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Luka knew something, he knew it far too well. He knew he was a two faced monster. A werewolf, born to tear and be feared, raised to obey instinct and worship violence. He knew his kind and the vampires had been enemies since the first moon touched the earth. He knew that hatred was supposed to run through his blood like an ancient, almost sacred instinct. But he also knew that deep down... he never cared.
Killing vampires was routine.
The sound of a throat opening, the wet snap, the blood soaking his hands... all of it was a strange kind of relief. Vampire flesh was just another bite: coarse, bitter, acceptable. The blood was never sweet; only an irritating tingle in his fangs.
After the work was done, he and his pack laughed around the bonfire as if life were nothing but hot smoke rising from the earth.
And Luka believed it would always stay that way. A perfect cycle. Blood, moon, fire. Repeated until oblivion.
But then Rhys appeared.
Bright, loud, curious.
A vampire who smiled too much, who spoke without fear, who seemed more alive than any mortal ever had. Luka should have destroyed him the moment they met, should have cut open that clean throat, that soft mouth, that impossible light.
But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He didn’t understand why. Maybe it was simple curiosity toward something strange, maybe it was an instinct even older, deeper, one he never wanted to name.
Those damned legends said werewolves were destined for someone. Luka always mocked that nonsense: destiny, mirrored soul, missing half, a person they were tied to like bone to marrow. Soulmates. Foolish stories for sentimental wolves.
He didn’t fit that tale. He was dark, rough, violent.
And Rhys... Rhys had light. A small, stubborn light that even the fangs of the night couldn’t extinguish.
So it was impossible. They were opposites, that vampire was everything he wasn’t.
Besides, Luka didn’t believe in destiny. But he learned to crave the vampire’s presence.
He wanted him close, in ways he sometimes didn’t understand.
A routine formed between them, unforgettable, memorized.
When Rhys was far away, Luka returned to his bloody cycle: hunting, tracking, snarling. Helping his pack exterminate those “vampire rats” with pleasure. Nothing new.
But when Rhys was near... everything shifted.
The wolf’s nose searched for him without permission. That scent wasn’t like prey: it was something untouchable, something he wanted to bury in his bones, in his skin, in his memory. A subtle perfume that always ended with a smile from Rhys whenever he caught Luka sniffing him like an obsessed animal.
And that smile... gods, that smile.
Luka remembered it for the rest of the day like a reward.
Without Rhys, Luka became the beast again.
When any vampire dared challenge him, insult him, provoke him... he growled with the full weight of his origin. No one had the right to treat him that way. No one. Only his vampire could do that, when he scolded him gently, when he taught him how to hold a quill, how to read, how to write... Only Rhys was allowed to handle him differently; every other creature’s attempt was insolence that had to be paid in flesh.
And they paid.
Blood never brought him guilt. He felt a twisted euphoria when his muzzle dripped red after ripping out another throat.
But never... never with Rhys.
Rhys’s neck was something else entirely: a place where the scent was warm, intense, almost heavenly. That’s where Luka rested his nose when Rhys hugged him, soothed him, offered refuge with no expectation.
It was his sanctuary.
Rhys did things no one else would ever do for him. He learned to cook, even burning his hands, just so Luka could eat something other than water and dried meat. He learned to knit because the werewolf’s cabin was cold and he shivered through winter. He searched for medicine, healed wounds, endured Luka’s growls without flinching.
And Luka... Killed for him. Without hesitation, without trembling.
When a pack member attacked Rhys, Luka shredded him. There was no glory, no pride. Just pure rage. And afterward, only worry. The wounded vampire was the only sight capable of breaking something inside his chest.
Sometimes, when he wanted to hurt slowly, he used his claws. Vampires knew that death was the worst. They fled, they screamed. Luka enjoyed the process.
Those same claws... those same claws touched Rhys.
They brushed through his hair with a tenderness that seemed impossible for a monster like him. They trembled with fear. Real fear, fear of harming him.
To Luka, Rhys wasn’t a vampire. He was an angel who had fallen by accident into a filthy world. He wasn’t like the beasts Luka hunted. He was light. He was calm. He was the only purity had ever touched.
And Luka responded the only way he knew how, by giving him something in return. The vampire had given him too much... so Luka brought rough, bloody, clumsy, honest gifts: jars of blood, pelts, the fangs of defeated enemies, figures carved with patience.
Rhys, admittedly confused, sometimes stared at those gifts as if unsure what to do with them... but he always smiled. Always thanked him. And that gratitude was fuel for the werewolf’s soul.
But Luka knew Rhys must never learn the truth behind those offerings. He must never know the silent massacres behind each one; that Luka slaughtered creatures of his own kind night after night; that he wiped the territory clean so the wolves could walk unchallenged, like rulers.
In Rhys’s eyes, Luka was different. Kinder. A grumpy wolf, but gentle.
And Luka breathed in relief every time the vampire believed in him. Blindly.
Once, in a tavern... a human warned Rhys to be careful with the werewolf.
Rhys was so offended he walked out, refusing to believe a single word from that filthy mouthed mortal.
And Luka... Luka hunted the fool with the loose tongue.
Killing humans was easy.
Too easy.
And he would’ve done it a thousand times over. Because he wasn’t going to let anything taint that source of warmth, those soft hands, that voice that spoke his name as if it meant something.
He was in love. In a twisted, possessive, sick way.
But in love.
Rhys was his. His property, his hunger, his shadow.
There were nights when the possession grew thick like burnt honey. The dark cabin, the moon slipping through the curtains. Two bodies close, breaths mixing, skin meeting in silence. A heated intimacy without words, with no need to describe it, just existing like a quiet fire.
After the act, Rhys slept beside him. Curled up, trusting. Unaware of the monster lying next to him, of the dangerous beast.
Luka loved that. He loved that trust, that innocence.
He loved him so much it hurt.
So much it killed.
And he wasn’t going to lose him. Ever.
Not even if the world burned; not even if the blood of a hundred vampires soaked the earth.
Rhys was the only light Luka allowed into his darkness. And that light, though pure... could burn if Luka wished it.
Because the werewolf loved him in a way that was deep, in a way that was dark, in a way from which there was no return.
Forever.