Chapter Text
Bela Dimitrescu would not consider herself a woman of affectionate words. She could do everything except the vocalizing part; she could hold your hand when you were having a stroll with her, she could kiss you until you were silly, she could even dry your tears when you cried–she does hate to see you cry, however.
There were three times she had told you she loved you. Each time the words sounded different. Each time the words melted your soul and melded it closer to hers. These words were...a rare occurrence. Not that she didn't want to tell you, she does, but when she says it on a daily basis it feels almost like a normal thing. Not like something that she wants you to soak up and remember.
The first of three times the blonde has said those three words to you had been merely coincidental. A stroke of luck, a moment of dropped guards and frantic worry. You had come downstairs when the castle had an unwanted intruder from one of Heisenburg's games, unaware that a frantic man had a pistol in his hands. He had, unbeknownst that you were human, fired off a shot into your lower abdomen.
Bela had smelled the blood from her patrol of the hallway, already hunting the intruder, and immediately frenzied into her swarm of wasps, locating you and the not-so-lucky intruder. You hadn't heard her arrive, only heard the sound of her voice screeching at the man and her sickle slicing into skin. A spurt of blood–your blood or maybe his–landed on your cheek but you were too occupied trying to press your palms into the pooling blood around your stomach.
Bela's rage became a blur of buzzing and frantic shouts, her middle sister, Cassandra, appearing over you with something of concern written on her features.
"I'll take you to mother, Bela and Daniela will take care of this. Stay alive, I really would hate to see Bela lose her human."
That's how you wound up in your bed, cream colored bedspreads stained with incarnadine and clots, the mistress of the castle tending to your wounds with not the slightest of phase to her composure. She'd done this before, most likely for purposes of keeping prey alive, but still, she was helping you.
It burns. The pain radiates through your entire body like wildfire, hissing through every spare muscle it can find and dripping down to the very core of your being. It's excruciating.
"You should have been upstairs, I can smell Bela's distress from here." Alcina Dimitrescu shakes her head, tilting her head at your writhing form in pity. "Humans are so fragile, I often forget–" she beckons a maiden into the room, ushering them away with the order to bring you milk of the poppy–"you will live, I believe."
With a strained voice and shaking fingertips, you reach out to ghost your fingers over the mistress of the castle's. "Thank you, my Lady–" she can tell you mean to speak more, likely to ask where your beloved is. But the fever of the wound is making your eyelids droop heavily, pulling you down into a slumber state.
You're struggling to keep your eyes open when Bela's swarm of flies phase through the door, rapidly shifting into a physical form. "Y/N, my sweet," she speaks, voice tipping over the edge of hysteria from her recent explosion with the intruder and concern for your well-being. Her hand, freed of bloody gloves, grasps your much colder one before she turns her gaze to her mother. "Is she going to live, mother?"
The handmaiden from before returns with the milk of the poppy, leaving it with Bela when she takes it from her, and flees quietly. The taller woman spares her child a nod.
"She will live. This is why I suggested you not stall long. Humans are fragile things, they age and they take harm. If she is so important to you, you have decisions to make, daughter." She stands up, brushing her dress off–as if it would help clean the stains from your bloody state–and turns to leave. "Have a maiden fetch me if her condition falters."
When it's just the two of you, Bela stares down at your half unconscious form. You stare at her through lidded eyes, watching deliriously as she lifts the cup of liquid to your lips and helps you take slow sips.
"I cannot believe this has happened," she tells you, though she's talking more to herself than you at the moment. "You can be so stubborn sometimes. I told you to stay upstairs where it was safe! And you–"she falters, pulling her eyes closed before she could spit out any angry words. Bela's temper could be nasty, you'd seen the vampire around her victims. Luckily, she had never given you anything more than a scolding when you first became her handmaiden several months prior. After she developed a soft spot for you, you became less of a maiden and more of a, "you keep me company, I keep you all to myself."
"Will you be using me for wine, my Lady?"
Bela stares down at you, baffled. Of all the questions you could have asked, that is what you wondered?
"Mother says you will live." She informs you, a frown playing on her lips.
Your fingers gently curl around her own, an action that makes her stare down at you in confusion, squeezing lightly. "Why are you upset, my Lady?"
The blonde shakes her head, leaning forward to place her lips on your forehead. "You are a fool if you have not noticed my affection for you, Y/N. I–" she hesitates, unsure of her words–"you know. I've never had to say it."
"You what?"
She can tell you're drifting out of consciousness. "My sweet, fragile little human, I love you."
You fall asleep with the velvet of her voice and the shock of her words.