks. You do so frantically, and your attention shifts to him cutting a rectangle in the boy’s former forearm like he’s shaping clay. With a chisel, Greyson forms something magnificent: a strip of slippery flesh.
You reach over and take the bloodied tools from him. Out of your periphery, you see Greyson wrap the detached skin and muscle around the site of the wound. You stumble on your feet after placing the chisel and scalpel on another bloodied cloth. The sound of Dr Li’s needle piercing the patient’s flesh reaches your ears, barely audible over the incessant chatter of the theatre’s audience. Their comments reverberate off the walls.
“Wow. Look at Dr Li’s skill. He might up Liston, don’t you think?”
“Did you see that? He cleaved that boy’s arm off like a pig’s tail!”
“Always puts on a good show, Dr Li does.”
You clutch your chest, soiling your apron with foreign blood. Your heart is beating rather fast, and your half-digested breakfast won’t stop pushing against the boundaries of your lips. Metal consumes your senses, swirling with your spew and making your head spin.
Everywhere you look is red. It’s as though the theatre has been bathed in it.
“Time,” Dr Li directs at a nearby medical student. He’s all jittery and elated, like his lover just accepted his proposal, as he flicks his wrist and studies his watch. But there is no lover. No love. There are only blades, bloodshed, and nightmares waiting to be dreamt when the world is plunged into darkness once more.
“Three minutes and twenty-seven seconds, Doc,” the student chirps.
“Clean cloth,” the doctor demands, his dark-rimmed gaze pinpointing every bead of sweat trailing down your forehead. You try to give him one, but it’s already stained once it reaches his hands. He wipes them as Greyson bandages the patient’s amputated arm. The man’s mutilated forearm just sits there, lifeless and bleeding out on a separate small table.
Dr Li shoves the cloth into your unsuspecting hands and murmurs for your ears only, “You will not faint or vomit in this theatre, Miss L/n.” Your head turns sharply. He’s close to you, a chill radiating from his pristine skin.
Swallowing down dry chunks, you start, “I can’t help it—”
“You must,” he interrupts before leaning back and pulling the blood-soaked sheets off of the patient’s body. Dr Li informs the patient on surgical aftercare while Greyson helps him to sit up. Realising you have a job to do, you take the leather belt from the patient’s mouth. He’s got tears streaming down his cheeks, and his clothes are as stained as everything else from the surgery.
Your heart thumps in your ears as the young man stands on uneasy feet. A choked-out sob escapes his trembling lips, and a middle-aged woman comes over. You assume she’s his mother, seeing how she speaks quietly with Dr Li and guides the boy out of the theatre once finished. And just like that, you’re instructed to prepare for the next surgery.
…˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚…
You spend the next few hours in a daze as more blood is spilt, screams are hushed, and audience members laugh and gossip about the agony before their eyes. Dr Li orders you to get cleaned up once the final surgery has been completed. You nod, feeling too nauseous and defeated to insist otherwise.
The medical school has bathing facilities for staff on the third floor. Taking the nurses’ uniform from the head nurse (and now friend), Mary-Anne, you trudge off to the bathing room. You peel off your apron and dress; your skin is soaked in diseased blood. Sinking into the barely warm barrel, it turns red in seconds.
You clean yourself to the best of your abilities before drying off and pulling on the borrowed dress and apron. You make a mental note to bring a change of clothes tomorrow and keep them in the storage room just in case Dr Li requests your presence again. After emptying the water, you head back to the nurses’ station and hand your dripping clothes to Mary-Anne.
“I think I made a mess all the way from the ladies’ room to here,” you sigh as she takes the garments from you. Mary-Anne has become your anchor in this chaotic place, considering how much time you two spend together. She’s married and has four children at the ripe age of 30. How she manages to work and care for her household often baffles you.
“Ah, well. George’ll mop it up later,” she replies cheerily. In your short time here, George, the gardener, has become another friend you can rely on. Usually, you two clear snow from the drive and cemetery in the final hours of your shift. His wife passed a few years back, and he lives on the outskirts of town by himself.
Coming back over to you, Mary-Anne suggests, “Why don’t you go take a stroll in the graveyard? Everything has been taken care of here, and the snow’s melted.”
You shake your head and attempt to refuse, “I can’t, Mary—”
“Go on,” she cuts you off.
The nurse leans over and whispers, “Everyone’s first surgery is tough. Don’t be too hard on yourself, dear.” When she pulls back, tears sting at your waterline.
You nod once, “Yes, ma’am.” Sniffling, you avoid the trail of red on the floor, grab your coat, and head down to the ground floor. Slipping past the doors, the cool breeze blows straight through you. You pull your coat tighter around your shoulders and press ahead.
The cemetery arches stand tall and menacing, guards of the souls at rest. You walk beneath them and enter the graveyard. It’s eerily quiet, a welcome contrast to the few hours of spectators gnawing your ear off with their noise. The beetle hum and rustling branches are inviting; an unspoken approval of your presence.
You wonder if those buried here died during surgery, or if they were esteemed doctors inseparable from their trade. Maybe the inhabitants of these graves are poor individuals whose families couldn’t afford a plot. Maybe they’re centuries’ worth of cadavers.
Gazing at the intricate headstones, you assume George has made the rounds already. They’re clear of snow and shining in the white sun’s light filtered by thick clouds. A particularly chilly gust whips your hair about your face, though your breath remains invisible.
Your mind drifts to your life a month prior. You’ve traded your safe little life for something grand, the chance to change history. To change history, doing what, though? You never got that far. You thought perhaps surgery was for you, but today’s experience in the theatre has disproved that theory.
It replays in your mind, Dr Li sawing through limbs like he was chopping carrots. His quiet strength is frightening, as is the speed and stoicism he works with. In the times he looked at you, barely a sliver of emotion resided there. Only when he was scolding you did you see something lingering in his heart.
You shiver as oozing blood and discarded flesh come to the forefront. It pulls a whimper from your lips, intangible as the wind snatches it up and carries it off to the heavens.
