Chapter Text
The city at night was nothing more than a static hum of electricity, exhaust, and the bitter tang of stale sweat. To a human, it was a Monday evening in late autumn. Chilly, damp, and thoroughly unremarkable.
To Bruno Buccellati, it was an ocean of noise.
He sat at the corner table of a dimly lit, low-key lounge on the edge of the district, his fingers loosely curled around a glass of club soda and lime. The ice had long since melted, watering down a drink he had no intention of consuming anyway.
Human food tasted fine, bland and dull in comparison to the delicacy of blood, and alcohol was nothing more than a mild, unpleasant burning sensation that did nothing to numb the perpetual ache.
He was starving. The exhausting starvation that came from strict, agonizing self-regulation.
Bruno looked down at his hands. They looked exactly as they had when he was seventeen years old. Smooth skin, neat fingernails, a youthful suppleness that time had frozen in place. Almost ten years had passed outside of him, yet he remained trapped in the snapshot of his own halted mortality.
Seventeen. He had been so young, so terrified when he woke up in a ditch with a throat that burned like liquid fire.
In those early years, his morals had been his only anchor.
He remembered the desperate, trembling nights spent slipping through the sterile, fluorescent-lit corridors of local hospitals. He had been clever then, using his unnatural stealth and the first clumsy tugs of his compulsion to slip past night-shift nurses, jimmying open blood bank refrigerators to steal the seemingly abundant plastic bags of O-negative.
He had thought it was a victimless crime. A survival compromise.
Until the night he had hovered in the shadows of an intensive care unit, clutched by the sudden, sickening realization of what he was actually doing. He had watched a frantic team of doctors wheel in a young boy, a victim of a car crash, hemorrhaging heavily. The frantic shout of a nurse echoed in his memory even now: “We’re short on universal donor units! Where is the shipment from the blood bank?”
Bruno had gone back to his squat that night, looked at the stolen plastic bags in his trembling hands, and felt a wave of self-loathing so profound it had physically nauseated him. He was stealing life from the dying just to prolong his own monstrous, stagnant existence.
Every drop he took from a hospital was a drop denied to a child, a mother, a father.
He had never stolen a blood bag again.
Instead, he had adapted. He had learned the delicate art of the modern courtship. The slow, deliberate charm, the selective hunting of temporary lovers or passing strangers who wouldn't be missed for an hour or two. He learned to take just enough to survive, never enough to harm, and use the heavy, hypnotic fog of his compulsion to sew up their memories afterward, leaving them with nothing but the vague sensation of a passionate, exhausting night and a slight iron deficiency.
But it was a miserable way to live. The guilt never truly left; it just changed shape.
Bruno sighed, rubbing his temples. The ambient light of the lounge flickered. It was barely nine o'clock, but he felt a profound lethargy deep in his bones. The sun had been brutal today, unusually bright for autumn. Even behind the heavy blackout curtains of his apartment, the daytime always managed to seep into him, draining his reserves, rendering his unnatural strength sluggish and his mind thick with fog. He was weak tonight. His compulsion would be difficult to use if he didn't feed soon.
He closed his eyes, tuning out the clinking of glasses and the low murmur of the patrons, letting his senses drift. He filtered through the scents of the room: cheap cologne, spilled gin, the metallic tang of vape smoke, the sour scent of human anxiety.
Nothing but static.
Then, the door to the lounge swung open.
A draft of cool night air swept into the room, and with it came something that made Bruno’s eyes snap open, his pupils instantly dilating.
It was a scent that defied the suffocating mediocrity of the city. It was heavy, sharp, and intoxicatingly complex, and he couldn't describe it if he tried. It was an irresistible pull, a physical tether that snapped taut against Bruno’s chest and dragged his gaze directly to the entrance.
A man had just walked in.
He was tall, with a slender frame cloaked in a long, dark coat that brushed his calves. His hair was a striking, pale silver that reached his waist, layers falling in loose strands around a sharp, pale face. But it was his expression that held Bruno captive. He looked thoroughly, aggressively miserable. A deep, permanent scowl marred his handsome features, and his eyes—a brilliant, piercing blue that seemed almost purple in the light—swept over the room with utter disdain.
