Archive of Our Own

Shane had always thought he would die alone.

The idea had settled in sometime after the first years of his vampirism, when the initial rush had burned itself out and left something heavier behind. Back then, he had traveled. Indulged. Fed when he wanted, from whoever he wanted, carried along by the arrogance that came with being new, powerful, untouchable.

After he figured out his preferences, it had become almost… entertaining. Choosing the right kind of victim, letting them want him first, taking what he needed with precision and control. There had been a certain satisfaction in it. A sense of mastery.

But it had all been temporary.

It had not taken him long to realize that.

The blood, the movement, the endless stretch of days that never quite meant anything. It all blurred together eventually. What had once felt like freedom hollowed out into something shapeless, something repetitive.

And somewhere in that slow unraveling, Shane had found himself alone.

Truly alone.

Not in the physical sense. There were always people, always bodies, always someone to take from. But none of it stayed. None of it mattered. The more carefully he controlled everything, the less there was left that felt real.

Loneliness, he had learned, did not come from the absence of people.

It came from the absence of anything that could touch him back.

Now, however, there was someone else. Someone beyond Rose and perhaps Miles. Someone he saw every single day, someone who practically lived in his space. Someone vibrant, warm, and human. Most importantly, someone who knew his secret.

He sat up in bed, staring blankly into the pitch-black room. The heavy black curtains were drawn tight, sealing out every stray beam of light. He didn’t remember closing them before he fell into his dead sleep. Ilya. Of course it had been Ilya.

When he didn't hear the sound of the other man’s breathing or feel his heat nearby, Shane strained his ears. From the living room, he caught the faint, muffled hum of the television and the steady, rhythmic drumming of Ilya’s heart.

Despite the leaden exhaustion still clinging to his limbs, a wave of peace washed over him. He checked the clock on the nightstand: mid-afternoon. It was still too early for him to be awake. The energy of these hours usually felt like a physical weight on his chest, making him feel sluggish and frayed.

Without even stopping by the bathroom, he moved toward the living room with hurried steps. He was driven by a sudden, sharp need to hear that heartbeat up close, to feel the heat radiating off Ilya’s skin and see his handsome face.

Ilya was sprawled across the sofa exactly as he had been for the past week, legs spread wide in a boyish, careless slump. He was shirtless, his eyes fixed on the television while he absentmindedly ate from a bowl of cereal. He’d kept the volume low, a small gesture of care that didn't go unnoticed.

Shane’s brows furrowed as he watched him.

He stood in the doorway, a shadow framed by the darkness of the hall. His senses, sharpened by his recent waking, cataloged the room with clinical intensity. He could smell the cloyingly sweet, artificial scent of the cereal —sugary grain and cold milk— cutting through the much more intoxicating aroma of Ilya himself. To Shane, Ilya smelled like sun-warmed salt and something deep, metallic, and vibrant. It was the scent of life, and it made Shane’s gums ache with a dull, phantom throb.

Ilya didn't look up immediately, his jaw working rhythmically as he chewed, his throat bobbing with every swallow. It was a mundane human act, yet Shane found himself mesmerized by the movement of the muscles in Ilya’s neck. He thought of the bruises he’d left there, now hidden by the angle of Ilya's chin.

"You're awake early," Ilya said, his voice casual, not even turning his head. He reached into the bowl for another spoonful. "The sun's still up, Doc. You're gonna turn into a grumpy bat if you don't get your beauty sleep."

Shane didn't answer. He crossed the room, his movements fluid and silent, and stopped right in front of the sofa. He felt like a ghost haunting a living man’s house. He reached out, his cold fingers brushing against Ilya’s bare shoulder. The heat was instantaneous, a jolt of electricity that traveled up Shane’s arm and settled in his chest.

Ilya finally looked up, a half-smirk playing on his lips, a stray bit of cereal crunching between his teeth. "What? Missed me already?"

Shane’s brows remained furrowed, his gaze drifting from Ilya’s eyes to the bowl in his lap. "That is garbage," Shane rasped, his voice still heavy with the grit of sleep. "It’s nothing but sugar and processed ash. You’re supposed to be taking care of yourself."

Ilya laughed, a short, bright sound that filled the quiet room. He patted his flat, toned stomach. "I’m a growing boy, Shane. Besides, someone has to keep the blood quality up, right? Since you're so picky." He held up a spoonful of the colorful loops. "Want a bite? Oh, wait. Right. Your delicate constitution."