You had also entertained the idea of nursing, but that didn’t seem right either. At some point, you must get married, so why would you want to do domestic labour at work when you will already do it at home? That didn’t make sense to you.
But then, what else do you do? Have these few years of studying medicine been for naught? The ridicule you’ve endured over the years for being a woman and desiring to be more than a mother. Was it all for nothing? All for your disillusionment?
A cold voice from behind has you jumping out of your skin.
“Fancy seeing you here.” You whip around, eyes frantic as they land on the tall doctor a little ways off. He’s changed into a fresh suit, no sight of his usual coat. You gulp. Were his shoulders always this broad?
“Cat got your tongue?” He prompts while slowly closing the distance between you. The grass is mushy, dampening his footsteps.
You laugh awkwardly, “No, I… I was just taking a walk. Clearing my head after today’s happenings. And you, Dr Li?” He gazes off to the side, his interest captured by a headstone glinting in the cool afternoon rays.
“I could say the same,” he remarks. His eyes flicker back to yours, devoid of warmth as per usual. You force a smile and look down at your feet. Your leather boots are splattered with dried blood and mud.
Zayne clears his throat and praises you, “You didn’t faint or vomit. I commend you.” However, it feels more like mockery than praise. You glance up at him. He’s leaning on a grave only a metre away, archaic rings encircling his slender fingers, which grasp the stone’s edge. Those same fingers that had fleeted across mangled flesh, causing destruction and aiming to heal it at the same time.
Your voice is small as you call his name, “Dr Li—”
“Outside of office hours, you may address me as Zayne,” he interjects. You stare at him blankly, your jaw slack and brows slightly raised. Zayne. Where have you heard that name before? And why is your superior asking you to call him by his first name? You two were not on particularly friendly terms. Perhaps he’s trying to ‘break the ice’.
“O-okay,” you stutter, your heart hammering in your chest so loud it pierces your eardrums. Amid the hundred things that don’t sit right with you about today’s surgeries, one specifically nags at your mind like a maggot feasting on a fresh brain.
You ask tentatively, “Zayne, don’t you think this is performative?” He releases the tombstone and straightens up. Under the sun’s glow, he looks even paler than before, a shade all ladies strive for with pearl powder. The doctor ponders your question, his index finger and thumb coming to his chin, and hazel eyes roving over the cemetery beyond.
“Perhaps. But aren’t all niceties performative?” He answers while returning his attention to you. You shake your head.
“Not that, Zayne. The surgery. Don’t you think it’s wrong to perform surgeries in front of a crowd?” His hand falls to his side and brushes his coat.
The doctor shrugs slightly, “Regardless of my opinion, most surgeries are performed in front of a crowd. It’s expected.”
“But it’s wrong!” You exclaim, the stress of the day bubbling to the surface and spilling over. Zayne stares at you, observing carefully the colour that’s risen to your cheeks. He can hear your short breaths and pounding heart. It’s what brought him here in the first place. Your racing heart. Your sweet scent, albeit marred by hours of bloodshed.
You scoff and shake your head a bit, opting to gaze off to the side at the doctor’s lack of response.
“Nevermind,” you mutter and begin stalking deeper into the graveyard. Anything to put some distance between yourself and your embarrassment. Of course, he doesn’t care. It’s what he does for a living. How could you have—
“Why did you come to Oxford?” You stop in your tracks and whip around. Your eyes widen. He’s been silently following you the entire time.
“Didn’t you already ask me that?” You spit out and take a couple of steps back, seeing how close he is–the same man who told you to stay away from him. There’s a chill accompanying your superior, you’re certain of it. This frosty nip at your skin cannot merely be the result of a winter’s noon.
He replies composed, as if your frustration was beneath consideration, “I asked why you were selected, not why you came here, Y/n.”
You gasp, “I didn’t give you permission to address me by my first name.”
“My apologies then. I thought it was a mutual exchange,” the doctor quips. You release a clipped hmph! and cross your arms beneath your chest.
You mumble while staring off into the distance, “I suppose it’s acceptable, Zayne.” Every time you utter his name, the centuries-old vampire could purr and wrap his tail around your calf like a stray cat does when it’s fed scraps. Insect chirping fills the silence between you. You can feel his judgmental gaze on you, unravelling the skin and muscle clinging to your bones for a glimpse into your heart.
You sigh, “I came to Oxford because I wanted to study under you.”
“Me?” He clarifies, disbelief lacing his otherwise dead tone.
You nod, “Almost everyone knows about the great doctor who is less likely to kill you than others on the operating table. I’ve felt called to medicine ever since I was young, and I applied here for a chance to learn from the best.” He seems to consider your explanation.
But in his mind, Zayne is deliberating on them like the holy truth. You, his precious bride, have been dreaming of meeting him? All this time, you’ve been yearning for him as he’s been yearning for you—Well, no. You’ve been yearning to learn from him, not for the man himself. And what has he taught you? To remain conscious and useful during surgery despite it being the embodiment of your worst nightmares?
He replies offhandedly, “You could barely endure today’s surgeries as an assistant. What makes you think you can become a doctor?” He might as well take a hammer to your ribcage with how his words sting and shatter any hope hidden in the crevices of your soul.
You admit defeatedly, “I don’t think I can become a doctor. I can’t do what you do, Zayne. And I refuse to after today.” His heart thunks against his diaphragm, sunk like a ship to the ocean’s depths.
You deal the finishing blow pensively, “My aspirations have been crushed. But I am grateful. What if I had not faced reality sooner and continued on this trajectory? That would be a much crueller fate, no?”
Something twists within the vampire, a knot in his stomach; malicious hands wring the bile from it. Had he been too harsh? For now, the woman he loves is without direction in her life. Zayne had intended to show you the future awaiting you, not to vapourise your dreams. But wasn’t that his intention from the start? Hasn’t that always been his intention? To destroy hopes so that only the strongest remain?
You, the woman he’s traded his humanity for, are strong. Undeniably so. What has he done then, to burn your aspirations till they’re ash and toss them away like the corpses he couldn’t possibly care less for?