Every instinct in Bruno’s body, honed over a lifetime of predatory restraint, screamed at him. Him. Choose him.
The silver-haired man walked toward the bar, ignoring the few glances thrown his way, and slid onto a stool with a weary, irritated sigh. He didn't look like someone who wanted company. In fact, he looked like he might break the jaw of anyone who dared speak to him.
Bruno felt a familiar, cautious thrill stir in his chest. He stood up, smoothing the front of his fitted black blouse, his chest tightening with anticipation.
He didn't know who the man was, but as Bruno began his slow, deliberate walk across the dim room, his gaze locked entirely on the curve of the stranger's throat, he knew one thing with absolute certainty.
He was going to taste him tonight.
The distance between the corner table and the bar was barely twenty paces, but to Bruno, it felt like wading through a thick, intoxicating current. With every step he took, the noise of the lounge seemed to recede into the background, drowned out by the steady, rhythmic beat of the stranger’s pulse.
It was a strong heart. A stubborn one.
Bruno slid onto the vacant stool right next to the silver-haired man, keeping his movements fluid and unthreatening. Up close, the scent was nearly overwhelming.
Underneath the sharp tang of leather, cold rain, and faint tobacco, there was the rich, velvety warmth of the man’s blood. A scent so potent it made Bruno’s fangs ache behind his lips, a dull pressure demanding to be released.
Bruno didn't speak immediately. He caught the bartender’s eye with a polite nod. "A glass of red wine, please. Whatever your heaviest vintage is."
The bartender nodded and scurried off. Beside him, the stranger didn't turn his head, but Bruno caught the subtle shift in his posture—the way his broad shoulders tense beneath the dark coat, a clear defensive wall snapping into place.
"If you're looking for a conversation, you're wasting your breath," the man said. His voice was a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated right through the wood of the bar. It was rough, weary, and entirely uninviting. "I'm not in the mood."
Bruno let out a soft, melodious chuckle, a sound carefully crafted over years of hunting to disarm and intrigue. He turned his head, leaning an elbow on the bar to look at the man openly.
"I haven't said a word yet," Bruno replied smoothly, his voice dripping with gentle amusement. "Is it a crime to simply appreciate a quiet spot at the bar?"
The man finally turned his head, his eyes narrowing as they locked onto Bruno. He looked him up and down, his gaze lingering for a fraction of a second on Bruno’s immaculate clothing, the sharp cut of his dark hair, and the pale, flawless symmetry of his face. For a fleeting moment, a flicker of something close to surprise crossed the stranger's features, but it was quickly masked by his ironclad scowl.
"People who sit that close always want something," the man muttered, turning his attention back to his own drink—a double shot of amber liquor that he hadn't touched yet. "Usually something stupid."
"Perhaps," Bruno conceded, his gaze drifting deliberately down to the man's mouth.
The stranger's lips were set in a hard, bitter line, yet there was a fullness to them painted with black lipstick, a sharp definition that drew Bruno’s eyes like a magnet.
He imagined those lips parting, imagined the sound of a breathless gasp escaping them when the pressure of his teeth finally broke the skin of his neck. The thought sent a jolt of heat through Bruno’s cold veins.
"But I assure you, my intentions are quite simple," Bruno continued, his voice dropping an octave, catching the low, hypnotic cadence he used when he wanted a human to truly listen. "You look like you've had a remarkably long day. And I happen to be an excellent listener."
The silver-haired man let out a harsh, cynical sound that was half-scoff, half-laugh. "A long day doesn't even begin to cover it. And trust me, sweetheart, my life isn't the kind of sob story you want to hear over a cheap drink."
Sweetheart. The casual, dismissive moniker shouldn't have sent a thrill through Bruno, but it did. It proved the man wasn't entirely immune; he was pushing back, testing the boundaries.
"Try me," Bruno murmured, his dark eyes locking onto the stranger's.
He attempted to push a small, subtle wave of his compulsion through the look—just enough to soften the hard edges of the man’s anger, to make the air between them feel warm and safe. But the moment the mental pressure left him, Bruno felt a dull ache behind his temples.
Damn it. The daylight had drained him more than he realized. He'd been in the sun more than usual today.
He couldn't rely on his magic tonight. If he wanted this man, he was going to have to earn him the human way. With nothing but his own words, his own charm, and the sheer magnetism of his presence.