Shane felt a strange tug in his chest; a mixture of irritation and a fierce, terrifying protectiveness. He hated the cereal. He hated that Ilya treated his own mortality like a joke. But more than anything, he hated how much he needed to be near that laughter.

He moved then, not to take the food, but to reclaim the heat. He didn't ask; he simply stepped between Ilya’s spread knees, forcing the younger man to tilt his head back. Shane leaned down, his palms flat against the back of the sofa on either side of Ilya’s head, trapping him.

"I don't want the food, Ilya," Shane whispered, his breath ghosting over Ilya's lips. "I want you to stop eating that shit so I can actually feel your heart beating tomorrow."

Ilya’s smirk didn't fade, but his pulse —that beautiful, frantic drumming in his neck— jumped. He set the bowl down on the coffee table with a clatter and reached up, grabbing Shane’s waist to pull him closer.

"Then fix it, Doc," Ilya challenged, his voice dropping to a low, daring hum. "If you don't like what I'm putting in my body, give me something better."

Shane met Ilya’s challenge with a devastating, agonizingly slow kiss. He leaned in, cupping Ilya’s jaw with a hand so cold it made the younger man shiver, but he didn't open his mouth. He kept his lips pressed firmly against Ilya’s, a dry and hauntingly soft contact that promised everything while giving nothing away.

Ilya’s breath hitched. He reached out, his hands grasping Shane’s hips, trying to pull him into a deeper, hungrier friction. Shane could feel the heat radiating through Ilya’s jeans, the sudden, sharp throb of his arousal blooming against Shane’s thigh. Ilya was a wildfire, all sparks and unbridled need, but Shane was the stone that refused to catch. He remained still, a cool anchor in the middle of Ilya’s rising storm.

Just as Ilya let out a frustrated groan into the kiss, Shane tilted his head and caught Ilya’s lower lip between his teeth. He bit down; not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to leave a stinging mark that would linger for hours.

Then, he pulled back.

"Yes," Shane whispered, his eyes dark and clinical as he looked at Ilya’s flushed face. "I’m going to prepare something much better."

He stood up, leaving Ilya dazed and aching on the sofa, and walked into the kitchen with the fluid grace of someone who had long ago mastered his own impulses.

Ilya blinked, trying to clear the fog from his brain. "Wait, what? Shane, come back here, I wasn't finished—"

"I was," Shane called back, the sound of the refrigerator opening echoing in the quiet apartment.

When Ilya finally stumbled into the kitchen, his hair a mess and his heart still hammering, he stopped short. The counter was covered in groceries that he certainly hadn't seen earlier, since he’d only reached for the milk and the cereal in the kitchen cabinet and hadn't check the fridge. There were bundles of deep, leafy spinach, jars of organic pomegranate juice, a heavy slab of grass-fed ribeye steak still wrapped in butcher paper, and a bottle of high-grade liquid iron supplements.

"When did you..." Ilya trailed off, picking up a bunch of kale like it was an alien artifact. "Shane, did you go grocery shopping? In the middle of the night?"

"I couldn't sleep," Shane lied smoothly, though they both knew he’d spent hours meticulously researching the most efficient ways to boost human hematopoiesis. He began to rinse the spinach, his movements precise. "Your blood was thin yesterday. Watery. You’re not getting enough B12, and your iron levels are borderline pathetic."

"My iron is fine! I'm a goddamn athlete," Ilya protested, though he couldn't help but grin at the sight of this lethal creature carefully washing greens. "Are you really trying to fatten me up like I’m a fucking prize pig?"

Shane stopped, the water running over his pale hands. He turned to look at Ilya, his expression devoid of its usual mask.

"I'm not trying to fatten you up, Ilya," he said, his voice dropping to a low, serious vibration. "I'm trying to make sure your heart doesn't have to work so hard to keep up with me. Drink the juice. Now."

Ilya sighed, but there was a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the stove. He took the glass Shane shoved toward him.

"You're a terrifying doctor, you know that?" Ilya muttered, but he drank it anyway, watching Shane over the rim of the glass.

Shane didn’t say a word, his eyebrows arching in a look of dry, cold disapproval as he turned back to the stove. The kitchen was quickly filling with the rich, heavy scent of searing meat. He moved with a terrifyingly calm efficiency, flipping a thick slab of liver in the pan; something he’d specifically picked for its high iron content.