“Zayne.” He blinks, your hand waving in his face coming into focus. Oh, how he wants to catch it and press an eternity’s worth of kisses to your soft skin.
Changing the subject, you ask curiously, “Have we met before?” If Zayne’s heart could beat, it would have skipped one hearing your question. His eyes widen, a vibrancy to them you swear wasn’t there previously.
He counters coldly, “Has the exhaustion gotten to you already?” Your lips purse as you roll your eyes.
“No. I just… You seem familiar, that’s all.” Your voice becomes quieter at the end.
The vampire’s faux breathing stalls. He wants to hurl a million questions at you. What do you mean familiar? Do you remember him? Do you remember your life together before it was tragically cut short? Or is it intuition?
He settles on, “I see.” Pause. You step back, accidentally having crossed an unseen boundary when trying to capture his attention while his thoughts carried him away. A boundary, Zayne wordlessly welcomes you to cross any time.
“Well…” He breaks the amounting silence. “Do you intend to stay on until your internship is complete?”
You nod and insist, “Yes, of course. I am very fortunate to be working under you, even if the work isn’t pleasant.”
“Then, I won’t let you off the hook so easily,” Zayne says. There’s a finality in his choice that you wouldn’t dare dispute, even if it meant assisting in future surgeries (Dear Lord, you hope not).
With that, the doctor takes one last sweeping look over you before turning around and walking swiftly out of the cemetery. As his figure is consumed by the landscape, a lightness springs in your chest. Your heart can rest at last.
…˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚…
Could Zayne be hung for his behaviour right now? Everyone in England knows just how vital sheep are to society’s welfare. However, Zayne has sunk his pearly fangs into a shrieking sheep. It flails in his strong grip. A sickening crunch. The animal goes still.
Blood coats the vampire’s lips and runs down his chin, staining the collar of his button-up shirt. The sheep’s fur is dyed crimson as more of its life force is slurped up.
Stealing sheep is a crime punishable by hanging. Buuuuuuuttt, drinking sheep's blood straight from the source isn’t. Therefore, the vampire cannot be hung for his current meal.
Reeling back, Zayne’s now-red tongue darts across his lips to lap up the excess blood. He’s usually not such a messy eater. But as of late, he’s been insatiable.
Why? All because of his medical intern, that’s why.
Since your stroll in the cemetery, Zayne has reinstated you as his assistant. On that day, he told you he wouldn’t absolve you of your duties. But he hasn’t been enforcing them with the same objectivity as he has with previous interns.
Often, he’ll let you hover in the corner as he completes dissection after dissection for ‘observation purposes’, of course. It almost makes him grin when he asks you a question and you spend the next half hour responding. So, he continues asking questions, and suddenly the sun is kissing the horizon, and it’s time to return home.
But even when the doctor returns home, you haunt him. Not only with the memories you two created years ago, but also the memories you continue to create in the present. The fact that you exist and are not some figment of his imagination is beyond his comprehension. You consume every nook and cranny untainted by base desire in his body.
The vampire wipes his bloodied mouth on his sleeve before throwing the sheep over his shoulder. He drops it into a makeshift grave–several other blood-drained sheep are already in the pit–before he grabs a shovel and buries his kills.
Zayne’s figure is immersed in darkness, dawn still hours away. There’s nothing but farms this far out from the town’s centre. Fortunately, the residents of this property hadn’t awoken during the vampire’s feeding, otherwise things would have gotten even messier.
After burying the sheep, Zayne returns the shovel to its place in the shed and leaves a medium-sized bag filled with shillings—sufficient coverage for the farmer’s loss.
It’s as though Zayne flies when he runs, gliding over dirt trails and cobbled streets back to his humble home on the outskirts of Oxford. Stepping in, he sheds his layers and bathes. Small scars trail across his pale skin; some are from his human life, while others are the result of countless almost deaths the doctor has narrowly avoided with his condition.
The vampire nearly grimaces upon staring at his hands. Those hands that are near permanently soaked in blood, despite how many times he’s washed them off.
After drying himself, the doctor tugs on another suit and sits by the fireplace. The heat of the orange flames licks up his cheeks and nips at his nose. However, he will never be warmed. How can you embrace warmth when you’re dead? Undead, perhaps I should say.
Zayne entertains himself by recording his observations in the medical journal he’s had for centuries. It’s a log of your symptoms and anything drawing him closer to answering the question of why they exist.
He notes:
Reincarnation’s heart rate rapidly spiked, coinciding with near fainting today. She claimed it was from ‘excitement’. Resting heart rate remains above average.
Cadaver 159834 experienced nausea and sudden chest pain in months leading up to hanging. Left coronary artery showed signs of rupture. Scarring on vena cava.
A cloud of dust puffs in the air as he snaps the journal shut. The longest part of eternity must be the night, when no creatures dare approach such a powerful predator. Zayne is left to his own devices. To mourn, to learn, to contemplate. There is no way out of his own mind, which perhaps is more fearsome than the monster he has willingly become.
He settles on some new medical paper to pass the time, so dull that it could send him to sleep. How he wishes it would. Verbose and 1/58th interesting. It’ll do. His mind inevitably wanders to the situation at hand.
Maybe he should have chosen to die alongside you instead of clinging to his grief. Either way, his heart ceased to beat. However, since you’ve come back into his orbit, he disagrees. If it weren’t for his determination, then you two may have never crossed paths in the living world again.
The day breaks; there are no rays of golden light streaming into his windows, but a gradual lightness awakening the world through unspoken promises of snowfall.
Zayne sighs and tosses the papers on the low mahogany table at his feet. Then, he prepares himself for another cruel day of enduring your angelic presence without being able to hold you close and shower you in his long-held affection.
…˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚…
Your beating heart rings in his ears. It has become the background melody Zayne works best to.
Peeling back layers of skin and muscle, he observes the femur of a 20-something-year-old man. Normal. You laugh from your usual spot close to the examination table, but not too close to it.
“Mhmm,” Zayne hums while grabbing his scalpel and extending the incision down the leg to the ankle. A minute goes by. Your heart rate has picked up.