The silver-haired man blinked, shaking his head slightly as if swatting away a persistent fly. The compulsion hadn't taken, but the intense, unwavering focus of Bruno's gaze clearly did something. The man’s scowl didn't disappear, but the aggressive tension in his jaw relaxed, just a fraction.
"Leone," the man said abruptly, his voice a bit rougher than before. He reached out, his long, pale fingers wrapping around his glass.
Bruno smiled, a genuine, blinding expression that made his dark eyes crinkle at the corners. "Bruno. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Leone."
Leone took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving Bruno’s face. "You're a strange guy, Bruno. You look like you belong in a high-end gallery in Milan, not sitting in a dive lounge in the slums, talking to a miserable bastard like me."
"Then let us say we both find ourselves out of place tonight," Bruno said, tilting his head.
Leone’s gaze lingered on Bruno's smile, his eyes narrowing as if trying to solve a particularly frustrating riddle. A faint, nearly imperceptible flush crept up the pale expanse of his neck, just above the collar of his dark coat. It was a beautiful sight, the sudden rush of hot, oxygen-rich blood responding to Bruno's proximity.
The scent intensified, a violent spike of warmth that made Bruno’s stomach twist with a sharp, demanding pang of hunger.
"Out of place is a permanent state of being for me," Leone muttered, though his tone had lost its venom. He looked down at his glass, swirling the amber liquid. "But you? You look like you have options. You could have chosen anyone in this room, and you came over to me."
"Perhaps I have an eye for quality," Bruno replied softly, leaning just a fraction closer. The proximity allowed him to catch the subtle, uneven hitch in Leone’s breathing. "Or perhaps I simply prefer the company of someone who doesn't feel the need to pretend. The rest of this room is exhausting. You are... refreshing."
"Refreshing. Right. That's a new one." He paused, his long, dark-painted fingers tapping against the condensation on his glass. He didn't look away this time. Instead, he turned his full body toward Bruno, leaning his back against the bar, his long legs stretching out. "You're either a lunatic, Bruno, or you're incredibly bad at reading a room."
"I assure you, my perception is flawless," Bruno murmured.
He reached out, his movements deliberately slow, giving Leone ample time to pull away. He let the tips of his fingers brush against the heavy leather of Leone's sleeve, just at the wrist. Even through the fabric, Bruno could feel the electric, vibrating thrum of the man's pulse.
Leone didn't pull back. He froze, his gaze dropping to Bruno's hand, then snapping back up to his face. There was a raw, heavy tension stretching between them now, thick and undeniable. The cynical barrier Leone had erected at the start of the night was cracking, giving way to a dark, mutual curiosity.
"You're cold," Leone observed, his voice dropping into a rougher, lower register. His eyes searched Bruno's, looking for a catch, a punchline, or a threat. "Your hands. Like ice."
"An unfortunate consequence of poor circulation," Bruno lied smoothly, his voice a soft, caressing purr. "But I find I warm up quite easily in the right company."
Leone’s mouth twitched, the hard line of his lips softening into something almost resembling a smirk, though it was heavy with a weary kind of skepticism. "Is that an invitation?"
"It is whatever you want it to be, Leone," Bruno said, his voice a magnetic whisper. He let his fingers slide down, just barely grazing the bare skin of Leone's palm. The contrast was staggering—Leone was a furnace, radiating life, while Bruno was a beautifully preserved tomb. "I only know that I have an extraordinarily comfortable apartment, a bottle of wine that actually deserves to be drunk, and a distinct lack of desire to spend the rest of this night alone."
Leone stared at him, his chest rising and falling in an increasingly rapid rhythm. Bruno could see the internal battle playing out behind those striking, colorful eyes. Leone was a man who expected the worst from the world, a man who had clearly been burned enough times to treat kindness like a trap. Yet, the sheer, unadulterated focus Bruno was giving him—the worshipful, intense gravity of his gaze—was a narcotic. Humans were fragile, social creatures; they craved to be seen. And Bruno was looking at Leone as if he were the only living soul left in the entire city.
Slowly, Leone drained the rest of his drink in one sharp swallow. He set the glass down with a heavy clatter, his dark lips parting as he let out a hot, ragged breath.
