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“Easy there, ladybird. Don’t want to drain him before the party gets started, now.”
Dorothea’s mouth twitches into something resembling annoyance, lower lip gliding down as her tongue slips out to lap up a trickle of blood. She traces it in a languid arc over Sylvain’s jugular, her body pressing close in a way that lights him on fire. I know what I’m doing, Yurikins, Sylvain imagines her hissing, a dark rumble in her otherwise silky voice. But she doesn’t even hum in defiance, doesn’t shake her head. Sylvain bucks his hips, upper thigh grinding into the space between her legs, and he notices the barest start of a moan that she skillfully halts in her throat.
She tenses, then bites down harder, as if to say nice try, but save it for later.
While Yuri has a tendency to whisper playful teases in his ear, Dorothea is always silent when she feeds, never wants any hands on her. It’s odd—even with his arms bound and his sight obscured, Sylvain can tell it’s her. Yuri has soft lips and slender fingers too, but the difference is obvious. Dorothea is curvy and soft in all the places Yuri isn’t; her hair falls in thicker coils against Sylvain’s bare shoulder; and she smells different, no matter how much their shared floral perfume tries to convince him otherwise.
Once the fangs sink into him though, Sylvain’s mind goes far too hazy to wonder about the peculiar habits and compulsions of vampires. Even if his wrists weren’t pinned to the headboard, he can hardly move in the wake of an intense ecstasy that shoots through every nerve in his body. The initial pain makes it all the more pronounced, a sharp pinch that blooms into all-consuming pleasure. Time warps, the world spins—
And Yuri’s lips are on his, sloppy and demanding, pulling him down to earth in the most wonderful way. Fangs tease his tongue with a metallic flavor he realizes is his own blood.
“Fuck,” he manages, his voice creaking into a needy sigh. Yuri guides Sylvain’s head with his hands, fingers creeping into his hair and tugging. His touch migrates down—no, that’s Dorothea bracing her palm against his chest, her mouth unlatching with an inhuman click of teeth.
She licks several stripes over the bite marks she’s left, two perfectly stinging puncture wounds that mirror the ones Yuri gave him on the other side of his neck. “All finished?” Yuri purrs, breaking away. Sylvain’s left in the dark, aware only of Dorothea’s sleepy hum, the wet sound of her accepting a kiss from Yuri.
“Here,” Yuri says to Sylvain, followed soon after by the sound of flesh being cut open by teeth; then the thick, tangy taste of vampire blood being pressed to his tongue. “Drink up, sweetheart,” he commands, slipping his fingertips underneath Sylvain’s blindfold and nudging the fabric aside. Sharp lavender eyes and a crooked, lipstick-smudged smile are the first thing Sylvain sees. “You’re gonna need the strength.”
Sylvain’s focus wavers, eyes turning misty as he swallows. His gaze shifts sideways to find Dorothea seated toward the edge of the bed, looking across the room, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She appears far away, wistful, and something twists in Sylvain’s chest.
“Thea,” he huffs, breath ragged, Yuri’s vein still open and spilling into his mouth. The dazed, loopy sensation of blood loss morphs into a different type of altered state; one that sparks desperate heat in his gut, makes his limbs twitch with a need to move. It’s far from his first time drinking vampire blood, but the experience never loses its novelty.
Dorothea meets his gaze, her expression unreadable. No trace of blood left on her face, as per usual. Her skin glows with the fleeting rosiness of a full stomach. “You want her tonight?” Yuri asks, caressing Sylvain’s cheek with the side of his hand.
Her blood, maybe. Countless times Sylvain has been in this room with the two of them—they come as a unit, maker and progeny, practically inseparable. They always drink him, sometimes each other, and often Yuri shares his blood with Sylvain. Dorothea though… Sylvain’s tasted many parts of her, but never her blood. It’s a consistent enough trend to appear intentional. It’s also her choice, and he’s sure there’s a reason—he won’t press her, but Sylvain has never been able to shake a curiosity. He can ignore it, temporarily—especially when Dorothea crawls naked across the bed, haunting green eyes honing in like he’s a cornered animal.
“I can take care of him,” she says, moving to take Yuri’s spot straddling Sylvain’s hips. Her voice is breathy, almost uncertain, like she’s distracted by whatever thought had her so captivated moments ago. “Still with us, Syl?” she asks, two fingers tapping the underside of his chin and urging his head up to meet her gaze.