“Nervous?” The doctor prompts. In his periphery, he can see you shaking your head.
You chirp, “No, just wondering.”
“Mhmm.” The cadaver’s skin is bruised near the ankle, so Zayne takes a chisel and begins removing it to inspect the underlying muscle. No words escape your lips, but your heart pounds even faster. If it were another human’s, the vampire would have a raging headache by now.
You admit quietly, “You ask me many questions, Dr Li. Don’t you think it’s time I ask you a question?” His nostrils flare as he exhales.
“Go on then,” he encourages you. Those skilled hands place the removed skin in a dedicated bowl, the plap echoing throughout the chilly examination room.
You ask hesitantly, “Are you… married?” His tired eyes widen and gaze up. They zero in on you, noting the pink in your cheeks and awkward smile you bear whenever you’re feeling unsure of yourself. 600 years haven’t changed much.
Zayne glances back at the corpse as he mumbles, “No.”
The tension in your shoulders eases (he just knows) and you release a relieved sigh, “Oh, thank goodness. I mean! Uh, are you engaged?” The muscle looks the way it should, given the severe bruising of the cadaver. Using his scalpel, the doctor slices through the meat to reveal a dull bone.
“Zay—Dr Li?” How he wishes you wouldn’t call his name so sweetly, like a siren luring him in with your song. But you’re the innocent one. A lamb coaxing a lion into a deadly trap.
Returning his gaze to you again, the vampire clarifies, “I am not courting anyone, if that is what you mean to ask.” You avert your eyes to your fidgeting hands in your lap.
“Oh.” Silence. Zayne continues examining the cadaver.
You ask curiously, “Have you courted anyone before?” The doctor’s fringe falls over his hazel eyes. His head is tilted down, so you can’t see the micro smile stretching across his plump lips.
He teases offhandedly, “Out of all the things you must wonder about me, Miss L/n, you choose to ask if I’ve courted anyone before?”
You huff, part annoyed, part insecure, “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. I get it. Talking about past lovers can be hard.” Straightening up, he nearly chuckles at the sight of you. Brows pinched together, lips pouty, and your arms crossed. Something pulls at Zayne’s chest, an emotion he hasn’t felt in a long time.
He can’t name it. But he feels driven to bundle you up in his arms and squish your cheeks because of how cute you are at this moment.
“Do you have any past lovers in mind?” He counters while fetching his forceps.
You grumble, “Don’t humour me, Dr Li. Now, are you going to answer my question or not?” Perfect. Exactly what the doctor wanted—no, needed—to hear.
Zayne uses his forceps to pick minuscule bone fragments out of the deceased’s lower leg. The shards are far too small to be seen with the human eye. He plucks one out and drops it in a separate bowl, yet it makes no sound upon landing against the metal.
The vampire begins, “A long time ago, there was a woman I was—” He pauses. Was? ‘Am’ is the correct word here, but you don’t need to know that.
He continues, “In love with. We were to be married. But she suddenly passed away the night before our wedding.” Zayne taps his forceps against the rim of the bowl. Ivory flies. A clank.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur. He shakes his head.
“You need not apologise for that which isn’t your fault,” the doctor scolds you gently. He glances up at you. Your shoulders are drooped, and sorrow shadows your sublime features.
You offer your condolences, “I know. But her death must have been painful for you. I’m sorry that happened to you.”
He shrugs off your comment with, “The past cannot be changed. We must look ahead to the future.” More fragments fill the bowl as the doctor works away during the lull in your conversation.
After a few minutes, you pry, “What was she like? If you don’t mind me asking.” This time, you catch the ghost of a grin on Zayne’s face. His eyes almost twinkle as he casts his mind back to those times.
He reminisces, “She was radiant like a bright summer’s day. But she had quite the listening problem. Feisty and stubborn. Clingy and affectionate like a calf.”
“You must miss her,” you say quietly. Zayne’s eyes flicker to you. There’s something ignited within them, some otherworldly desire. But the curl of his lips suggests amusement. Like there’s a private joke you two have shared, but only he’s in on it.
His voice is deeper as he confirms, “I do.” You nod, uncertain of how else to respond. His attention returns to the cadaver.
Focusing on removing the final few bone shards, Zayne informs you stoically, “The Medical Association will be hosting an annual ball at the end of the month. Coincidentally, you’ll be finishing up with us in the same week. You should attend to celebrate.”
“A ball? I’ve never been to a ball. What’s it like?” You ask excitedly, the doom and gloom of Zayne’s past banished from your mind. Or concealed beneath the surface. That seems more like it.
The doctor responds in monotone, “Exhilarating. If you enjoy socialising.”
You giggle and say cheekily, “Let me guess, you’re not attending.” Zayne places his forceps down and gazes at you. Your heart thumps rhythmically beneath his intense stare.
“If you’ll be in attendance, then I’ll consider it.” Meaning, if you’re in attendance, then I wouldn’t dare miss it.
He continues, “Now go. I am permitting you to leave early.”
You attempt to protest, “But—”
“Your work is finished for today, Miss L/n. You are dismissed,” he cuts you off. The doctor observes the cadaver’s intact ankle bones as you rise from your seat. You move around the examination table at an arm’s distance and glide past Zayne to the designated chlorinated lime bowl.
Even though you didn’t touch anything, you’ve developed a fondness for washing your hands. It seems to appease Dr Li, which is a bonus. For some unknown reason, you yearn to be close to him. Like a moth drawn to flame, you’re entranced by his ethereal nature. He reels you in as a fisherman does a net filled with flailing fish—involuntarily.
Something within drives you toward him. Maybe you’ve been alone for too long and have since become dependent on the attention he gives you. Or perhaps because he’s an incredibly attractive, single young man. One you hope your future husband will take after.
But deep in your heart, it feels like more. It feels like the cosmos is pulling you two together. Like God has divined your meeting and won’t rest until the anxious itch in your brain is scratched.
