Elias had never considered himself sentimental. Two centuries of existence had taught him the futility of attachment—to pces, to possessions, to people. Everything crumbled eventually. Everyone left or died.

  And yet, standing in the empty apartment the night of the full moon, he found himself... unsettled by Noah's absence.

  He'd grown accustomed to the werewolf's presence—the absent humming, the way he talked to himself when cooking, even the infuriating coffee cups left in improbable pces. The apartment felt hollow without him.

  "Ridiculous," Elias muttered, turning away from Noah's closed door.

  He had work to do anyway. Victoria would send someone tomorrow for his evidence on the housing crisis. He needed to organize his findings and prepare his documentation. The distraction would be welcome.

  In his study, Elias methodically arranged property records, financial statements, and corporate filings. The pattern was unmistakable once you knew to look for it—shell companies all leading back to Gregory Westfield, the hunter-turned-politician with a vendetta against supernatural beings.

  Elias remembered Westfield from decades earlier—a ruthless vampire hunter who'd lost his family in a rogue vampire attack. His grief had calcified into hatred, not just for vampires but for all supernatural creatures. That he now wielded political power made him far more dangerous than when he'd merely carried a stake.

  Absorbed in his work, Elias almost missed the soft sound at the front door—not a knock, but the subtle scrape of a lock pick. He froze, his senses sharpening. Someone was trying to break in.

  Moving silently, Elias positioned himself behind the study door, listening. Three distinct heartbeats, moving with practiced stealth. Hunters, most likely. The cadence of trained killers was unmistakable after centuries of being hunted.

  His mind raced. He could escape through the window, but that would leave the intruders free to wait for Noah's return. Unacceptable. He could confront them—he was old enough, strong enough to handle three humans.

  But before he could decide, the air shifted, carrying a scent that made his dead heart clench—wolfsbane and silver nitrate. Not ordinary hunters then. Specialists.

  The door to the apartment crashed open. Elias moved instinctively, centuries of survival instinct propelling him into the shadows of the hallway. He caught a glimpse of bck tactical gear and silver-edged weapons.

  "Spread out," a harsh voice commanded. "The vampire should be here. The wolf's gone for the full moon."

  They knew their schedules. Had been watching them. The realization sent cold anger through Elias's veins.

  He lunged at the nearest intruder, vampire speed making him a blur. His hand closed around a human throat, lifting the man off his feet.

  "Who sent you?" Elias hissed, fangs extending in anger.

  Instead of fear, the man's eyes reflected satisfaction. Too te, Elias sensed the others behind him. Something sharp pierced his shoulder—a dart, silver-tipped and burning. The effect was immediate—waves of dizziness, his strength ebbing like water through cupped hands.

  "Silver nitrate and deadwood extract," the man gasped as Elias's grip loosened. "Specially formuted for elder vampires like you."

  Elias stumbled, fighting the drug's effect. He'd survived worse over the centuries. Rallying his fading strength, he flung the man into his companions, buying precious seconds.

  His vision blurred, but he forced himself toward the door. If he could just get outside, raise an arm...

  A second dart struck his back. Then a third. His legs buckled beneath him, the room spinning sickly.

  "Careful with him," one of the hunters barked. "Westfield wants him alive for questioning."

  Westfield. Of course. Elias had threatened the man's pns with his evidence. And his association with Noah—a vampire and werewolf working together, living together—represented everything Westfield despised about the supernatural community.

  As darkness closed in, Elias's thoughts turned not to his own peril but to Noah. Would they come for him next? The werewolf was strong, capable—but these hunters were prepared, organized.

  With his st conscious effort, Elias reached for the small table near the entryway, toppling it. Noah would see the signs of struggle. Would know something was wrong. Would be warned.

  The thought brought strange comfort as the darkness cimed him.

  Consciousness returned in painful increments. First, sensation—cold metal against his skin, restraints at wrists and ankles. Then smell—antiseptic, silver, fear. Finally, sound—machines humming, a steady electronic pulse, voices murmuring beyond a door.

  Elias kept his eyes closed, feigning continued unconsciousness as he assessed his situation. The drug's effects lingered, his normally sharp senses dulled, his strength diminished. But he was alive, or whatever passed for life in his undead state.

  He was lying on a metal table, arms and legs secured with what felt like silver-infused restraints—painful but not immediately deadly to a vampire of his age. Medical equipment beeped nearby, monitoring... what? Vampires had no vital signs to track.