“Completely,” he replies. Are you?
Any trace of hesitance melts away, replaced by resolve and a flash of desire. “Good,” she says, inching forward, “because—” Sylvain’s breath hitches as she moves her hips in one quick, measured movement, grinding against his length. “—I’d hate for you to miss even a second of this.” She’s warm and wet, her body sticky with sweat as she closes the distance between them, teasing him with slow undulations.
“Dorothea,” he creaks, shuddering and tugging at his restraints. “Please…”
He gasps as she takes his length in one hand, stroking and raising her hips to position herself. Her breath quickens when her cunt brushes the tip of his cock, chewing her lips and locking eyes with him before beginning her agonizingly slow descent. “Eager tonight, aren’t we?”
“Did you expect anything different?”
She rolls her eyes, but the smile on her face is wide and genuine. Her head bobs forward and she takes his lips, sinking fully onto his cock as her tongue sweeps along the backs of his teeth. Sylvain moans into her, the sound building with each grind of her hips. Slow, irresistible, a reassurance that he’s in good hands—a reassurance that holds significantly more weight when the hands in question could also snap his neck in a heartbeat.
Dorothea breaks the kiss, their faces hovering close and her body rocking over him.
“Untie him, Yurikins,” she says, still staring directly into Sylvain’s eyes. “I like it when he scrapes his nails down my back.”
His arms are freed in a wordless instant, dropping down onto the mattress and lying limp for a moment while Dorothea rides him. He grunts, rolling his shoulders back and bracing his hands against the bed. Dorothea gasps when he thrusts up into her, reaching forward and curling fingers around her waist. “You want it rough today, Thea? Any specific requests?” He tightens his grip, squeezing hard as he leans in to take one of her breasts in his mouth. Her resulting moan is to die for—he lets the sound wash over him, grazing his teeth over her nipple. Her cunt clenches around him, hips approaching inhuman speeds that make Sylvain see stars.
“Careful, Gautier,” Dorothea shudders, fingers rooting into his scalp. Her words come out in choppy bursts, voice lilting with barely concealed pleasure. “Or need I—ah—remind you—how dangerous it is to surprise a vampire?”
Sylvain laughs, his labored breath beating against her chest. “My darling Dorothea,” he rumbles, trailing kisses upward until he reaches her jawline, nibbling the skin playfully. He savors the low whimper that falls from her lips when he digs into the space between her shoulder blades and drags down. “Don’t you know?” He tilts his head up, rewarded by a look of complete unraveling painted across Dorothea’s flushed face. “The danger is the best part.”
—
The rooms at the Saint Aubin nightclub are heavily soundproofed, windowless, designed by and for vampires. A digital clock indicates the exact minute of sunrise and sunset, the mini-fridges are well-stocked with sugary drinks and snacks often seen at blood drives, and dark upholstery helps to mitigate cleaning fees. For a human visitor, it’s like stepping into a liminal space, a boundary between life and death, an escape from the outside world. Some find it eerie, like a glorified coffin. For many frequent patrons, though, it’s as comforting as a second home, the perfect place to soak in the blissful buzz that comes after being fed on. If asked, Sylvain would say he’s in the latter group.
“You know,” he starts, his glazed eyes set on the ceiling, “I never asked: why the restraints?”
Yuri’s cheek is pressed against his calm beating heart, cool and quiet, slender waist nestled comfortably in the crook of Sylvain’s elbow. Deceptively fragile—not that Sylvain would ever make the mistake of assuming centuries-old Yuri Leclerc couldn’t kill him in the blink of an eye.
“I mean, I’m into it,” Sylvain continues when Yuri rocks his head side to side and keeps his pretty lips sealed. “But it felt—” He pauses, half to search for the proper words and half to listen. The place isn’t silent—he can hear the soft pitter-patter of the shower running, muffled vocals echoing from behind the bathroom door. Alluring, haunting, a convenient enough cover. “I got the impression it’s more serious than a simple bondage fetish.”
Yuri snorts, propping up on his elbow and resting his cheek in his hand. “Fascinating observation,” he says, amused. “Have you considered becoming Fódlan’s first ever vampire therapist?”
Sylvain heaves a sigh. “As patronizing as ever.”