You’ve never understood why you wanted to study medicine, or why you felt compelled to study beneath Zayne, apart from his esteemed reputation. Could this be the reason why? So you two could meet and—
Wiping your forearms on a damp cloth, you shake your head. Clarity descends upon you. Oh, how foolish and lovesick your thoughts sound! The audacity to even think that a man of Zayne’s calibre would be interested in you.
After all, he did say that such pleasantries were false. But this was real, wasn’t it? The conversations you two have shared. The fact that he goes easy on you when no other surgeon would.
Clearing your throat, you bid him a farewell, “I’ll be leaving now, then. Until tomorrow, Dr Li.” You slip past him, your eyes glued to those milky forearms flexing as he makes an incision down the centre of the corpse’s other leg.
You gaze at him for a few seconds more, waiting for a response that never comes. You’re in dire need of assistance. Perhaps a nice stay at an asylum should do the trick.
However, as you stride out of the examination room, you miss how Zayne stares at your back with a tenderness in his eyes. You also miss how he stands by the window and watches you pass the cemetery on your way to the medical school’s gates. He observes you from afar until a building obscures his view.
The doctor sighs and thinks over the ways he could gift you a dress for the ball without crossing professional boundaries. Unless you desire to cross those boundaries.
…˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚…
Your gloved hands soothe down your baby blue bodice, trembling slightly from your nerves. The night air is crisp, and the shawl draped over your exposed shoulders is ineffective in mitigating your chills. You’re walking along the road, alone and late to the ball. How dangerous. Your footsteps hurry as the mansion of the Medical Association’s founder comes into view.
You join the queue by the door and admire the glitz and glamour of tonight’s attendees. The couple in front of you must be wealthy, given the opulence of their attire. The lady is in white, the colour of nobility. Under golden lamp light, her silky skirt shines.
You gaze down at your own dress and smile. Even if you had all the riches in the world, you wouldn’t change your gown for the world. Not when it was given to you by a very special someone. He claimed it was merely a send-off gift for his intern, but you’d like to think it meant more than that.
The couple disappears past the open double doors; it’s your turn. You step up to the doorman.
He greets you, “Good evening, fair maiden. What’s your name?” You tell him, and he skims through the party list.
“Here you are. You may enter, Miss L/n.” You nod and step past him. Slipping through the doors, your heart rate spikes and air is stolen from your lungs. The main foyer is decadent. Honeyed chandeliers, velvety lounges, and marbled floors. Old acquaintances chat in small groups across the room. You lift your bell-shaped skirt and step down the stairs. Another attendant greets you and leads you to the ballroom.
You suck a sharp breath in, painfully aware of how out of your league you are at this moment. Some peasant, all dressed up in a sea of aristocrats. Gulping, you head inside.
The orchestra plays a lively song, and skirts swoosh as partners dance to it. More chandeliers illuminate the space, the made-up faces of young and old a blur as you stumble through the crowd surrounding the dance floor.
You hear your name being called. Whirling around, you see a familiar figure rushing toward you.
Mary-Anne crashes into you and squeezes you in a tight hug. You laugh and pat her back. She feels so warm against you, or maybe it’s the heat from all of the guests shuffling around you two.
Pulling back, she holds your upper arms and grins, “I’m so glad you could make it tonight! No send-off could rival this, hmm?” You shake your head and wrap your hands around her forearms.
“Of course not. I’m so glad you could make it tonight. What about your children?” You ask. She throws her arm around your shoulders and guides you through the hordes of attendees to a table at the back.
Your flouncy skirts squish together as she informs you, “Their father’s taking care of them for once. I never miss the Medical Association’s ball. I mean, look at the extravagance! And it’s all for free.” You giggle, anxiety morphing into joy and then back into anxiety when you catch sight of a certain dark-haired doctor.
“He’s here,” you breathe out. Mary-Anne casts you a knowing look, a cheeky smile on her thin lips as she pinches your shoulder.
You exclaim, “Hey! What was that for?” She halts abruptly, causing you to do the same a few feet from the medical school’s designated table.
Leaning in close, she says quietly, “If you two don’t kiss tonight, I’m going to haunt you for eternity.” Your lips part, stuttered sounds seeping past as blood scampers to your cheeks.
“Now, come on. He’s dying to see you,” the nurse smirks and practically drags you those last few steps to the table. Zayne’s sleep-deprived eyes are on you in an instant, feasting hungrily on your beauty in the gown he picked out for you. He looks at you in awe and surprise, as if he couldn’t smell your fragrance the moment you stepped into the foyer, or hum to your erratically beating heart.
Speaking of which, your heart thumps harder as you gaze at him, equally as shocked at how well he’s cleaned up for tonight. His black tail coat clings to his broad shoulders and muscular arms just right, and his waistcoat highlights his slim waist; envy sparks within you at his triangle proportions.
Greyson interrupts your longing gaze seemingly innocently, “Ah, Miss L/n. So glad you could join us. It’s such a shame your time with us has come to an end.”
It takes every shred of strength to tear your eyes from Zayne and nod to his second-in-command, “Yes. I couldn’t agree more.”
Gesturing to the few empty chairs around the table, Greyson offers, “Why don’t you sit?”
“Okay—”
“That won’t be necessary,” Zayne speaks at the same time you do. Your gaze snaps to him, wide and confused.
Though his expression remains stoic, you can hear amusement in his voice as he announces, “We’re going to dance.” Your eyes almost pop out of your skull as you stare at him, striding toward you confidently. He extends his hand out to you, his pale skin hidden beneath a white glove. You can feel the table’s eyes on you, beyond perplexed by the cold doctor’s offer and anxious for your response.
Never before has Dr Li attended the Medical Association’s ball. Each year, he claims he’s simply too busy with additional research or preparations to go. And never before has Dr Li demonstrated romantic interest in anyone before you wandered into his life.
Mary-Anne wants to grab your hand and put it on top of the doctor’s while Greyson blinks dumbly at the scene before him. Other nurses whisper to each other. The moment draws on.
Zayne doesn’t falter. He waits patiently for you to lift your shaking hand and clasp his through fabric. Sighing gratefully, he leads you to the centre of the dance floor. The orchestra transitions into a slower, romantic song. Heavenly strings accompany the doctor who releases your hand and steps back. He bows low, and you curtsey in response.
