Eternal Night

(III) Chapter 2: This Space Between Us

Vladislaus Drăculea had always prided himself on his reputation for utter self-mastery. There was rarely ever an instance where he gave way to the purity of his more human emotions without absolutely intending to do so first. Restraint and discipline were the two guiding principles his father had instilled in him as a young boy – long before his days as political hostage of the Ottoman Turks. Old Dracul had hoped that iron will and sense of control would cure his son of passion. Instead, it taught Vlad how to shape, wear, and shift between masks – rarely displaying his true feelings, let alone acknowledging them. He had never had a reason to call this aspect of his personality into question.

That is, until Francesca.

His diffidence in the face of the Váci Street massacre from three weeks ago had wedged an unintended bit of distance between himself and the woman, and it hadn't been quite so obvious to him until this evening.

Vlad knew that the defeat had been eating away at his intended, that the guilt of it had often woken her from a dead sleep in the afternoon while the sun still hung high in the sky. And given the way she had willfully and arrogantly strutted face first into what was undoubtedly a trap earlier this evening, it was clear that the shame had put her on a spiraling path of self-destruction.

Frankie had been hesitant to direct the alliance almost from the moment he had suggested the change in leadership. Until the incident on Váci, she had often asked – in a purely indirect way, of course – if he was certain her spearheading this effort was the right thing to do. He had hoped she'd overcome her self-doubt and realize the potential he already knew she possessed. But the slaughter of three weeks ago had shaken her.

He'd be lying if he said it hadn't shaken him as well.

Her continued hesitance when it came to being blood-bound to him wasn't helping anything either. He had always been so confident in his natural talents of persuasion, but Francesca had proven herself as willful as ever.

That wasn't to say Dracula couldn't empathize with her reservations. Being blood-bound meant having complete, unrestricted access to your bonded mate – that direct mental link no doubt being one of the things that frightened her most. He tried not to be offended by it, her implied lack of trust, but it had grown more difficult not to take the whole thing personally as the woman herself had become more withdrawn, more secretive.

Can we really do this?

It was the question the man often found himself wondering night after night when he'd wait by the fireplace for her to return home for the day. The temptation to build walls of his own, to succumb to old habits and hold her at a distance as he had with all of his past paramours – it never had the chance to take root in him. The old inducement always seemed to vanish the instant she crossed the threshold of his front door.

This morning was no exception.

One look into those soul-destroying blue eyes of hers and he was lost all over again... even with the tension and the strain and the unresolved issues that still lay between them. All it took was a single glance and he knew he could never give her up. And if that meant submitting to her will for a change, to obligingly take a back seat even though every inch of him screamed to dominate and command, he was becoming more and more willing to entertain the notion.

She had arrived right on time as he had all but demanded earlier in the evening, but unlike nights previous, she was presently covered in blood, her eyes wild with frustration. She locked the door behind her with the sheer power of her will before pulling what looked like someone else's jacket from her body. Her blouse had been sliced and torn beyond hope of repair, soaked in blood – though by the scent of it, it wasn't hers.