Rhaegal returned to his quarters in the early hours of the morning.
The dark glint in his eyes had dulled but hadn't disappeared entirely. Even though he had fed—drinking straight from a human's vein—his hunger still clawed at him. It wasn't just thirst anymore. It was craving. A craving for a very specific kind of blood.
One he feared he couldn't resist for long.
His eyes drifted to Malin, still fast asleep on the bed. Rhaegal clenched his jaw and looked away, forcing himself to keep his distance.
He walked into the bathroom, took a quick shower, changed into a robe, and poured himself a glass of dark liquor. Drops of water trickled from his hair down his chest as he sank into the couch, shadows casting a warm, flickering hue over him.
But his mind was far from calm.
For the first time, he questioned his decision to bring Malin into his home. He had meant to protect the boy. Yet somehow, he had become the danger Malin needed protecting from.
There was something about malin—those compelling eyes, that scent. It stirred something primal in Rhaegal. Something he hated.
Suddenly, Malin stirred. He sat up with a sharp breath, eyes wide.
He remembered the chase. The rogue werewolves. The black carriage.
His gaze scanned the room—the plain walls, the soft light—then landed on the man with his back turned to him.
"My lord?" Malin said softly.
Rhaegal turned his head slightly but said nothing. His grip on the glass tightened.
Malin stepped off the bed and walked over, guilt tightening his chest.
"I… I wasn't trying to run away," he said, lowering his head. "I just wanted to see what was beyond the estate."
Silence.
"I know I've caused trouble. Please forgive me, my lord."
Rhaegal slowly turned to face him. His eyes trailed over Malin's slumped shoulders, trembling hands, and lowered gaze. His jaw tightened.
"Why are you apologizing?" Rhaegal's voice was calm, but laced with restrained anger.
Malin looked up, confused.
"If I hadn't arrived when I did, you'd be dead," Rhaegal said coldly. "Have you not figured it out yet, or are you just plain stupid?"
Malin blinked, hurt and confused. "What do you mean?"
Rhaegal scoffed and gave a slow, sarcastic nod. "Ah. Stupidity, i see."
Malin frowned. "Is there something wrong with me?"
Rhaegal stood, walked past him, then paused with his back turned. His voice came low and steady.
"That's the wrong question, Malin. The question should be—what are you?"
Malin repeated the words to himself. "What am I…?"
He frowned. He had never felt different. He had always believed he was just another human boy.
Rhaegal turned and stepped closer.
"I don't know what you are yet," he said, "but you're not human."
Malin frowned, his brows furrowing so deeply it was as if the truth could be denied by sheer will. "No," he whispered, shaking his head violently. "No, I can't believe it. I'm human. I am human." He stepped back, as though the very air around Rhaegal had become poisonous.
Rhaegal watched him with a quiet intensity, unblinking. He had expected this. Denial was always the first gate to fall.
"You're not," he said simply, almost coldly. "And I will show you."
Before Malin could react, Rhaegal's claws emerged—black and gleaming in the faint light. In one swift, brutal movement, he slashed across his own chest. Fresh blood welled up instantly, dark and thick, trickling in rivulets down his torso.
Malin's eyes widened with horror. "Stop!" he gasped—but it was too late.
Rhaegal seized Malin's wrist with unnatural speed. His grip was like iron.
"Don't—please!" Malin thrashed, his voice rising in panic, but Rhaegal's expression had steeled into something unreadable. With his other claw, he drew a sharp line across Malin's palm.
The boy cried out—a choked, pained sound that tore from his throat before he could stifle it. The scent of his blood filled the room in a single, thunderous wave. Rich. Ancient. Alive in a way that no blood should be.
Rhaegal stiffened. His jaw clenched. His fangs threatened to emerge again.
But then—The wound on Malin's palm stopped bleeding almost instantly. Skin knit itself back together in front of their eyes. The pain vanished, and there wasn't even a scar to show for it.
Rhaegal's chest, however, still bled.
Malin stared down at his hand, breath hitching, eyes wide. He raised them slowly to Rhaegal. "Why… why is yours still bleeding?" he asked, voice trembling, soul shaken.
Rhaegal released his wrist and stepped back, exhaling slowly. "Because I'm a vampire," he said, "and you—Malin—are not human. Your healing ability supersedes that of a vampire. You are something else entirely."
Malin stood frozen, as if his body had gone cold from the inside out. "That's why… They wanted to kill me? Why my parents tried to—?"
"Yes," Rhaegal said. "That's why the werewolves came for you, too. Your blood—it's not just rare. It's powerful. It tempts even the most restrained predator."
Malin stumbled backward, clutching his arm as if trying to deny its healing. The memory returned then, crashing through him like lightning—the blinding light from his body when the werewolves attacked. He'd thought it had been shock or delirium. A hallucination. But it wasn't.
"I was never human," he murmured, more to himself than to Rhaegal. "But then what… what am I?"
Rhaegal's eyes, once hard and unreadable, now softened. He let his gaze linger on Malin—how the boy had filled out since arriving at the mansion, the way his ribs no longer showed beneath his skin. how there was color in his cheeks again. He was —healthier, fuller.
He looked away from the boy's bare chest, jaw tight.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "But I intend to find out."
Malin's breath hitched. He looked down at his hand once more, then up at Rhaegal. His eyes flicked to the blood still trickling down the vampire's chest.
Without thinking, he stepped forward, pulling a white handkerchief from his pocket. "You're still bleeding," he said softly, moving to dab at the wound.
Rhaegal grabbed his wrist again—firm, unyielding. "What are you doing?" he asked, his voice a low warning.
Malin flinched. "I just… I thought I should—"
"You shouldn't," Rhaegal snapped. The bite in his voice stung like a lash. He let go and turned away. "Don't ever get that close to me again."
The words landed like stones in Malin's chest.
"Yes, my lord," he whispered, lowering his head, the rejection slicing deeper than any wound could.
Rhaegal didn't look back. "You're excused from chores today. I'll inform Alfred."
"Thank you," Malin whispered before quietly slipping out of Lord Rhaegal's quarters.
He should have been relieved. A day off was rare, a gift. But there was no lightness in his steps. No sense of reward. Only a quiet unease that curled itself around his ribs and refused to let go.
The lord's reaction lingered in his mind like a bitter aftertaste. Such a strong, visceral response to the smallest touch—it wasn't just rejection. It was fear. Or guilt. Or something Malin couldn't name. And it wasn't the first time. He remembered asking, days ago, about the lord's bare and strangely unadorned quarters. The cold silence that followed then had felt eerily similar to the one that now echoed in his ears.
Was Lord Rhaegal hiding something? Or protecting something?
He shook the thought away, then his mind wandered back to the truth that had been carved into his palm and erased in the same breath. Not human. Not ordinary. Something else. Something dangerous enough to tempt monsters. Precious enough to be hunted.
But what?
He clawed at his memory, desperately trying to remember a life before the river. Before the day he'd been found—drenched, half-conscious. But that chapter of his story was gone. Washed away like silt in a storm. His earliest recollections began with his adoptive parents. But even that, now, felt like a lie wearing a comforting mask.
What came before?
What was he before now ?
And where—if anywhere—were his true parents now? Were they out there somewhere?
The thought twisted inside him. He had never longed for them before. He had never needed to. But now… now he wasn't so sure. Not knowing made the world feel bigger and more hollow than it had ever felt.
And though he walked away with his hands free of chores and his body unbruised, Malin felt heavier than he had in days. As if something invisible had settled on his shoulders—and refused to let go.