  "I know you're awake, Mr. Bckwood." A familiar voice, smooth as polished stone.

  Elias opened his eyes. Gregory Westfield stood at the foot of the table, unchanged from when Elias had st seen him decades ago—silver hair cropped military-short, face lined but strong, eyes cold as a winter sea. The preservation was unnatural for a human of his age. Dark magic, perhaps, or some experimental treatment.

  "Westfield." Elias kept his voice steady. "Still hunting vampires? I thought you'd moved on to politics."

  "The two aren't mutually exclusive." Westfield approached, studying Elias with clinical detachment. "Politics is just hunting with different weapons."

  "And am I a political problem now?"

  "You're an anomaly. A very old vampire suddenly involving himself in community affairs. Living with a werewolf. Investigating my business dealings." Westfield's smile didn't reach his eyes. "You've made yourself interesting, Elias. I don't like interesting."

  Elias tested the restraints subtly. Too strong, especially in his weakened state. "What do you want?"

  "Information, to start. Your evidence against me. All copies, all sources." Westfield picked up a tablet, scrolling through what looked like medical readings. "Then, your research on inter-species cohabitation. This experiment with the werewolf. Our sources indicate unprecedented success."

  "Your sources," Elias echoed, the implications dawning. "You've been monitoring us. Why? What possible interest could our living arrangement have for you?"

  Westfield set down the tablet. "The supernatural community is strongest when divided. Vampires despising werewolves. Fae distrusting shifters. Ancient enmities keep you all looking inward, fighting amongst yourselves." His voice hardened. "But tely, there have been worrying signs of cooperation. Mixed gatherings. Shared businesses. And now, domestic arrangements crossing species lines."

  "You're afraid of us uniting." Elias almost ughed at the irony. "The great hunter, afraid."

  "Not afraid. Pragmatic. United, you present a political and social threat I'm not prepared to indulge." Westfield checked his watch. "The full moon is waning. Your werewolf will be returning soon, if he hasn't already. Finding your absence... distressing."

  The casual mention of Noah sent a spike of arm through Elias. "Leave him out of this."

  "Interesting." Westfield's eyes narrowed. "You care for him. How unexpected. Vampires aren't known for their tender hearts."

  "He's innocent in this. Your quarrel is with me."

  "My quarrel is with every supernatural being that threatens the natural order." Westfield moved toward the door. "But don't worry. Mr. Parker will be joining you soon enough. My team is tracking him as we speak."

  "If you harm him—" Elias began, an unfamiliar protective rage rising in him.

  "You'll what?" Westfield paused, genuine curiosity in his voice. "What inspires such loyalty, I wonder? Is it simply shared living space, or something more... intimate?"

  Elias kept his expression bnk, unwilling to give Westfield any further insight into his retionship with Noah. But the question echoed his own recent thoughts—what exactly had developed between them? This protectiveness, this concern, this... connection that defied centuries of ingrained animosity.

  "Fascinating." Westfield seemed to read something in his silence. "We'll have much to discuss when I return. In the meantime, my team will be experimenting with some new compounds. Elder vampire blood has... unique properties. Valuable for research."

  The door closed behind him, leaving Elias alone with the beeping machines and his racing thoughts.

  He needed to escape, not just for his own sake but for Noah's. The werewolf was walking into danger, unaware. The thought of Noah in Westfield's hands, subjected to experiments and questioning, filled Elias with cold dread.

  When had Noah's safety become so important to him? When had the irritating werewolf with his coffee cups and casual touches and warm ugh become someone he couldn't bear to lose?

  Elias yanked at the restraints again, ignoring the burning pain as silver touched his skin. Think. He'd survived worse situations in his long existence. There was always a way out, always a weakness to exploit.

  He closed his eyes, focusing on his dulled senses, pushing past the drugs in his system. The building around him was rge, echoing—a warehouse, perhaps, or an abandoned industrial space. Multiple heartbeats—guards, researchers, other prisoners? A faint scent caught his attention—familiar herbs, the tang of magic. Witch-work, somewhere nearby.

  And beneath it all, something unexpected—the copper-penny scent of fresh supernatural blood. Not vampire. Not werewolf either. Something else. Someone else being held here, perhaps experimented on.

  Elias's eyes snapped open as the door whispered open again. Not Westfield this time, but a young woman in a b coat, her eyes downcast as she checked the monitors beside him.