"You're going to regret this, Bruno," Leone said, though there was no real conviction in the warning. It sounded more like a challenge, or a plea for Bruno to prove him wrong. He stood up, his towering frame casting a long shadow over Bruno, the dark coat billowing slightly around his calves. "I'm not a pleasant houseguest."
Bruno rose to join him, his movements effortless, a graceful predator masquerading as a gentleman. He smiled, his dark eyes gleaming with a dangerous, triumphant light under the low lounge fixtures.
"I have a remarkably high tolerance for unpleasantness," Bruno murmured, stepping into Leone's space, close enough that the silver strands of Leone's hair brushed against his shoulder. "Shall we?"
The air outside the lounge was bracing, a sudden shock of late autumn chill that made Leone immediately hunch his shoulders, pulling the high collar of his coat up around his jaw. He reached into his pocket, his long, dark-painted fingers pulling out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He lit one with a flick of a cheap plastic lighter, the small flame casting a brief, amber glow over his sharp features before he turned his face away from the wind to exhale a thick plume of gray smoke.
Bruno stood perfectly still beside him, entirely unaffected by the drop in temperature. He didn't shiver; he didn't tense. To Bruno, the cold was just an absence, a background note to the symphony of Leone's presence.
"You really don't feel it, do you?" Leone asked, his voice muffled slightly by the cigarette clenched between his teeth. He glanced down at Bruno, his eyes tracking the way the wind whipped Bruno’s dark hair across his face. "Most people would be freezing in just a blouse."
"I am... adaptable," Bruno replied smoothly, offering a small, reassuring smile as he began to walk down the damp sidewalk.
Leone fell into step beside him, his long strides easily matching Bruno’s graceful pace. The silence between them wasn't the awkward, fragile quiet of two strangers who had run out of things to say. It was heavy, weighted with the unspoken reality of what they were doing. The street lamps cast long, distorted shadows ahead of them, overlapping on the wet asphalt.
Every few steps, Leone would take a drag of his cigarette, the tip burning a brilliant, angry red in the darkness. And every time he did, the movement of his arm would pull his coat tight against his torso, revealing the sharp, elegant lines of his frame. Bruno’s gaze kept drifting back to him, tracking the line of his jaw, the pale column of his throat, and the dark, painted curve of his mouth.
The hunger was mutating now, shifting from a desperate, physical craving into a hyper-focused fixation on this specific man. He didn't just want blood anymore; he wanted Leone’s blood. He wanted to break through that thorny, cynical exterior and taste the sweetness he knew was buried beneath it.
"My place is just around this corner," Bruno murmured, breaking the silence as they turned down a quieter, residential avenue lined with historic stone buildings.
"Good," Leone grunted, flicking the ember off the end of his cigarette before dropping the butt into a gutter. "My joints are freezing. I swear this city gets damper every year."
Bruno led him up a short flight of stone steps to a heavy, dark wood door. He pulled out a ring of keys, the metallic clinking sounding incredibly loud in the quiet street. When he unlocked the door and pushed it open, the interior of the building was dark and perfectly silent.
They took a small, old-fashioned elevator up to the top floor. Inside the cramped metal box, the scent of Leone was blinding. The leather, the tobacco, the cold rain—and beneath it all, the heavy, rhythmic thrumming of his pulse, trapped in the confined space with them. Bruno kept his eyes fixed firmly on the floor indicator, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, his knuckles turning stark white. He had to breathe through his mouth to keep from losing his composure right then and there.
When the elevator finally clicked to a halt, Bruno stepped out and unlocked the door to his apartment, gesturing for Leone to enter first.
The apartment was exactly like Bruno: elegant, immaculate, and cloaked in a perpetual, deliberate shadow. Even at night, the heavy blackout curtains were drawn tight across the floor-to-ceiling windows, shutting out the ambient glare of the city. The furniture was a tasteful blend of modern minimalism and antique Italian wood, all of it perfectly arranged. There was no clutter, no dust, no signs of the messy, chaotic overflow of a normal human life.
Leone stepped into the entryway, his boots clicking softly against the dark hardwood. He stood in the center of the room, hands shoved deep into his pockets, looking around with a slow, discerning gaze.