"Eat," Shane commanded, sliding the plate in front of Ilya while the steam was still rising.

Ilya picked up a fork, poking at the dark, rich meat with a smirk. "Fine. I'll fuel up. I might actually need the extra edge for the fight tonight anyway. Some guy from the docks is looking for a rematch."

The air in the kitchen didn't just cool; it froze. Shane’s hand stilled on the counter. The mere mention of the ring —the sweat, the violence, the risk of Ilya spilling even a drop of that life-force on a dirty canvas— made a low, instinctive growl stir in Shane’s chest.

"You aren't going," Shane said. It wasn't a request.

Ilya rolled his eyes, taking a large, defiant bite. He chewed, swallowed, and then gestured toward the pan with his fork. "Don't be like that. I’m young, Shane. I’m in my prime. I’ve got plenty of blood to spare." He leaned in, his eyes dancing with mischief. "I get it, though. You like them young and fresh, don't you? You probably just want to keep me in peak condition because you like your snacks to be high-quality. You’ve got a thing for younger guys, obviously."

Shane let out a breath that was halfway between a huff and a laugh. He reached out, picking up a small, stray piece of the steak he’d cooked alongside the liver. He placed it in his mouth, a rare, visceral indulgence. It tasted like ash compared to what was running through Ilya’s veins, but the act of eating with him felt like a bridge to a world he’d left behind.

"You’re an idiot," Shane said softly, leaning his hip against the counter as he chewed.

"Maybe," Ilya shrugged, leaning back. "But I'm a curious idiot. You keep talking about me being twenty-four like it’s some ancient history you vaguely remember. Come on, Doc. Give it up. Just how much of a ‘millennial fossil’ are you? What year did you actually start this whole... eternal youth gig?"

Shane looked down at his plate, then back at Ilya’s vibrant, stubborn face. The math was simple, but the weight of the years felt heavier when spoken aloud.

"I was born in 1991," Shane said, his voice dropping into a quieter, more honest register. "I was exactly your age when it happened. Twenty-four. I’ve been that age for eleven years now."

Ilya’s smirk faltered for a second as the math clicked. "1991? So you’re... thirty-five? Physically twenty-four, but technically thirty-five." He whistled low, his grin returning with a predatory edge. "Damn, Shane. Eleven years? That’s a hell of a gap. I knew I was a trophy for you, but I didn't realize I was dating a man in his mid-thirties trapped in a boy’s body."

"I am not trapped," Shane corrected, though the word hit closer to home than he liked.

"Whatever you say, grandpa," Ilya teased, reaching across the table to squeeze Shane’s cold hand. "No wonder you’re so obsessed with my diet. You’re just trying to make sure I don't get wrinkles too fast so we don't look weird standing next to each other."

Shane didn't pull his hand away. He let the warmth of Ilya’s palm seep into his skin, a grounding heat that made the eleven-year gulf feel almost bridgeable. "I'm trying to make sure you get to have wrinkles, Ilya. That’s the point."

The kitchen grew quiet, the only sound the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant city traffic outside. Ilya stayed silent, his thumb traced lazy, thoughtful circles over Shane’s knuckles. He was clearly processing the numbers.

Shane watched him, his gaze careful yet undeniably soft. He looked at the slight crease between Ilya’s brows and the way his pulse beat steady and oblivious in his throat.

Shane remembered the world then, or at least the tail end of how it felt to be human in it. He remembered the mundane frustrations of his early twenties: the debt, the long shifts, the feeling that he had all the time in the world to figure out who he was. Then the world had narrowed down to a single night, a single choice, and a hunger that never slept. He had spent a decade watching his peers get married, buy houses, and start showing the very wrinkles he was now trying to protect Ilya from.

He was an outlier. A glitch in the timeline. And Ilya was the first thing in a long time that made him regret the stillness of his own clock.

Ilya finally looked up, the playfulness gone from his eyes, replaced by a stubborn, familiar glint. He pulled his hand back, reaching for his fork to finish the last of the liver.

"I'm still going to the fight," he said firmly.

Shane’s jaw tightened. The doctor in him wanted to argue anatomy and blood volume, but the man in him just wanted to lock the door. "Then I’m going back to the infirmary tonight," Shane countered, his voice like ice. "If you’re determined to get yourself carved up, I might as well be there to stitch the pieces back together."

"No."

The word was out of Ilya’s mouth before Shane could even finish the sentence. It wasn't a suggestion; it was an immediate, visceral rejection.