  "You don't want to do this," Elias said softly.

  She flinched but didn't look at him. "Please don't speak to me."

  "You know this is wrong. Holding sentient beings against their will. Experimenting on them."

  Her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted something on the machine. "It's necessary research. To protect humanity."

  "Is that what Westfield tells you? That we're all monsters? That your cruelty is justified in the name of protection?" Elias kept his voice gentle, reasonable. "I'm two hundred and thirty-seven years old. I've watched empires rise and fall. And in every age, there are men like Westfield who use fear to justify atrocity."

  She gnced at him finally, uncertainty in her eyes. "You kill to survive."

  "I haven't killed for sustenance in over a century. Blood banks, donations, synthetic supplements—there are ethical ways to exist." Elias held her gaze. "Can you say the same of what happens in this facility?"

  The question hit home; he could see it in her expression. "I just follow protocols. The research is... important."

  "Important enough to betray your own conscience? Because I can see it in your eyes—you know this is wrong."

  Her face paled. "You don't understand. Westfield doesn't tolerate dissent. People who question... disappear."

  "Help me," Elias urged quietly. "Help me get out, and I'll ensure you're protected. The Supernatural Council has resources, safe houses."

  For a moment, hope fred as indecision crossed her features. Then the door opened again, and an older researcher entered. The woman stiffened, professional mask sliding back into pce.

  "Dr. Chen, Westfield wants the first extraction prepared," the newcomer said.

  "Of course, Dr. Richards. I was just checking the restraint settings." Her voice was steady, but Elias caught the slight tremble in her hands.

  "I'll take over. Westfield wants to see you in his office."

  She nodded, avoiding Elias's eyes as she gathered her tablet. At the door, she paused, the smallest hesitation—then was gone.

  The older researcher approached with a rge syringe, eyes cold behind rimless gsses. "This will hurt, vampire. We need your blood at its most... reactive."

  Elias steeled himself, centuries of endurance coming to his aid. The needle pierced his skin, drawing dark blood into its chamber. The pain was sharp but familiar—he'd endured worse in his long existence.

  What concerned him more was time slipping away. Noah would be returning from his transformation, finding the apartment empty, signs of struggle. Would he understand the danger? Or would he rush headlong into Westfield's trap, driven by the impulsive nature so typical of werewolves?

  The thought of Noah in danger because of him, because of their connection, was somehow more painful than the needle drawing his blood.

  As the researcher moved away with his sample, Elias closed his eyes again, focusing on that unexpected scent of supernatural blood. If there were other captives here, perhaps there was potential for alliance, for escape.

  His sensitivity to blood—normally a hunter's tool—became a map in his mind. The scent was coming from below, perhaps a sublevel. Not witch, not fae... something rarer. A hybrid, perhaps. The blood carried markers of multiple supernatural lineages, complex and unique.

  The realization came with a jolt of understanding. Westfield wasn't just targeting him and Noah. He was collecting supernatural beings, especially unusual ones. Studying them. Experimenting.

  For what purpose? Simple hatred didn't expin such systematic research. No, Westfield was working toward something specific. Something that required understanding supernatural biology in detail.

  The possibilities chilled Elias's dead heart. Weapons tailored to specific species? Methods of supernatural detection? Or something worse—a way to eradicate them all?

  He had to escape. Had to warn the Council. Had to find Noah before Westfield did.

  The restraints burned his wrists as he tested them again, silver searing undead flesh. Pain was temporary. Failure would be permanent.

  Elias Bckwood had not survived over two centuries by surrendering to despair. He had endured revolutions, wars, hunter after hunter seeking his destruction. He would not fall now—not with Noah's safety at stake, not with the threat Westfield posed to their entire community.

  With renewed determination, he began to work methodically at the restraint on his right wrist, ignoring the searing pain as silver touched his skin. Pain was an old companion. Fear—fear for someone else—was new, and somehow more motivating than any concern for his own survival had ever been.

  Hold on, Noah, he thought. I'm coming.

  The irony didn't escape him—a vampire worried for a werewolf's safety, feeling protective of a creature that had been his natural enemy for centuries. But then, nothing about his retionship with Noah had followed the expected path.

  And if—when—he escaped, perhaps it was time to acknowledge exactly what that retionship had become. Time to put words to the unfamiliar warmth that had taken root in his long-dead heart.

  But first, he had to survive. And ensure that Noah did too.