Straightening up, he moves toward you. Those eyes, so alive–how could you ever think they were dead–watch your every reaction as he slowly brings one of your hands to his shoulder and holds your other. The chill of his touch oozes through the thin gloves and material of your dress. His body ghosts yours as he starts to move to the melody.
“Do you know how to waltz?” Zayne asks, a warmth underpinning his tone.
You shake your head and admit, “I was never taught.” Some things never change, the vampire thinks. In this lifetime, he’ll still be your first dance.
“Follow me,” he instructs. You nod and look down. Staring at his black dress shoes, you copy his footsteps, but your rhythm is clunky.
“Look at me.” You tip your head back and do just that. Beneath his intense gaze, you feel terribly self-conscious. He steps forward, and you stumble backward. The hand on your waist slides to your back and pulls you in reflexively. Your chest presses against his, the tops of your breasts spilling slightly over the delicate lace of your low neckline. Your heart thumps wildly at your proximity.
He bends down slightly and tells you that, “It’s supposed to feel natural. If copying me is too difficult, then move with me.”
A small “Mhmm” is all you manage as he draws back. You two continue dancing with your bodies snug against one another. Zayne can’t stop staring at you. Your beauty has encapsulated him, taken hold of his soul. Whatever is left anyway. A light smile spreads on his lips as he notes the rosiness of your cheeks.
You avert your eyes and mumble, “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?” He asks, his grip tightening on you imperceptibly. Your doe eyes dart up to his, and your chest rises as you take a deep breath in.
“You won't look away.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, but with Zayne’s vampiric abilities, it’s the only sound he cares to hear. Now it’s his turn to avoid your eyes. He gazes at the back table and notices Greyson and a fellow surgeon engaged in a lively conversation.
Zayne exhales, “I’m entranced. No man deserves to gaze upon such beauty.” He returns his eyes to you, the sweet smile on your face thawing his frozen heart.
His insides turn all mushy when you giggle, “Come now, Zayne. I’m hardly the prettiest girl here.”
He shakes his head sternly and counters, “You clearly haven’t looked in the mirror then.” You beam up at him, your bodies subconsciously inching closer together. Without even realising it, your hand has slid down from his shoulder to his chest and rests over his stone heart. He grabs your wrist, but it’s too late. Your brow furrows, and your eyes flit from your gloved hand to his face back down to your hand.
“Zayne—”
“Why don’t we get some fresh air?” The vampire suggests. He removes your hand from his chest and holds it firmly while leading you out of the ballroom. You trail behind him in silence, up the grand staircase and through the second floor’s halls. He pushes open one of the many doors and guides you into a moonlit bedroom. Snowy curtains billow in the cold breeze. He heads over to another set of doors and pushes them open, gesturing for you to follow him.
You step out onto the balcony, your blood rustling in your veins and heart beating like some wild animal is trying to claw out of your ribcage. The chilly air distils your nerves. You know what you had felt. Or rather, what you hadn’t felt. You tell yourself that maybe his heartbeat was slow. But your hand was there for at least 10 seconds. You should have felt something, a little pulse beneath your fingertips at least. But his chest was still. Like he had forgotten to breathe, but he wasn’t holding his breath. Like he didn’t need to breathe.
“Zayne,” you call his name, your soft voice carried by the soothing breeze to the doctor. His back faces you, and his hands grip the balcony’s railing. The moon casts a cool glow on him; there’s something so perfect about his sharp features in the pale light.
Stepping beside him, you ask gently, “Is everything okay?” At his side, you nearly shiver. No heat emanates from his body. This, you know. You’ve known for some time. But the evidence isn’t aligning. You’re puzzled more than anything else.
Zayne says so quietly, you strain to hear it, “If I told you I was fine, would you believe me?” Your eyes roam over his tense jaw and bright eyes that seem determined to avoid you.
Sighing, you turn to gaze at the scenery below. The mansion backs onto woodland. A critter buzz. The night air sets your lungs aflame, it’s so cold.
“Do you believe in God?” He asks abruptly. Your head turns to him, but he continues to look off into the distance. You ponder his question and just where this conversation might lead you. Was there something exceptionally holy about the mystery of a man beside you? Perhaps given how he appears to be carved by the Lord’s hand.
You shrug, “Well, of course. Tis it not the Lord who is responsible for our lives?”
“And what of the cruelties? Is God the explanation for the afflictions we are plagued with?” Zayne prompts. You breathe out heavily, unprepared for a theological discussion with the man you’ve been dreaming about since you two crossed paths.
“Is there some affliction you are experiencing, Zayne? If so, you don’t have to keep it from me,” you respond, your voice delicate and attempting to calm the raging storm you sense brewing beneath the surface.
He scoffs, “Keep it from you?” Shifting to face you now, he glares down at you and mutters, “What is there to hide when you are my affliction?” The vampire inches closer, his eyes shining; it appears unnatural.
You shudder as he continues, “Is our reunion by God’s hand? Does He intend to salt the wound He inflicted on me centuries ago?” Zayne reaches out and grasps your waist. He pulls you into him, making you cry out as your soft body crashes into his much harder one. Those gloved hands squeeze your waist through your bodice, ravenous to tear it off. He must quell these thoughts if you are to survive the night.
The dryness in his throat is unbearable. A divine punishment, then, given he only fed last night.
“Zayne, I don’t… I don’t understand. Have I done something wrong?” You pout. Your brows are drawn together, and your eyes are gooey and round as they stare up at him. He drops the act, his chest unmoving while he palms your hips through the icy blue ruffles of your skirt.
Leaning down, he whispers, “There is no salvation for demons such as myself. Stop trying to trick me.” He squeezes your hips near crushingly, silent strength lurking in his fingers. You yelp, your noses brushing now. His gaze is narrowed, terrifying as it drifts down your face to your heaving bosom and back up. You pulse so perfectly in his grasp, so warm and pliant. His fangs elongate and nudge at his lower lip.