"Nice place," Leone said, his voice echoing slightly in the quiet space. He turned his head, his blue-violet eyes locking onto Bruno as the door clicked shut behind them. "A little clinical. Like a museum. Do you actually live here, or do you just use it to impress people you pick up in dives?"
Bruno chuckled, a soft, rich sound as he walked past Leone to hang his keys on a small brass hook. "I assure you, I live here. Though I admit, I don't harbor much love for useless clutter. Make yourself comfortable, Leone. Can I take your coat?"
Leone hesitated for a fraction of a second, his shoulders tensing slightly as if the act of removing his coat was a vulnerability he wasn't entirely ready to concede. But then, with a low, rough sigh, he shrugged out of the heavy dark fabric.
Bruno stepped forward to accept it, his hands accidentally brushing against Leone’s forearms in the process. The sheer, radiating heat of the man made Bruno’s breath hitch.
Without the coat, Leone was striking. He wore a simple, dark ribbed sweater that clung tightly to his long torso and shoulders, tapering down to his waist. The fabric accentuated the lean, powerful musculature of his frame. But what drew Bruno’s eyes, what made his heart, if it were still capable of beating, stop entirely, was the exposed skin of Leone's neck.
The pale, smooth column of his throat was fully visible now, the strong cords of his neck shifting as he turned his head. Right at the base, just above his collarbone, Bruno could see the faint, rhythmic flutter of his carotid artery against the skin. He could hear it.
The sound was deafening. The scent was a physical blow.
Bruno felt his fangs drop, sliding down from his gums, the sharp points pressing painfully against the inside of his lower lip. A nagging instinct flared to life in his chest, urging him to simply spring forward, to pin this man against the wall and tear into that beautiful, pulsing throat.
With a monumental effort of will that left his entire body trembling, Bruno forced the instinct down. He locked it away, wrapping his hands tightly around the heavy fabric of Leone's coat to hide the slight shaking of his fingers.
"I'll... go pour that wine," Bruno said, his voice a little tighter, a little rougher than it had been before. He turned away before Leone could notice the change in his eyes, walking toward the kitchen with an rigid, careful grace. "Have a seat. I won't be a moment."
In the kitchen, the shadows were deep and forgiving. Bruno leaned heavily against the marble countertop, his chest heaving with shallow, silent breaths. He closed his eyes, forcing his fangs to retract, feeling the dull, throbbing pressure slowly fade from his gums.
He had to be careful. The daylight's draining effects were making his hunger erratic, clumsy, and aggressive. If he lost control tonight, he would ruin everything.
With trembling fingers, Bruno hung the man's coat on the rack and reached into a dark cabinet to pull out a bottle of deep, heavy Barolo. He opened it, pouring a generous amount into a crystal glass for Leone. For himself, he poured a mere splash, just enough to mimic the ritual of a human host.
When he stepped back into the living room, he found Leone hadn't sat down.
Instead, the silver-haired man was standing near a bookshelf, his long fingers trailing aimlessly over the spines of old leather-bound volumes. He looked restless, like a stray cat trapped in an unfamiliar house, his sharp eyes darting toward Bruno the moment the floorboards creaked.
"Here," Bruno said softly, crossing the room with seamless grace. He extended the glass of rich, crimson wine. "A vintage worthy of the night."
Leone looked at the glass, then up at Bruno's face, his expression unreadable. He took it, his warm fingers brushing against Bruno's icy skin once more. This time, Leone didn't comment on the cold. He simply took a slow, deliberate sip, his eyes never leaving Bruno's.
"It’s good," Leone murmured, his rough voice softening as the alcohol hit his tongue. He set the glass down on a nearby side table and turned his full attention back to Bruno. The air between them, already thick, seemed to tighten further. "Alright, Bruno. No more games. You didn't bring me here to talk about literature or drink expensive wine. What do you want from me?"
The bluntness was entirely Leone, and it made Bruno's smile soften into something altogether more genuine.
"You're very direct," Bruno noted, stepping closer, entirely stepping into Leone's space. He could feel the heat radiating off the man's chest, could smell the sharp, intoxicating warmth of his skin. "I told you at the bar. I wanted your company. I wanted to see who was behind that ferocious scowl."
