Dark Heart, Gentle Hands Chapter 8: My little human

Alaric’s POV

No one has ever shown genuine kindness. I’ve never been on the receiving end of it, not even once in my long, cursed existence. I learned, long ago, that the world is cruel, that rcy is a fleeting illusion ant for others, never for . I stopped expecting it. I stopped hoping. Instead, I embraced the darkness, let it consu , let it shape into sothing neither fully alive nor entirely dead. I beca a shadow, a whisper, a forgotten nightmare lingering at the edges of reality.

But that day—when I was shot and left for dead—everything changed. A re human, fragile and ignorant of what I truly am, showed rcy. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t turn away in disgust or fear. He saved . , of all creatures. I still don’t understand why. Perhaps he simply saw a dying soul and acted on impulse. Perhaps his heart is too kind, too open, too foolish. Whatever the reason, it does not matter. What matters is that, in that mont, he altered the course of my existence.

And because of that, I have made it my life’s duty to protect him, to ensure that he is always safe, always cared for, even if he never knows I exist.

I watch over him, always in the shadows, always close. He doesn’t realize it, but I’m there. I was there the other night when his colleagues brought him ho, drunk and vulnerable. He had laughed too much, talked too loudly, his eyes glossy with intoxication. He trusts too easily, oblivious to the dangers that lurk in the hearts of n. And when that despicable doctor—the one who feigns kindness but hides darkness in his heart—attempted to take advantage of him, I stopped him. The doctor won’t try again. He’s learned his lesson. And if he hasn’t, well... I have ways of ensuring he never forgets.

My human will never know the danger he was in that night, nor how close he ca to being violated. And that’s fine. My purpose is not to be thanked. My purpose is to protect.

This morning, I prepared his breakfast. I left it on the counter before vanishing into my usual hiding place, waiting to see if he would finally accept this small gesture. A al, simple yet nourishing. Warm food, ant to ease his exhaustion, to remind him that he is not alone—even if he doesn’t know it yet. But my little human threw it away.

It stung, more than I care to admit. But I understood. He doesn’t know yet. Doesn’t realize that the al this morning wasn’t so trick of his exhausted mind. That soone is looking out for him. That soone cares.

But that won’t stop . Tomorrow, I will do it again. And the day after that. And the day after that. Because ensuring his well-being is now my duty, my purpose.

He saved once. Now, I will save him, over and over again, until the day I am no longer needed. And if that day never cos... then so be it.

--I find myself at the hospital today, the place I despise most. The air is thick with the scent of antiseptic and blood, a cloying mixture that clings to every surface, seeping into my senses. The underlying hum of human suffering presses in from every corner—the beeping monitors, the muffled sobs, the hurried footsteps of overworked nurses. It makes my fangs ache, makes the hunger coil within like a living thing, whispering insidious temptations into my ear. The blood bank is just down the hall, locked away behind steel doors, but I could get in if I wanted to. Just a taste. Just enough to quiet the gnawing void inside .

But I push the urge down. I didn’t co here for that.

I am here for him.

To remain unseen, I keep my head low, the brim of my cap casting a shadow over my eyes. A mask covers the lower half of my face, hiding the telltale sharpness of my features. A simple disguise, but effective—humans rarely look past the obvious. They see what they expect to see.

Then I hear it.

"Nurse Enzo."

His na.

The syllables pull at sothing deep inside , a tether that has remained taut despite my best efforts to sever it. And like a moth drawn to fla, my little human cos running.

He appears around the corner, his uniform hanging too loosely on his small fra. It swallows him up, making him look even more delicate than he already is. His hands fumble as he adjusts the ID badge pinned to his chest, a nervous little habit I’ve seen before. But then, sothing unexpected happens. As he moves, his gaze flickers my way. Just for a second.

His brow furrows.

A tiny crease appears between his eyebrows, his lips part slightly. He hesitates, as if sothing about feels... familiar. As if, despite the shadows concealing , so part of him recognizes what the rest of him cannot.

The world slows.

A single step. He moves toward .

My grip tightens on the edge of my seat, my knuckles whitening. Will he recognize ? Would he know even like this, after all this ti?

But before he can co closer, the sa voice from earlier calls his na again.

His attention snaps away.

And then I see him.

The doctor.

That stupid-faced doctor.

The one always hovering around him, always looking at him in a way that makes sothing ugly rise inside . I watch as Enzo turns toward him, his brief mont of curiosity about forgotten.

And I feel it.

A sharp, seething annoyance curling low in my gut.

I hate hospitals. But I think I hate that stupid face doctor even more.

The one who almost destroyed my little human’s innocence that night. The one who prowls these halls with a smug expression, concealing his depravity beneath a charming smile. The one whose every word drips with deceit, whose every gesture is calculated to disarm. And worst of all—Enzo doesn’t even realize what almost happened to him.

He stands there, shifting on his feet, vulnerable in a way that makes my blood burn. He doesn’t understand the danger lurking so close, doesn’t see the predator who watches him with veiled hunger. But I do.

"Have you had lunch yet?" the doctor asks, his voice coated in false concern, in the kind of sweetness that rots from the inside.

Enzo hesitates, glancing down like a child caught in so imagined wrongdoing. "Uhm, well, no... I..." He stutters, uncertain, and I hate that this man makes him so uneasy.

Why? What does he see in him? What instinct warns him, even if he doesn’t fully comprehend it?

"I’ll take that as a no," the doctor says smoothly, too smoothly, placing a hand on Enzo’s back. The touch is light, casual—too casual—but I don’t miss the way his fingers linger just a second longer than necessary. "Co on, let’s go to my office."

Enzo follows, hesitant yet compliant, and I watch with barely restrained fury as the man guides him away. My fingers tighten into fists, nails biting into my palms, but I barely feel the pain.

Rage coils within , a beast with bared fangs, a storm gathering on the horizon.

That man does not deserve to touch him. To speak to him. To even look at him.

I force myself to inhale, to steady the fury threatening to consu . But it is a temporary restraint, a montary pause in the inevitable.

Because one way or another, I will protect my little human.

And if that ans becoming a monster to stop one—so be it.