“You like it.” Yuri takes a moment to smirk at him before turning his expression a touch more serious. “But I’ll humor you. Got any theories as to what ails our silver-tongued songstress?”
He has a hunch, but Sylvain prefers to have more solid evidence before sharing his musings. “I suspect that... whatever it is might have something to do with why she never gives me her blood.” He meets Yuri’s eyes, fluttering his lashes. One day soon, Sylvain will unravel all of Yuri’s deepest truths. He has an uncanny fondness for tasks that others deem impossible. “Well?” he coos, putting on his best charming smile. “Am I close to the mark?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Yuri says flatly.
“You would, I think.”
“It would be a guess at best.”
Cagey as always. Deflecting, certainly. “And you’re very good at guessing, aren’t you?” Sylvain teases.
Yuri taps him on the nose with a perfectly manicured finger, scrunching his face in disapproval. “Someone is forgetting how this works. I’m the one who gets answers out of people, not the other way around.”
Sylvain makes the daring decision to tease Yuri’s fringe, fluttering fingers through a curtain of lavender. “Are you sure I can’t make you a convincing offer? Quid pro quo?” It’s a shame Yuri has no pulse, because Sylvain is positive it would be elevated right now. All part of the challenge. “I’m already proving a useful enough informant, aren’t I?”
He expects Yuri to shut him down, to take him by the wrist and scold him about separating business from pleasure. But he stays quiet, doesn’t protest when Sylvain tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. “Name the price,” Sylvain whispers, letting his hand rest on Yuri’s hip.
Yuri hums in contemplation. “Access to the highest security clearance in the Fhirdiad archives would be appreciated.”
“Done,” Sylvain says without missing a beat.
Very few things seem to faze Yuri, but that lightning-quick answer makes his mouth twist in disbelief—almost indignation. “Are you joking? I didn’t take you as one to risk your neck for—”
“I don’t give a shit,” Sylvain interrupts. It’s half-true, anyway. As long as he doesn’t get caught—something he happens to be particularly skilled at—consequences are a non-issue for him.
Yuri frowns regardless. “You shouldn’t trust me with—”
Trust. What does that word matter to him, to either of them? Sylvain doesn’t bother entertaining the concept, instead honing in on Yuri’s brief moment of vulnerability—a lapse in his usual adamantine guard, a weakness Sylvain’s been yearning to exploit. Bonus points that they happen to be naked in bed together.
There’s no resistance when he takes hold of Yuri’s waist, rolling them both over in one fluid motion. One of Yuri’s hands digs clumsily into Sylvain’s shoulder, tense with surprise and deliciously painful. Then he’s rendered prone, Sylvain’s arms braced on either side of his head, his thin frame eclipsed by looming shadow.
“You know what the cutest thing about you is, Yuri?” Aside from the way his luminous hair spills over the pillowcase, or the stunned and deadly glare shooting daggers into Sylvain’s skin, of course. “For all your deception, you still care about being honest when it matters.” He draws closer, voice dropping low. “And I honestly love it.”
Yuri whines as Sylvain kisses his neck. “You…” He squirms, a reaction that has to be for show, because there’s no way he’s actually pinned right now. “You would do all that just to learn more about Dorothea?”
Sylvain pauses. He puts on his best poker face before meeting Yuri’s gaze again. “Well, I know you’re never going to tell me what your deal is…”
One of Yuri’s perfectly-shaped eyebrows arches upward. “And you think it’s my place to tell you hers?”
“I—I mean—”
Yuri seizes the opportunity, knocking the air from Sylvain’s lungs in a movement so fast he can’t even perceive it. Next thing he knows, he’s on his back, gasping for breath, Yuri’s fingers tight around his wrists. A mere fraction of vampiric strength, but it makes Sylvain’s skin burn all the same. All it would take is a tilt of his head to expose his neck, a flash of fang to make him abandon this conversation. He lets his body go slack, submissive, steadying his breath and watching Yuri’s gaze travel the length of him.
When their eyes meet again, Sylvain can’t help but flash a teasing smile. “See? Protecting your friend’s secrets. Honest.”
“Better than being insufferable,” Yuri shoots back, a sharp edge in his tone.
“I’m only giving you a dose of your own medicine.”
Yuri’s frown relaxes into an almost-smile. “Yeah? Give me a half-truth instead. Tell me what you see when you look at Dorothea Arnault.”