Shane blinked, surprised by the sharpness of it. "No? You’re going to put yourself in a ring with a man twice your size, but you don't want me ten feet away?"

"I said no, Shane. Stay here. Or go to the pub. Anywhere else." Ilya stood up abruptly, grabbing his empty plate and moving toward the sink, his back turned. His shoulders were tense, his posture defensive in a way that had nothing to do with a physical opponent.

Shane stood his ground, his eyes narrowed as he watched Ilya’s retreating back. There was something in the way Ilya had snapped, a flash of something that wasn't just pride or stubbornness. It was a boundary, a wall thrown up so fast it left a chill in the air.

"Fine," Shane said quietly, the word tasting like a lie. "Have it your way."

But as he watched Ilya scrub the plate with unnecessary force, Shane knew he wasn't going to just sit at home. The obsession didn't work that way. He didn't just want Ilya healthy; he wanted him safe, and the mystery of why Ilya didn't want him there was already beginning to itch under his skin.

Shane took his usual route to the ring, walking slowly as the night breeze brushed past him. For months, he had traversed this exact path nearly every single day. There were times he had drifted down different streets, but he was a creature of habit; once a routine settled into his bones, he rarely saw a reason to disturb it.

He passed the foul-smelling hot dog van parked on the corner. Even after all these months, he couldn't fathom why humans queued up for it every night, drawn to that greasy, processed scent like moths to a flame. While he occasionally indulged in the act of eating for the sake of sensation, a hot dog from that van was likely the last thing on earth he would ever choose to try again.

He continued past the brightly lit storefronts, the small market where he picked up his essentials, and the butcher shop where he’d bought the meat for Ilya just the night before. He walked by the only cinema in the district, a place that triggered a brief, dry memory: he had come here once with Rose for a midnight screening, only to walk out early because three different couples in the rows ahead were practically devouring each other. The irony of humans being so hungry for skin had been too much for them to stomach that night.

The ring was exactly as he had left it.

The heavy, metallic scent of sweat and adrenaline hit him before he even crossed the threshold; a thick, suffocating cloud that felt like a physical weight. He stepped inside, his eyes instantly adjusting to the dim, flickering light of the corridor.

The bouts hadn't started yet. The air was thick with anticipation, but the roar of the crowd was still just a low, rhythmic hum behind the heavy doors. Shane moved toward the infirmary, his feet finding the path without him even having to think about it.

The infirmary was empty.

The new doctor —the one Ilya had mentioned briefly— was nowhere to be seen, likely off grabbing a coffee or a smoke before the first broken nose of the night arrived. Shane stepped into the small, sterile room, and for a moment, the silence was deafening. It was exactly as he’d left it, yet it felt like a museum exhibit of a life he no longer lived. The scent of alcohol was sharp, but underneath it, he could still catch the lingering ghost of Ilya’s sweat and copper-tinged blood from a week ago.

Driven by a foolish impulse, Shane moved toward his old desk and sank into the chair he had occupied for months. It didn't take long for the memories to come rushing back. For over half a year, this room had been his sanctuary, a place where blood was easy to come by. No one ever bothered to look twice at these penniless, desperate men fighting illegally in a basement, which made it the perfect place to steal what he needed. It had been his only source, his only feeding ground.

Finding this place had been a stroke of luck. At the time, he had been on the verge of giving up on his feeding rituals entirely, starving himself out of a misplaced sense of morality. There was a bitter irony in the fact that he’d had to find an illegal fight ring just to practice the profession he had been trained for.

Shane had still been a medical student when he was turned. Some parts of those years remained vivid, while others were nothing more than a blurred, hazy memory. But one thing he knew for certain: he had been utterly alone. It had taken him years to pull himself together, to survive the volatile, feral stages of being a newborn vampire and find the will to finish school. Completing his degree as a creature of the night had been nothing short of a miracle. But afterward, without a residency or a legal paper to his name, he was left with no choice but to keep working in the shadows, drifting through corners of the world like this one.

The silence of the infirmary was heavy, smelling of the same old rust and regret. He sat there, a ghost haunting his own former life, until the distant roar of the crowd signaled that the night’s violence had truly begun.

Shane looked down at his pale hands in the dim light. He had spent years being a doctor for the dead and the desperate. Then Ilya had walked in —bleeding, swearing, and radiating a heat that Shane hadn't felt in a decade— and suddenly, the "Doctor" had remembered what it felt like to want to save something for himself.

