She woke screaming.
The sound tore itself out of her before she was even properly awake, high and raw, echoing off the bedroom walls.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She was drenched in sweat, the sheets twisted around her legs. For a split second, the world was blue-white UV and the smell of burning flesh and the taste of old iron.
Someone’s hand closed around hers.
“Mira,” Aleksandr’s voice said, close, urgent. “Wake.”
She flailed, kicked, connecting with something solid that grunted.
“Mira,” he said again, hands now on her shoulders, not shaking, just grounding. “It is… me. You are… here.”
The room resolved around her in jerky frames: the cheap wardrobe. The lamp. The faint orange glow of the streetlight through the curtains. Aleksandr’s face, too close, eyes wide.
She sucked in a ragged breath.
“Fuck,” she gasped. “Fuck. Fuck.”
He huffed a breath that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so pained.
“Accurate,” he said. “Can you… breathe?”
She forced air in. Out. Her lungs burned like she’d run.
“It was…” She swallowed. “The lab. The… tank. But… different. Worse.”
He brushed damp hair back from her forehead with careful fingers.
“You… shouted… my name,” he said. “And… hers.”
“Whose?” she asked, even though she already knew.
“Elizaveta,” he said quietly.
Her throat closed.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted.
He blinked. “For… what?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.
“For… dragging… you… into… my… nightmares,” she said. “For… making you… relive…”
He shook his head, firm.
“You did not… drag me,” he said. “We… went… together. On… purpose. I… offered. You… accepted. This…” He gestured vaguely at her tangled sheets. “Is… not… your… fault.”
She exhaled shakily.
“Tell that… to my… amygdala,” she muttered.
He smiled faintly. “Bring it… here,” he said. “I will… lecture it.”
She snorted, then winced as the aftershock tremor rippled through her.
He shifted, sitting on the edge of the bed more fully, his weight making the mattress dip. He wore only a T-shirt and sleep pants; his hair was mussed, like he’d been actually asleep.
“Did I… wake you?” she asked, guilt flaring.
“Yes,” he said. “Loudly. But… honestly… I prefer… your screams… to the… building… collapsing.”
She made a face. “Don’t say ‘prefer my screams’ in my bedroom,” she said weakly. “It gives me… ideas.”
He chuckled, low. “Noted,” he said.
She scrubbed her hands over her face.
Images still clung: Kira’s blood had brought different horrors than Aleksandr’s had. Men in white coats with too-bright eyes. Restraints that were less about control and more about humiliation. Clipboard checkmarks that decided who lived and who didn’t based on criteria written in impersonal ink.
“They kept… calling them… ‘subjects,’” she whispered. “Not… people. Not… even… vampires. Subjects. Like… lab… rats.”
“Yes,” he said. “They… like… that word. It… absolves.”
Her fingers curled involuntarily. “I wanted to… rip the pages… out of their hands… and… shove them down their throats,” she said.
“I know,” he said quietly.
She looked at him.
“You saw,” she said. “Through… me.”
“Yes,” he said. “Enough.”
“You didn’t… tell me… that’s how it would work,” she said, voice trembling between accusation and plea.
He shrugged, self-conscious. “I did not… know… with… another’s… blood,” he said. “It is… different… when… I am the… only… source.”
She swallowed.
Kira had left earlier, pale and silent, after sharing a small cut on her palm in Mira’s kitchen. The red thread had been thinner, but no less potent.
“You okay?” she asked.
He surprised her by nodding. “I… have seen… worse,” he said. “And… similar.”
She wanted to argue that no one should have to see this, worse or otherwise. That he deserved better. That any creature with a capacity for thought did.
Instead, she reached for his hand.
He took it without hesitation.
“I hate them,” she said softly. “More… than I thought… possible. The ones… in Kira’s… memories. The ones in yours. The ones now. The lab coats. The boardrooms. Not the… monsters. The… *men*.”
“Yes,” he said. “So do… I.”
She squeezed his fingers hard enough to hurt a human.
He didn’t flinch.
“Promise me something,” she said.
“Dangerous,” he murmured. “What?”
“When we go… to the cannery… when we… finally… hit it… you don’t… lose yourself,” she said. “You don’t… let… this… turn you… into… what they… think… you are.”
His gaze darkened.
“And if… what they… think… I am… is… the only… thing… that can… tear… their… walls… down?” he asked.
She didn’t look away.
“Then… you… come back to me… afterward,” she said. “All the way. Not just… what’s left… after… you’ve… burned.”
Silence.
His fingers tightened around hers.
“I will… try,” he said. “I cannot… promise… more.”
“Telling the truth,” she whispered. “How novel.”
He huffed.
He studied her face.
“Do you want… me to… help you… sleep… again?” he asked.
She hesitated.
“Yes,” she said eventually. “But… not… like… before. Not… with… you… in my… head. Just… stay. Here.”
He nodded.
He shifted, lying down on top of the covers beside her, on his back, one arm folded under his head. He didn’t touch her, but his presence was a weight, a shield.
She turned on her side, facing him.
In the faint light, his profile was all angles and shadows.
“Do you miss… it?” she asked suddenly.
He blinked. “What?” he asked.
“Blood… that doesn’t… come in bags,” she said. “The… hunt. The… taste. The… power.”
He considered.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “Sometimes. It is… like… missing… a drug. Not just… the substance… but… the… ritual. The… preparation. The… after.”
She swallowed.
“And being… with me,” she pushed, because self-sabotage was apparently her coping mechanism, “makes that… harder. Because… I’m… warm… and… right… there.”
“Yes,” he said again, voice rougher. “It does.”
“And you’re… still here,” she said.
“Yes,” he repeated.
She exhaled.
“Idiot,” she murmured fondly.
He smiled, the expression softening the harsh lines.
“You… choose… this,” he said. “You… keep… choosing… this. The… fight. The… mess. Me. That… is… not… nothing.”
“Yeah, well,” she said. “My taste… is… questionable.”
“Agreed,” he said.
She shoved his shoulder lightly.
“Sleep,” he said.
She closed her eyes, letting the rhythm of his unnecessary breaths lull her. She could feel his eyes on her for a while, a weight on her skin.
Eventually, her heart slowed.
When she drifted off this time, the dreams were different. Still sharp, still full of old buildings and long corridors, but threaded now with a cool hand in hers and a voice in the dark saying, *Here. This way. Together.*
***