Fuck, this cannot be happening. Zayne cannot lose control like this. But you’re so soft. Your jasmine scent is nostalgic and inviting. Your bodies fit together like this was the Lord’s doing.
In a second, he could claim you. He could bestow upon you the ultimate gift: eternal life. He groans quietly as your hands grip his white button-up.
You murmur his name. The vampire’s resolve wavers. Curiosity and fear intertwine in your eyes.
“Am I scaring you?” He asks in a low voice. Moonlight glints off his fangs. Your heart stammers. This cannot—is not real.
“I’m scared that I am trapped in slumber, about to awake all alone. Is this truly happening?” He chuckles cruelly, the sound sending chills sparking across your skin.
“I wish it were merely a dream, my love,” he replies, voice dripping with desperation as your foreheads press together. You’re burning up, your skin akin to Hell’s flames as his fingers trail up your arms. His hands cup the back of your neck, his gloves soaking up some of your sweat. Caressing your jaw, his pink tongue darts out across his lips. You whine softly, your eyes following the movement shamelessly.
Zayne rasps out, “Will you permit me a kiss? Or am I to steal it from you?” Your confidence is admirable as you snake your arms around his neck and lean up. On your toes, you press your lips to his. The vampire simply cannot resist any longer.
Against your mouth, he whispers, “Forgive me.” You whimper as he kisses you harshly. His lips move against yours in an insatiable rhythm, starving for more and unable to conceal it. You clutch his collar, trying to steady yourself in the tidal wave of his unrelenting affection. His hands slide over your shoulders and return to your waist.
Circling his arms around you, he lifts you effortlessly. You squeal into his mouth, providing the perfect opportunity for his tongue to slip in. Those razor-sharp fangs brush against your delicate lower lip, catching and eliciting a cry from you.
Zayne places you back on the ground and breaks your kiss regretfully. Saliva drips from the corners of your mouth and connects your parted lips. The ball downstairs has long since been forgotten.
In the blink of an eye, he’s bending down and picking you up bridal style. He carries you back inside and drops you onto the bed. You bounce against the mattress in a flurry of blue.
The vampire climbs over you. Biting the tip of his middle finger, he slides his hand out of the glove and tosses it aside. You squeal as that same hand grabs the centre of your bodice, freezing fingers against hot, soft flesh. He yanks you up to him and ensnares you in another depraved kiss.
600 years' worth of yearning lies behind every swipe of his tongue across your inner cheeks. You whine as he nips at your lower lip roughly, but not rough enough to draw blood. If there is one vow Zayne must fulfil tonight, it is not to taste your blood.
Your hands tangle in his locks and tug them, a need to have him impossibly closer blazing within. The celestial moon bathes your heated exchange in the purest light. In your lustful daze, you swear his skin glimmers, the milkiness radiant like an opal.
“Zayne,” you moan into the kiss. Kiss? Such a simple word, it cannot begin to cover what is taking place between you two. His bare hand releases your bodice and slides up. He grabs the pendant of your necklace—an intricately detailed cross.
Tearing his lips from yours, he asks breathily, “Who gave this to you?” Your mind is fuzzy.
You pant, “What?” He pulls on it, testing the durability of the clasp, surely. The motion sends you jolting up to him. His nights of slaving away on this symbol of your love and faith were not wasted.
The vampire grits out, “Who gave this to you?”
“M-mother,” you stutter, your eyes the size of saucers as you stare at him. Your rapidly rising and falling chest presses against his still one. Your swift heartbeat resounds in his ears.
“Wrong.” He tugs on the pendant again, making you yelp.
“Try again,” he says, softer this time. Zayne knows you don’t remember the life you two shared all those years ago. And you likely never will, despite how much he craves for you to.
Seeing the set of his jaw and possessiveness in his eyes, you whisper, “Was it you?”
He nods and explains breathily, “That’s right. This necklace was my gift to you for our wedding.” Your hands slither down to his shoulders and squeeze them.
“Our wedding?” You ask curiously. Letting go of the necklace, Zayne strokes your cheek with the back of his hand. His head dips. A soft kiss to each of your eyelids.
He promises, “I won’t allow you to slip through my fingers again, regardless of God’s Plan.” The kiss he draws you into is comparably gentler. In it, you feel the weight of his enduring love. You sigh into his mouth, needing this short reprieve.
Zayne’s lips shift to your jaw and kiss along it. His breath is like icicles as it fans across your skin. The scent of your blood is saccharine. Your arteries pulse in your neck; the sweat sticking to your skin is intoxicating.
The vampire places a shaky kiss just below your ear, causing your breath to catch in your throat. The tip of his nose roams the column of your neck, chaste pecks pressed against searing flesh when he can find the will. His fangs puncture his lower lip now, even sharper. He’s salivating, spit mixing with dark blood, which he swallows down.
This was a bad idea. Your body is flush against his, far too many layers separating your skin. One heart pounding. Your fingers curl around the back of his head.
What was Zayne thinking? Oh, wait! He wasn’t! Instinct drove him to the position he’s in now, fangs hovering above your delicate flesh, ready to strike should you give the word.
“Zayne,” you coo. He closes his mouth and starts pulling back, but your hands press him into your warm body. With ease, he could resist your faint strength. But out of respect, he obeys your wordless command.
Your fingers twirl the short locks near his nape as you ask nervously, “Are you going to bite me?”
Into your neck, he confesses, “If I do, I won’t be able to stop. You could be dead or the undead when I manage to pull away.” You giggle. You. Giggle.
“This is no laughing matter, my dear,” Zayne scolds you lovingly. He can’t help but lick a stripe up from your collarbone to your jaw. Your sweat tastes even better than he thought it would. Anything to be close to you. This love, all-consuming. He groans at the thought of how delicious your blood will taste.
You whisper, “I know. But I’m willing to take a chance, if you are.” The vampire’s eyes widen. He pushes himself up to get a glimpse of your face. Serious. You’re being serious.
“Do you know what you’re asking for?” He snaps.
You nod and say so gently, “Forever. With you. Please.” Zayne shakes his head, already preparing his 15-page rebuttal when you cup his jaw.