He smiled to himself, remembering that first day.

It hadn't been a particularly busy night. He’d only been on the job for a few days, and so far, he was grateful that no catastrophic cases had ended up on his table. The plan to "steal" blood was only just beginning to take shape in his mind. It was a young man who had been brought in unconscious the night before who had triggered the idea; the realization that he could find a place to both earn a living and feed his hunger had brought him a rare, flickering sense of relief.

Then, the door practically exploded open.

Someone burst in with a deafening noise, slamming the door against the wall as if trying to break it off its hinges. He was furious, muttering a string of heated words in a language Shane didn't recognize —likely Russian— and he was bleeding. Shane’s eyes widened involuntarily, his pupils blowing wide as the scent hit him. He had to grind his teeth together so hard his jaw ached, fighting the immediate, violent surge of his instincts.

It wasn't just the smell of blood; it was the heat.

Ilya was radiating vitality, his skin flushed from the fight, his pulse visible and frantic in his neck. Even covered in grime and crimson, he looked like a god of war who had stumbled into a tomb. Shane had spent years telling himself that he was a doctor first and a monster second, but in that moment, the lie felt thinner than ever.

"Didn't anyone teach you how to enter a room? Or an infirmary, for that matter?" Shane asked, his voice coming out as a dry rasp.

The blood he’d consumed before his shift felt like it was rushing to his cheeks; a phantom heat he hadn't felt in a decade. Standing before him was a young man —wild, half-naked, and devastatingly attractive— whose very presence seemed to stir dormant, sleeping emotions in Shane’s cold chest.

Ilya didn't look cowed. He let out a short, jagged bark of a laugh, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe. He didn't move away; he stepped closer, invading Shane’s personal space with an effortless, predatory confidence.

"I’m bleeding, Doc. I figured that was invitation enough," Ilya murmured, his blue eyes tracking the subtle tension in Shane’s jaw. He hopped onto the examination table, sitting right on the edge so that their knees were inches apart. "Besides... I had to see it for myself."

"See what?" Shane reached for a tray of instruments, his movements stiff, his back turned to hide the way his pupils were blowing wide.

"That the new doctor is actually pretty," Ilya said, his voice dropping into a playful, honeyed drawl. "The guy before you... God, he was a disaster. Old, smelled like cheap cigars, and had fingers like sausages. I used to pray I wouldn't get hit just so I wouldn't have to look at his ugly face. But you?"

Ilya leaned forward, forcing Shane to look at him. He tilted his head, offering a grin that was half-bloody, half-angelic. "You’re like a statue. A very, very beautiful statue."

"Sit still," Shane commanded, his voice trembling with the effort of not snapping.

He reached for the gauze, but as he moved closer, the scent hit him like a physical blow. It didn't matter that he had fed just an hour before; it didn't matter that he was technically full. This wasn't the stale, bottled blood he was used to.

Ilya’s blood was loud.

It smelled of ozone and iron, thickened by the frantic rush of a heart that was still beating at a hundred miles an hour. It was the scent of a man who had just survived a storm, and it was so potent that Shane’s fangs throbbed painfully against his gums. He had to breathe through his mouth, but even then, he could taste the heat radiating off Ilya's skin.

And Ilya didn't just sit there; he studied Shane with a piercing, unblinking intensity that made Shane’s skin crawl with a forgotten kind of self-consciousness. Every time Shane’s fingers brushed his skin, Ilya shifted just enough to maximize the contact.

"How did you even manage to get this many injuries in one night?" Shane asked, his voice low and strained. "You look like you went out of your way to find every fist in the building."

Shane pressed the cold antiseptic against a jagged cut on Ilya’s jawline. He was a little too rough; a sharp, sudden movement meant to re-establish the boundary he felt slipping.

Ilya didn't flinch. Instead, he let out a low, breathy sound —somewhere between a chuckle and a groan— and leaned his face into Shane’s hand, forcing the ice-cold fingers to stay against his burning skin. His accent thickened, turning his voice into a dark, intimate vibration.

"Maybe I just like the way you look when you're worried about me, Doc," he murmured, his blue eyes dancing with a dangerous kind of mischief. "And besides... getting hit is a small price to pay to have a man with eyes like yours look at me this closely."

Shane felt his pupils blow wide, the hunger in his throat becoming a physical ache. "You’re a nuisance. Now, keep your head straight."