Talk about a loaded question. Countless answers to weave into misdirections. When Sylvain sees Dorothea, his thoughts are rarely decipherable or straightforward—that’s how he came to the conclusion that he likes her. She’s nowhere near as conniving as Yuri—or so he believed at first, before realizing that he was applying the wrong rules to her. Dorothea operates under a system of logic that baffles him at every turn. He can barely think one step ahead with her, let alone two.
Appropriately, he speaks without fully knowing what’s going to come out. “I see…” His eyes flutter closed, picturing her oval face and dark lashes, the perpetual melancholy that perches at her temple. Her singing filters through his ears, ghost of a tragedy hiding in plain sight. Sylvain opens his eyes and holds Yuri’s gaze. “I see a person who absolutely hates being a vampire.”
Now that he’s said it, the words feel far closer to truth than not—especially when Yuri’s grip relaxes and his face falls, cold with understanding. “Not everyone would choose this life,” he murmurs. “And very few actually get the choice. Dorothea didn’t.” He releases Sylvain, sitting back on his heels.
Sylvain’s body is heavy even without Yuri holding him down, the bed like a mouth threatening to swallow him up. What does it say about him that he finds more in common with supposed creatures of the night than the living, breathing humans he knows?
“I wouldn’t choose it either,” he says. “No matter how much it seems like I have a death wish, sometimes.” He pauses, shifting in place, debating whether to get up or to wallow in his exhaustion a few minutes longer. The former wins. “I also see,” he sighs as he pushes up, “someone who makes me want to stop being a coward, just a little bit.”
“She wants to grow old with someone,” Yuri says, ignoring Sylvain’s casual admissions. He’s seated cross-legged with his head turned away, a near-perfect imitation of Dorothea’s earlier ennui. “Immortality with me is just what she’s settling for.”
He’s so vulnerable when he talks about her, enticing as a puzzle box or a chess board. Sylvain sidles closer, nudging him with his shoulder. “Yuri,” he coos, melodic and over-sweet, reaching a hand out to cradle his chin. Yuri narrows his eyes, but doesn’t lash out or push him away.
“If you tell me to ‘cheer up and smile’ again, Gautier, I swear…”
Sylvain only hums and grins, letting silence fall as Yuri takes his hand gently. He guides it down into the space between them and squeezes.
“Look,” Yuri starts, shaking his head, “forget about access to the archives for now. I have a secret with a different price, if you’re willing to pay it.”
Sylvain tilts his head. “About Dorothea?”
Yuri nods.
“What do you need?”
Yuri flutters his lips, exasperated. “That’s the thing—I can’t tell you.” He pinches his neck, uncertain. “Not until… I tell you. The secret, I mean.”
“You need me to agree to something without knowing what it is,” Sylvain summarizes. “How very you.”
“And are you reckless enough to do it?”
He takes a deep breath. “I mean, you drive a hard bargain, but… Fuck it. Yes.”
There’s an unsettling pause, Yuri’s expression shifting into suspicion. “You’re sure about this,” he says—a statement, not a question, but it’s strange for him not to cut straight to the point once a deal has been struck. It makes Sylvain’s hair stand on end, heightens all his senses in the same way that Yuri’s fangs against his neck fill him with dreadful anticipation. “I’m searching for a cure,” he bites out.
Sylvain blinks, processing. “Sorry—what?”
Yuri’s gaze casts down into his lap. “A cure. For vampirism. For…”
“For Dorothea,” Sylvain says softly, letting it sink in. “You… You think it’s possible? That there’s something out there?”
“I have reasons to believe it,” Yuri replies, still not looking at him.
Of all the seemingly unattainable things Sylvain’s seen Yuri chase after, this one may take the top spot. His head spins with a million questions, too many for him to pick through carefully. “And you need me to help you find it, is that it?”
“Not exactly,” Yuri says. “I can handle a wild goose chase—it’s kind of my specialty. Handling the aftermath, not so much.”
“‘Aftermath’ is an odd way of saying ‘becoming human,’” Sylvain mumbles, the concept too outlandish for him to comprehend. And why is his heart beating so fast, as if he has an actual stake in this? He’s waiting for a catch, to hear what he can possibly do that Yuri can’t.
“And being human won’t be enough,” Yuri adds. “Not if she’s alone.”
“But she has you.”