Staring into his narrowed eyes, you insist, “Please, Zayne. I don’t think I can go on without you.”
He retorts, “Foolish girl—”
“You want this just as much as I do, no?” His lips purse. No response.
You press on, “So please. Give me—give us the chance of eternity together.” He averts his gaze to the light cast upon the thick blankets; metallic embroidery shimmers. The vampire gulps, attempting to soothe his thirst, only to breathe you in and make it infinitely worse.
“And if I fail?” He asks, voice almost cracking as he dares to gaze upon you once more. Your next words would have him falling to his knees, worshipping the ground you walk on if he were standing.
“I trust you.” The one thing you shouldn’t do is place your trust in a vampire. You mewl pathetically, the sound raw and sumptuous as his gloved hand covers your neck. With his thumb pressing into your jaw, he tilts your head to the side, exposing your delicate neck to him.
Zayne nearly pants like some dog as he laps at your skin. His tongue traces your veins and arteries, mapping them out like the constellations. Then, his onslaught of sloppy kisses and hesitant nips.
Your back arches as he pulls at your flesh, leaving red marks across your smooth skin. He releases a shaky breath as you pull on his hair, small moans tumbling from your kiss-swollen lips.
Finding the perfect spot on your neck, he swirls his tongue over it in a daze. Venom fills his mouth, the acid tingling on his tastebuds. His fangs ache with the need to puncture your flesh, like he’s had one too many sweets.
Against your skin, he whispers a phrase he hasn’t said since his rebirth: “Bless me, Heavenly Father, for I have sinned.” Your scream is muffled by his bare hand as his fangs sink into your neck. Blood, scorching hot and mind-numbingly delicious, pours into the vampire’s awaiting mouth.
He groans loudly, your taste crafted to his liking. His fingers slip into your mouth, muffling your cries. Unknowingly, his hips rut into your leg, this final unity driving him to madness.
With everything he is, Zayne needs to be tethered to you. Being your creator simply isn’t enough. He must show you his undying love and pledge it to you every night for the rest of your immortal lives.
Your screams turn into moans around his spit-soaked fingers, and you tug on his hair as he bites down harder.
Zayne’s a doctor. He knows just how much blood a human can lose before it’s fatal. And you haven’t lost that much blood yet. He tells himself that he’s still got another minute in heaven before having to release you, assuming he has the strength to.
The vampire reasons that perhaps he should start pulling away now. Give himself a bit of extra time should things fall through. But he can’t. The ecstasy coursing through his veins spurs him on.
Unlike his messy eating lately, Zayne doesn’t spill a single drop of your coveted blood. Every last gulp flows down his throat and slushes around in his stomach.
His hunger is not satisfied. Far from it, actually. All he desires is to drink more and more of your blood. Forget an eternity by your side. If he could just have another sip—
His minute is up.
His minute is up.
Hisminuteisuphisminuteisuphisminuteisuphisminuteisup.
You’re mewling his name. Your body is growing colder, your limbs weaker. Not vampirism, but death. That is what he shall bring you if he cannot stop himself.
With a grunt, Zayne tears his fangs from your neck. He’s breathing heavily, licking his lips and diving down to clean your wound with his tongue should your blood go to waste. Pulling back, he removes his fingers from your mouth. They’re red, with teeth marks indicating where you bit him for support. He didn’t even feel it.
Seeing your pallor, dry lips and your eyes low-lidded from exhaustion, not lust, Zayne whimpers. What has he done? An unseen knife slashes his abdomen open, intestines pouring out in a suicide fit for an ancient Samurai. If you die again, by his hands again, he cannot go on.
Perhaps the Lord has been merciful this time around, but He will not give the vampire a second chance. Zayne knows it. With one hand, he cradles the back of your head. His other arm wraps around your waist and pulls you into him.
He murmurs, “My love.”
You cry out, “It hurts!”
“Where? Where does it hurt?” The vampire asks panically. Tears smear against his cold neck; you’re sobbing.
“E-everywhere.” He sighs, recalling what his transformation was like. Painful? Agonising? Those words don’t even begin to cover it. Zayne muses that the pain is akin to Prometheus’s, when his liver is feasted upon every day by an eagle. It’s vivid and feels never-ending, until you emerge from the depths as a monster.
A monster. What Zayne is. And now, what Zayne has brought to life. Some twisted Frankenstein, did he pause to consider your pain? Only after the fact does he realise the hellish creature he has condemned mankind to.
Zayne might be a monster. But you won’t be. In no lifetime does there exist a monster that is you. You might be a vampire, but your lover refuses to believe that you are not holy. He refuses to believe you will be abandoned by the divine.
Zayne cradles you, his hand stroking your dishevelled hair as you bite down on his collar to stifle your cries of agony. He whispers praises into your forehead, half-heard by a soon-to-be thrashing you. You’re held steady, tender kisses peppered across your hairline as you walk the tightrope between life, death, and damnation.
The room falls completely silent. Your heart stops beating, and no breath ghosts your upper lip.
When you open your eyes, the world is… clearer. And it smells like bloodied jasmines.
You croak out, “Zayne.” He lies you back down. The woman staring up at him is his immortal bride. Not quite you. But undeniably you. Your cool fingertips trail across his cheekbone. He leans into your touch, love accumulating in his chest until it overflows.
“Zayne.” He leans down and rests his forehead against yours, now the same temperature.
Your vampire murmurs, “I’m here, my love. For eternity.”
masterlist
star girl's final words: thank you for taking this journey with me! and a big thank you to jay for doing this collab with me! it's been super fun and has pushed me out of my writing comfort zone. i'm so grateful that we're mutuals, and i hope we can make even cooler fics in the future!
additional resources
the study of anatomy in england from 1700s to 20th century britain health timeline 1840-1920 mourning in the victorian era 19th century surgeries in the uk post-mortem instruments 19th century 1840s fashion history robert liston inside the operating theatre 19th century nursing uniforms brief history of cemetery in america mental health treatment reforms in the us punishments from late 18th to early 20th centuries history of bloodletting