"A nuisance has a name, you know," Ilya whispered, his gaze dropping to Shane’s lips before flicking back up. He caught Shane’s wrist, his thumb brushing over the pale skin. "It’s Ilya. Ilya Rozanov. You should try saying it. I bet it sounds better in that cold voice of yours than nuisance does."

Shane’s jaw set. He pulled his hand back, the absence of Ilya’s heat leaving a stinging void in the air. He turned back to his tray, his movements stiff and deliberate.

"I have your file, Rozanov," Shane said, his voice dropping into a flat, professional tone that was meant to be a dismissal. "I don't need the introduction. Just stay on the table until I’m finished with the sutures."

Ilya grinned; a bloody, beautiful expression that proved he’d heard the slight tremor in Shane’s voice. "Rozanov? Really? We’re going to be like that?"

"Yes," Shane snapped, finally meeting his eyes with a cold, ancient glare. "We are. Now, shut up and let me work."

After that first night, the infirmary stopped being a place of quiet, clinical theft and turned into a battlefield of nerves.

Ilya started showing up more than necessary, far more than any fighter had a right to. Every Tuesday and Friday, without fail, the door would swing open and there he was, sporting a new bruise, a split lip, or a shallow scrape on his knuckles that barely required a bandage.

Shane would let out an exhausted, weary sigh every time Ilya’s heat flooded the room, but he could feel his walls crumbling. He had to stand tall. For Shane, attraction wasn't a simple spark; it was the seed of an obsession. To get attached was to become vulnerable, to reveal the monster beneath the skin. If he let someone in, he risked exposing his secret and in his world, exposure meant the end.

This was why, as Shane began his nightly ritual of siphoning small amounts of blood from the veins of unconscious, nameless fighters, he skipped Ilya every single time. He refused to taste him. He knew that if he ever touched that specific fire, he would never be able to settle for the cold, stale dregs of others again. He was starving himself of the very thing he wanted most, just to maintain the illusion of control.

Ilya, of course, made it impossible. He was a constant storm of movement and touch. He would reach out to "help" Shane with a tray, his fingers deliberately lingering against Shane’s cold skin. He told jokes that were far too clever for a man who hit people for a living, constantly trying to coax a smile out of the "Stone Doctor."

"You know," Ilya said one evening, leaning back on the exam table while Shane prepped a syringe. "I think you like seeing me hurt. It's the only time you look at me like I’m actually real."

Shane didn't answer. He was preoccupied with a frantic, internal panic, his senses heightened to a degree that was almost painful. Just minutes before Ilya had burst in, Shane had drained a fresh bag of blood he’d siphoned from a heavyweight yesterday. He’d done it as a desperate precaution, a way to silence the monster before the most intoxicating person he’d ever met walked through that door.

He had barely managed to shove the empty, still-warm plastic casing under a stack of towels on the counter when the door swung open.

Ilya shifted, his hand landing right on the pile of towels to steady himself as he hopped onto the table.

"Wait," Ilya muttered, his brow furrowing. He pressed his palm down, feeling the squishy, organic heat radiating through the fabric. "Why is this...?"

"Don't touch that," Shane snapped, his voice cracking like a whip.

Ilya didn't pull away. He slid his hand under the first layer of fabric, and his eyes widened. "It’s warm. What is this, Doc? You keeping a lunch in here?"

Shane was across the room in a blur; movement so fast a human eye could barely track it. He slammed his hand down over Ilya’s, pinning his palm against the towels. The proximity was electric. Shane was so close he could feel the frantic thrum of Ilya’s heart, but for the first time, Ilya was the one looking startled by the contact.

"It's medical waste," Shane hissed, his face inches from Ilya's.

Shane knew exactly how he looked in that moment, and it terrified him. The stolen life-force had brought a ghostly, vivid flush to his skin, making him look less like a corpse and more like a man burning with a fever. In the harsh fluorescent light of the infirmary, the spray of freckles across his nose and cheeks stood out with startling, undeniable clarity.

Ilya’s breath hitched. He didn't look at the towels anymore. His gaze was fixed on Shane’s face, tracing the sudden warmth in those cheeks. He reached out, his calloused fingertips hovering just above Shane’s skin before he finally let them graze the bridge of his nose, right over those dark freckles.

"I've always had a thing for those freckles," Ilya whispered, his voice thick with a sudden, uncharacteristic softness. He didn't pull away; he leaned even closer, his eyes blown wide. "But tonight... God, you’re fucking glowing. Taking my breath away." 