Leone let out a low, breathless scoff, his back pressing slightly against the bookshelf as Bruno closed the remaining distance. "You've seen it. I'm not good company. But you're still looking at me like I'm the only thing in the room."
"Because you are," Bruno whispered.
He reached up, his hand moving with agonizing slowness, giving Leone every opportunity to swat him away. But Leone only watched him, his pupils dilated, his breath hitching as Bruno’s cool fingers finally made contact with his jawline. Bruno's thumb brushed gently across the dark, painted curve of Leone's bottom lip.
Leone shivered at the touch. But he didn't pull away. Instead, his eyes darkened, the blue narrowing into a gaze so fierce it felt like a physical weight pressing against Bruno's chest.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Bruno," Leone rasped, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly register. He didn't move his head, but his hands, buried deep in his trousers pockets, fisted tightly against the fabric. "I'm not some fragile thing you can just toy with because you're bored."
"I know exactly what you are," Bruno murmured, his thumb trailing lower, tracing the sharp, stubborn line of Leone's jaw before settling against the side of his neck.
Right beneath his palm, Leone’s pulse was hammering like a trapped bird. It was erratic, driven by a sudden spike of adrenaline that tasted like lightning in the air.
"You are strong," Bruno whispered, his eyes tracking the movement of his own pale fingers against Leone's warm, olive skin. "You are resilient. And you possess a fire that this entire city couldn't dream of extinguishing."
Leone’s breath hitched again, a ragged sound escaping his throat. The raw sincerity in Bruno’s voice seemed to catch him completely off guard, cutting straight through the thick armor of his cynicism. For a man who had clearly spent years believing he was nothing but a burden, a failure, or a ghost, Bruno’s intense, unyielding focus was intoxicating.
Slowly, almost tentatively, Leone reached up. His large, warm hand wrapped around Bruno’s wrist, his grip firm but careful, as if he were trying to anchor himself to reality. His fingers were burning hot against Bruno’s frozen skin.
"You speak like a poet," Leone muttered, though his scowl had entirely melted away, leaving behind a raw, vulnerable hunger that mirrored Bruno’s own. "Or a con man."
"I'm neither," Bruno said, leaning in.
The scent was blinding now. The smell of rain and tobacco was entirely eclipsed by the rich, heavy sweetness of Leone’s blood, calling to Bruno’s dormant instincts with a demand so loud it was a miracle Leone couldn't hear it. Bruno’s vision swam for a fraction of a second, the dark room blurring around the edges until there was nothing left but Leone’s mouth and the exposed column of his throat.
"Then what are you?" Leone whispered, his gaze dropping to Bruno's lips.
"A man who knows exactly what he wants," Bruno murmured against the scant inches of air left between them.
He didn't wait for Leone to close the distance. Bruno tilted his head and pressed his lips to Leone’s.
The kiss was a collision of extremes. Leone’s mouth was warm, tasting faintly of the bitter, amber liquor from the lounge and the sharp tang of tobacco, his dark lipstick slightly waxy against Bruno’s smooth, cold lips.
Leone let out a low, desperate groan from the back of his throat, his grip on Bruno’s wrist tightening as he pulled him closer, his other hand coming up to grip the fabric of Bruno's blouse at the waist.
Leone kissed the way he held himself—defensively, heavily, with a fierce intensity that demanded a response. He poured all of his unspent frustration, his loneliness, and his silent desire into the pressure of his mouth, pressing Bruno back against the edge of the bookshelf.
Bruno leaned into it, a soft sigh escaping his nose. He let his hands slide up Leone’s chest, feeling the hard, heavy rise and fall of his ribs. He wanted to lose himself in the sheer humanity of it, wanted to pretend for just a moment that he was alive, too.
As the kiss deepened, Leone’s tongue sliding past his lips with a possessive, testing stroke, Bruno’s fangs twitched. The sharp tips slid down, the pressure returning to his gums with agonizing force. A drop of saliva, laced with the subtle, sweet venom meant to soothe a victim, coated his teeth.
He guided Leone toward the heavy leather sofa in the center of the dim room, their bodies moving together in a clumsy, heated shuffle. Leone didn't protest when Bruno gently guided him down, his long legs folding as he sank into the cushions. Bruno immediately followed him over, shifting his weight to straddle Leone’s lap, his knees pinning Leone's thighs. He felt warm hands settle on his hips.