Yuri at last tilts his head up, looking at Sylvain like he’s just claimed that two and two is five—which is an odd comfort, since that’s on par with how Yuri usually looks at him. But then he opens his mouth and breaks the illusion of normalcy. “I’m not planning to be human by the end of this, Sylvain.”
That can’t be right. “Why wouldn’t you—”
“We are not having that conversation,” Yuri practically snaps. “I’ve already said too much.”
Maybe Sylvain could settle for what Yuri has said if the pain on his face wasn’t so obvious. But he can’t help the simmering anger, the frustration, the realization that he probably already knows the resolution of that discussion: Yuri doesn’t think he deserves to be human again. Sylvain almost laughs at how good he’s gotten at reading vampires.
All he manages is a bitter chuckle. “Get to the point, then. What role do I play in this?”
Yuri surprises him by reaching out an elegant hand, slowly tracing his hairline. The touch is feather-light, soothing, far more affectionate than Sylvain is used to from Yuri. He must really need his help.
“I taught Dorothea how to be a vampire,” Yuri murmurs, his fingers skimming down Sylvain’s cheek and the slope of his shoulder. “And when the time comes, I need someone to remind her how to be human again.”
The room falls quiet—silent, actually. The sound of running water and hushed singing have stopped. Sylvain has no time to protest, to tell Yuri that he’s the worst person for this job, an absolutely abysmal blueprint for being alive. That it’s debatable how much longer he can even keep himself alive. That Yuri should reconsider, and possibly get his head checked. They would find the world’s first actual vampire therapist if they had to.
He leans forward, tapping his forehead against Yuri’s. “And you think that someone is—”
The bathroom door opens with a click, and Sylvain freezes. Wood creaks, remnants of steam creeping through the doorway. Dorothea emerges, wrapped in a fluffy crimson robe. Her damp hair is a stunning ebony, shimmering against her pale skin. Sylvain wonders what it would look like in the sun, whether there are subtle streaks of auburn or caramel hidden amongst the dark brown. He wonders what she might think of Yuri’s secret agenda, what he’d willingly sacrifice for her.
“Shower is free, gentlemen,” she announces, seemingly oblivious to their topic of conversation.
He opens his mouth to speak, but a warning look from Yuri shuts him up. He fidgets in his seat, swallowing his nerves. “Mm, I think I’ll wait until I’m back home,” he manages.
“My turn, then,” Yuri says, ruffling Sylvain’s hair as he slides off the bed. “I’ll be a while. No need to wait up.”
He slinks off with a certain blithe grace, as if he isn’t abandoning Sylvain to ponder a major revelation. As if Sylvain doesn’t already have enough problems beyond figuring out why he’s been trusted with… whatever monumental task Yuri expects of him. Remind her how to be human again? Yuri Leclerc proves once again that he’s more cut out to be fey than vampire, with how much he deals in contracts and speaks in irritating riddles.
The self-sacrifice and the thinly-veiled despair are pretty textbook vampire, though. Absolute drama queens, all of them—
“Here.”
Dorothea’s voice comes from directly in front of him, though he’s been far too caught up in his own head to notice her approach. She’s holding a champagne glass full of what appears to be orange juice, nudging it closer. “I added an iron supplement. You’re looking a little anemic.”
She sounds tired, detached, desaturated—but Sylvain finds this version of her more genuine than anything. As if she doesn’t care about what anyone else thinks of her, for once. “Thanks,” he mumbles, accepting the drink and taking a sip. Dorothea’s lips curl upwards, green eyes bright and scrunched up at the bottom. Her body is relaxed, a picture of mundanity as she paces in her robe, as close to ordinary as he ever sees.
Her feet stop in front of a tall wardrobe carved out of dark wood, swinging it open to reveal a collection of dresses. “What were you and Yurikins talking about earlier?” she asks, sifting through the selection.
Sylvain takes a sip, lower lip resting on the rim of the glass. “Hm?”
“Don’t play dumb.” Dorothea pulls out two hangers before turning around. “I know what a serious conversation looks like.” She stands in front of him, holding her picks out: a black floor-length number with slits up the sides, and a fluttery cocktail dress with a short hemline and a high collar in her signature crimson. “Especially when it’s interrupted.”
They lock eyes; Sylvain finds something between boredom and suspicion in hers. Her accusation hangs like a threat, dulled only by the two outfits that she pushes further into his face.
