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The storm rolled in fast. The horses twitched, the air went metallic, and Diego Brando’s scowl deepened.
You’d been riding behind him for half the day, keeping pace with that tight-lipped tension that passed for cooperation between the two of you. He didn’t ask questions, and you didn’t offer any answers. That was the agreement, mutual benefit, temporary truce, no digging.
The sky cracked open above you, the kind of storm that felt like it was ripping through the clouds. You were already soaked and the trail ahead was vanishing under mud.
You saw it first, a sliver of light through the trees. Faint, flickering. An inn, small and dark beneath the downpour.
“Brando,” you called, voice flat. “There.”
He followed your gaze, clicked his tongue, and turned his horse without a word.
The inn looked half-abandoned, lanterns shuddering in the wind. The sign was half-missing its letters. But it was shelter. Even your skin, ever cold, felt colder still.
Inside, the air was stale with dust and mould. The innkeeper barely looked at either of you. He simply handed over two iron keys with a grunt and vanished into the back room without speaking. You took the left room and Diego took the right.
But only one of them had a working hearth.
You didn’t talk about it, but when the fire was lit, and the rain started battering the windows harder, you both ended up in the same room.
Diego sat on the edge of the bed like a coiled animal, dripping onto the floor, one boot still half-on.
He looked at you. Really looked. Judged. Narrowed those sharp, predator’s eyes.
“You haven’t eaten,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
You leaned against the wall, letting the shadows dissolve the sharp lines of your face. “Neither have you.”
“Difference is, I don’t look like I’m about to keel over.” He leaned forward slightly, loose and dangerous. “Or tear someone’s throat out.”
Your stomach twisted, whether from hunger or the way he said it, you weren’t sure.
The fire burned low that night, and neither of you spoke again.
Morning came grey and sodden. The rain didn’t let up.
Not the next day. Not the day after.
The roads were sludge and the mountains impassable. You were trapped. The horses stayed stabled, restless. The innkeeper kept to himself, barely seen, barely heard, as if even he didn’t want to be there.
You tossed and turned restlessly. Ate nothing. Drank water that tasted like rust and iron. Diego had his own rations, dried meat, hard bread. He offered once, half-mocking. But you declined.
By the third day, you were stretched far too thin. A headache had bloomed behind your eyes into something sharp and constant. Everything sounded much too loud: the raindrops, the creaking floorboards, the crack of Diego’s knife as he sharpened it for the second time that night.
“I don’t know what you are.” He said, not looking up. “I don’t know if it’s a Stand, or something worse, but you’re going to snap soon,”
You didn’t answer. You were sitting on the floor by the window, flush against the wall, cradling your knees. Cold, always cold.
He tilted his head toward you, that sharp, irritating smirk just barely tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Is this where you finally confess?” he asked. “What kind of monster you are?”
You stared at him. He met your gaze without flinching. You could hear the pulse in his throat, steady and alive.
Your voice came out low, hoarse. “If I told you, you’d kill me.”
He shrugged. “Depends what kind. There are useful monsters out there. But there’s the kind that get sloppy - why do you think Zeppeli’s still kicking even with half the racers out for his head? He hasn’t slipped yet, but everyone else did, no matter how much of a scary monster they were.”
You stood. The room shifted with you, tight walls, dim light and too much heat for your cold skin. You felt exposed under his gaze.
“I’m not sloppy,” you said.
“Then you’re starving.”
You looked away. The fire cracked. The silence in the room felt heavier than the rain outside, and finally, you said it:
“I haven’t fed since Kansas.”
The admission made your stomach clench with shame.
Diego blinked. A beat passed. Then:
“…That was over a week ago.”
You nodded, slowly. “I can hold out. A little longer.”
He was silent again. Eyeing you like a hawk. Curious.
Then he stood and crossed the room. Not rushed. Not cautious. Just close enough for his body heat to reach you, like the flicker of a flame which you dared to get too close. He didn’t smell like fear. He never had.
“Tell me what you need,” he said, voice low, controlled.
You met his eyes. The hunger flared up so fast it made your jaw ache.