The position was inherently dominant, yet Bruno kept his posture soft, his hands framing Leone’s sharp face with infinite gentleness. Down beneath them, Leone’s pulse was a frantic, beautiful rhythm. The scent of his skin, now heated by adrenaline and arousal, was a physical weight in Bruno's throat.
"Let me take care of you tonight."
Leone let out a low, ambiguous sound. "You talk too much," he muttered, but his head rolled back, his chin lifting to look at Bruno.
The movement exposed the entire length of his throat.
He used his thumbs to gently brush against the dark, painted edges of Leone's lower lip, tilting his head just a fraction more.
"You are so beautiful," Bruno whispered, the praise slipping from his lips entirely unprompted, born from a profound, predatory reverence. "So incredibly good for me."
Leone’s breath hitched at the words. A faint, dazed smile threatened to break through his usual scowl, though his eyes remained unfocused, entirely captured by the dark, dilated depths of Bruno’s gaze. "Am I?" he rasped, his grip on Bruno’s hips loosening into a soft, pliant hold.
"You are," Bruno murmured, his voice a velvety purr that vibrated against Leone’s feverish skin. "More than you could ever know."
He trailed his lips down the sharp edge of Leone's jaw, bypassing the dark, waxy temptation of his mouth to press a sequence of soft, deliberate kisses along the tense tendon of his neck. Every press of Bruno’s lips was an agonizing test of restraint. The skin here was radiating heat, a stark and beautiful contrast to the dead chill of his own body. He could taste the faint salt of sweat, the lingering trace of cold autumn air, and beneath it all, the intoxicating, heavy sweetness of the life force humming just a millimeter below the surface.
Leone let out a low, shuddering sigh, his large hands shifting from Bruno’s hips to slide up his back, his fingers bunching into the silk of Bruno’s blouse. "Bruno..." he muttered, a helpless, breathless sound. The skepticism that had defined him all evening was completely gone, melted away by the relentless warmth of Bruno’s praise and the heavy, intoxicating atmosphere of the dark room.
"Shh," Bruno whispered against his throat.
He shifted his weight slightly, pinning Leone down with a gentle but unyielding pressure. He positioned his mouth directly over the frantic flutter of Leone’s carotid artery. The fangs behind his lips were fully extended now, aching with a dull, throbbing pressure that demanded release. His mouth filled with the sweet, slick venom meant to ease the transition from pleasure to pain, a natural narcotic that would keep Leone dazed and compliant.
Bruno opened his mouth, his lips brushing the hot skin, and let the sharp points of his fangs rest against the surface.
Leone tensed instantly. The primal, hardwired instinct of a human recognizing a predator flared to life, his fingers tightening like iron bands around Bruno’s shoulders. "Wait, what are you—"
"Trust me," Bruno interrupted softly, pouring every ounce of his remaining strength into the words to keep Leone grounded. He stroked Leone’s silver hair, smoothing the long strands away from his face with infinite tenderness. "You're safe with me, Leone. Look at me. Only look at me."
Leone’s violet-blue eyes fought to focus, locking onto Bruno's dark, entirely dilated gaze. The sheer devotion in Bruno’s face seemed to act as an anchor, overriding the alarm bells screaming in Leone's head. The tension in his shoulders didn't disappear, but it shifted, turning from fear into a breathless, suspended anticipation.
"Good boy," Bruno praised softly, the words dripping with a heavy, sensual reverence. "So perfect."
Before Leone could process the compliment, Bruno bit down.
The transition was sharp and clean. The fangs punctured the skin effortlessly, sinking deep into the warm flesh. Leone let out a sharp gasp, his chest heaving violently beneath Bruno’s weight. His hands flew up to grip Bruno’s forearms, his fingernails digging into the fabric of his sleeves as a violent shudder wracked his entire frame.
But Bruno didn't let him drift into panic. The moment the wound opened, the venom mingled with Leone's blood, rushing into his system to dull the sharp sting into a heavy, throbbing wave of intense physical pleasure.
At the same time, the first rush of Leone’s blood flooded Bruno’s mouth.