He gives them a cursory glance before pointing to the black one, intrigued by the lace details. Dorothea deposits the rejected piece onto the bed, shrugging her robe down past her shoulders as she slips the winner off the hanger.
“Maybe we were just having a rare tender moment,” Sylvain says, watching as she strips naked with little fanfare and steps into the dress. It hugs her body in all the right places, effortlessly alluring, even without the flashier colors she often gravitates towards.
While she’s occupied, Sylvain stands up, and the whole room spins. Dammit. Maybe he’s been spending a bit too much time here. He downs the rest of the orange juice in one desperate chug, gripping the bedpost for stability. White spots linger on the edge of his vision for a brief moment, but he manages to straighten and put on a convincing show of good health.
“Hm,” Dorothea starts, stepping closer and leveling him with a scrutinizing stare. Her nails trace over his chest, passing over several dark spots blooming against freckled skin. “You looked a bit guilty, though. Worried I’ll get jealous?”
Before he can answer, she raises her other hand, his long-abandoned shirt scrunched between her fingers. How many times has he griped about wrinkles? At this point, he’s positive she does it on purpose. “Get dressed already,” she says, a surprising bite to her words. “I’ll escort you out.”
“Thea…”
She turns around, pulling on her stockings. Sylvain works the buttons on his blouse closed, watching her all the while.
“Thea, hey—”
“Socks and shoes,” she directs, pointing away as she slips into her pumps.
He reluctantly obeys, making his way to the bench stationed by the door. His mind goes blank as he leans down to lace up his oxfords, fatigue fogging his perception.
When he sits up again, Dorothea is standing in front of him, quickly maneuvering between his legs and resting her forearms on his shoulders. She leans in close, eyes piercing enough that Sylvain has to stifle a gasp. She’s as unpredictable as a storm tonight, restless even as dawn draws nearer.
“And here I thought you were rushing me out,” he whispers, taking her by the waist and smoothing circles over her bare lower back, exposed as always by her choice of dress. Every inch of her is perfect, forever frozen in the peak of her beauty. Why, then, can he sense such a deep sadness in her?
‘She wants to grow old with someone. Immortality with me is just what she’s settling for.’
You have more faith in me than I thought, Yuri.
They hover there, half embracing, a simple enough pose that nonetheless seeds shivers down his spine. “Hey, Dorothea…”
Her finger lands atop his lips, a gentle but insistent pressure, her face nudging forward enough that the tips of their noses brush against each other. “Ssssh. Don’t let go of me yet.” Her tone is painstakingly measured, impassive, but it can’t gloss over the neediness of her request. Her body betrays her even more, turning weak in his hands, far more vulnerability than he deserves. It’s unlike Dorothea to paint herself into a corner—unlike her to crave anything this much, let alone him.
Sylvain knows more than anything that he’s going to say something stupid. Adrenaline flutters in his chest, words like fire threatening to spill from his mouth. It’s unclear how much time passes before the hand begging his silence moves, the pad of her thumb sweeping across his lower lip. Delicate fingers cradle his jaw, tilting his face up almost enough to kiss him. If she really wanted to shut him up that way, she would—so he takes the hesitance as permission.
“Dorothea,” he tries, his heart thudding in his chest.
Her voice is feather-soft. “Yeah?”
He takes a breath, choosing his words carefully—letting them cool on his tongue, until they’re no longer scorching and unbearable. “You’re human to me, you know.”
She goes rigid, eyes wide with disbelief, but it’s better than an immediate flinch. She pulls away even as Sylvain’s grip on her tightens, her brow furrowing. “That’s... objectively false,” she replies, her gaze drifting. It’s another failed attempt at being clinical, her face a battlefield of conflicting emotion. Confusion morphs into stunned silence, her hands gripping his shoulders and digging into the fabric of his shirt. One creeps toward his collarbone, following the curve of his throat, inching closer to the bite marks dotting his neck. She stops short, softening when Sylvain reaches up to cradle her cheek.
“But alright,” she murmurs, leaning into his touch. Her arms curl around his waist and hold tight, her forehead resting in the crook of his neck. Alright sounds woefully insufficient, at odds with the way her voice creaks and a hint of tears teases his skin. It’s for the best that she can’t see the victorious smile stretching across his face—he knows it would make her furious. At the moment, he far prefers her sincere happiness.
“Thank you for reminding me, Sylvain.”