“…Blood,” you said.
Diego scoffed under his breath, like he’d just been handed proof of something he already suspected.
“Of course it’s blood,” he muttered. “Always something inconvenient with you.”
He didn’t move to help. Didn’t offer. Just stood there waiting - to be proven right or to be proven wrong, it didn’t matter.
“Go on, then,” he said, voice flat. “I’m not going to babysit you through it.”
You didn’t move at first. Just stood there, frozen, the words hanging in the air like a blade.
Diego didn’t back away. Didn’t laugh. Didn’t flinch.
“I’m not offering twice,” he said, low. “If you’re going to do it, do it. If not -” he turned slightly, as if to walk away “don’t waste my time.”
Your hand shot out before you could stop yourself, fingers wrapping around his wrist.
He stopped. Looked at you.
You could feel the heat of his blood through the thin riding gloves. It thrummed under his skin, and it made something deep inside you snarl with need.
Diego raised a brow, but his voice was quiet now. “How does it work?”
Your throat was dry. “Fastest near the neck. Cleanest at the wrist. But I can take less if it’s the shoulder or -”
“You said fastest.” He tilted his head, baring his throat to you, just slightly. Not enough to seem submissive - just enough to make your heart kick.
“Don’t make a mess,” he said.
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.
The moment you stepped close enough to feel his breath, something in you broke. Instinct surged up, dangerous and beautiful. You pressed one hand to his shoulder, fingers trembling, and the other against the back of his neck.
“Tell me to stop,” you whispered. You needed him to say it. Needed the excuse.
But he didn’t.
So you bit.
His blood hit your tongue like fire, ash and something wild. It was hot and intoxicating, alive in a way that made the rest of the world die quietly. You drank like you were dying along with it, and maybe you were.
Diego didn’t move. Didn’t jerk or push you off. His breath caught once - just once - but his body remained still under your hands.
The sound of the storm outside faded beneath the pounding in your ears. You only meant to take a little bit. Just enough to steady yourself.
But it tasted like strength. And you were so tired of being weak.
Then his fingers curled into your coat, not to pull you away, just to anchor you.
A warning and a promise.
You stopped before he had to ask.
You pulled back, trembling, mouth wet with blood, shame and something else - wanting. The hunger quieted, but something stirred. Something quieter. Meaner.
Diego looked at you. Not angry. Not afraid.
Just watching.
“You’re a messy eater,” he said.
You let out a shaky breath. “You didn’t tell me to stop.”
He licked his lips once, casually. “I told you to keep it clean.”
You stared at him. Your heart felt like it didn’t know what rhythm to keep anymore.
“Why did you do it?” you asked.
“I’ve been hungry before too. I buried what it took from me, and I don’t fancy having to bury you too tonight.”
The storm hadn’t stopped, but it had calmed, no more thunder, no more crashing wind. Just the quiet hum of rain against the window.
You rinsed your mouth in the basin. The water turned faintly pink before it cleared.
Diego sat near the fireplace, boots off, coat slung over the chair beside him. He hadn’t spoken since.
The silence wasn’t tense, not exactly, just full.
You stayed standing. Still too full of restless energy – the heat, the shame and the ghost of his pulse under your tongue - to sit still.
Diego finally moved, shifting to dig something from his coat pocket. A small tin of jerky. He popped a piece in his mouth, chewed slowly. When he caught your eye, he smirked faintly.
“Feel better?” he asked, like he was asking if you’d finally taken a piss after a long day out riding.
You didn’t answer. Just looked away, jaw tight.
He didn’t push. Didn’t pry. But his gaze lingered longer than it usually did - tracking your movements with that same calculating gaze, like he was still trying to decide what you were.
You sat down eventually. Not across the room. Not next to him. Just… closer than before.
You glanced at him. He didn’t look at you, but his voice came soft:
“Next time you wait that long, I’m charging interest.”
You almost laughed.
But instead, you leaned back, let the warmth of the fire creep under your skin, and said nothing.
By morning, the storm had passed. But neither of you left right away.