It was a physical explosion of sensation. It tasted like lightning, like liquid fire, far richer and more potent than any sterile blood bag he had ever stolen in his youth. It was thick and smooth, like the finest wine in the world, but better.
Bruno let out a low moan of pure satisfaction against Leone’s throat, his eyes closing as he began to swallow, his throat moving in a steady, rhythmic cadence.
Beneath him, Leone’s grip on his arms slowly relaxed, his long fingers uncurling as the venom took hold. A soft, dazed expression settled over his sharp features, his dark-painted lips parting as a long, trembling exhale escaped him. The pain was gone, replaced by a heavy, euphoric warmth that made his head spin. He felt completely undone, utterly consumed by the rhythmic, pulling sensation at his neck and the overwhelming, worshipful weight of the man on top of him.
"Ah... Bruno..." Leone breathed, his voice slurring slightly, his eyes half-closed as he stared up at the dark ceiling.
Bruno pulled back just a fraction, breaking the seal for a second to look down at him. A thin, crimson smear stained Bruno’s lips, contrasting sharply with his pale skin.
"You're incredible, Leone," Bruno whispered, his voice thick with a dark, predatory affection. He leaned down to lick away a stray drop of blood leaking from the puncture wounds, his tongue hot and deliberate. "So gorgeous."
Leone could only let out a weak, dazed moan, his head rolling back further into the cushions, completely surrendering to the monster who was praising him like a god.
Bruno drank until the frantic, erratic edge of his hunger was entirely blunted, leaving behind only a warm, humming satisfaction. He knew the precise limits of the human body; he knew exactly when the pleasure of the feast would cross the line into physical harm. His tongue soothed the small puncture wounds until he sealed the broken skin.
Slowly, reluctantly, Bruno pulled back.
He sat back on Leone’s thighs, his chest heaving as if he had just run a miles-long sprint. His eyes, usually a soft, liquid black, were now burning with a faint, luminous crimson undertone in the shadows. He looked down at the man beneath him.
Leone looked thoroughly undone. His dark lipstick was slightly smudged, his chest rising and falling in slow, shallow breaths, his expression completely wiped clean of the bitter, defensive scowl he had worn at the bar. He looked peaceful. Vulnerable.
Bruno felt a familiar, cold spike of guilt prick at his heart, but he quickly pushed it down. He had a job to do. The sun would rise in a few hours, and he needed to ensure Leone left here with nothing but a pleasant, hazy dream.
Bruno leaned down, his face inches from Leone’s, forcing Leone’s dazed, glassy eyes to lock onto his own glowing gaze. He tapped into the newly restored well of his compulsion, weaving a thick, heavy fog into his voice.
"You had a wonderful night, Leone," Bruno whispered, his voice a commanding, hypnotic purr. "We came back here. We drank wine. We made out. You fell asleep on my sofa, feeling safe, feeling warm."
Leone’s eyelids fluttered, a soft, affirmative murmur vibrating in his chest. The compulsion was taking root, wrapping around his conscious mind like velvet chains.
"When you wake up," Bruno continued, his thumb gently smoothing over Leone's pale cheek, "you will remember the taste of my mouth, and the warmth of my home. The rest will be nothing but a shadow."
Leone sighed, his eyes finally closing as he drifted into a deep sleep.
Bruno watched him for a long moment, a profound, lingering ache settling into his chest. He had survived another night. He had fed. He wished he could've made the experience more pleasurable for Leone before he bit him, but he just felt so hungry and impatient...
Bruno gently shifted his weight, slipping out from between Leone's legs and shifting the man into a more comfortable position on the sofa. He fetched a soft, cashmere blanket from the armchair and carefully draped it over Leone's long frame, tucking it securely around his broad shoulders.
For a long time, Bruno simply stood by the edge of the sofa, looking down at him. He wiped the trace of blood from his own lips with the back of his hand, his mind reeling from the taste, the smell, the sheer perfection of Leone Abbacchio.
He had survived the night. He had fed without stealing, and without killing. Though as he looked at the two hidden marks beneath the blanket, Bruno knew, with a sudden, sinking dread in his chest, that he was in terrible danger.
He didn't want to forget this night. And for the first time in nearly ten years, he found himself wishing, with a desperate, aching hunger, that the human wouldn't forget it either.