The compliment felt like a physical blow. To be called beautiful while he was at his most monstrous, while his veins were literally pulsing with someone else’s life, was more than Shane could bear. The intimacy of Ilya’s touch on his freckles —the most human part of him— sent a jolt of pure panic through his heart.

Shane reacted with a violent, jagged energy. He shoved Ilya’s hand away with a force that made the young man stumble back against the examination table.

"Don’t touch me, Rozanov!" Shane barked, his voice cracking with a mixture of terror and redirected desire. "If you can't follow simple instructions, find someone else to patch your pathetic wounds."

He turned his back, his hands gripping the edge of the sink until the metal groaned under his strength. Obsession, he thought, his mind spiraling. He was losing the ability to distinguish between the hunger for blood and the hunger for the man behind him. If he let Ilya keep looking at him like he was a miracle instead of a predator, he would eventually destroy them both.

The memory of that night lingered in the air like smoke as Shane stood in the present, his hands still trembling slightly against the cold metal of the infirmary sink.

He forced himself to move. He couldn't stay in that room. He stepped out of the infirmary, his original intention to find the ring owner and discuss reclaiming his position, or perhaps just to settle some unfinished business. But as he approached the main arena, the roar of the crowd hit him like a physical wave, and his feet took him to the balcony overlooking the pit instead.

He shouldn't have looked. But he couldn't help it.

Ilya was in the center of the ring, a masterpiece of kinetic energy and raw violence. Shane watched from the shadows, his breath hitching every time a blow came too close to Ilya’s face, every time the younger man dodged a strike by a mere hair’s breadth. It was a terrifying realization: Shane didn't just want him; he was terrified for him. His heart, which shouldn't have been capable of such frantic movement, felt like it was lodged in his throat. This wasn't just obsession anymore. It was a devastating, deep-rooted care that Shane had no right to feel.

As the round neared its end, the chaos of the crowd reached a fever pitch. Ilya stood over his opponent, chest heaving, sweat and blood glistening under the spotlights.

Then, Ilya’s head snapped up.

Through the dozens of screaming fans and the hazy smoke of the arena, his eyes cut through the noise with impossible precision. He found Shane. He found the one shadow that didn't belong. For a heartbeat, the world stopped. Ilya’s fierce expression softened into something vulnerable, something questioning, and his guard dropped for the briefest of moments.

The connection was too much. The weight of Ilya’s gaze shattered Shane’s composure. He couldn't be the cause of Ilya's distraction. He couldn't be the reason he got hurt.

Without a word, Shane turned and bolted toward the exit.

He didn't get far. The rain began to fall in earnest, slicking the pavement of the narrow alley behind the arena. Shane leaned against the brick wall, trying to steady his breathing, when the heavy, frantic rhythm of boots echoed against the stone.

Ilya burst around the corner, still in his wraps, his skin steaming in the cold air. He looked like a man possessed. He didn't stop until he slammed his hands against the wall on either side of Shane’s head, pinning him in place.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Ilya panted, his voice a jagged rasp that cut through the sound of the downpour. "I told you not to come. I told you I didn't want you here."

Shane didn't flinch. He stood his ground, his back against the cold brick, his face a mask of pale indifference that belied the storm inside him. "Since when do I do anything you tell me to do, Rozanov?"

The use of his last name was like a slap, a cold reminder of the walls Shane had spent years building. Ilya’s expression tightened, fury flaring in his eyes, but beneath it, there was a raw, aching vulnerability that made Shane’s throat go dry.

"What do you think this is?" Shane continued, his voice dropping into a low, lethal silkiness. "What are we, Ilya? Do you really think you’re in a position to give me orders? To tell me where I can and cannot go?"

Ilya flinched then, as if the words had more weight than any punch he’d taken in the Ring. He let out a bitter, hollow laugh, leaning in until his heat was a physical pressure against Shane’s chest.

"You’re right," Ilya whispered, his voice cracking. "I’m nothing, aren't I? No matter how much I give, no matter how many times I try to pry a single truth out of you, you’re still a fucking mystery."

He looked away for a second, his shoulders shaking. "I told you once... I told you that if all I am to you is a blood bag, I’d accept it. I’d let you take whatever you needed just to have you near me. But I’m struggling, Shane. I’m struggling because I’m only human, and I’m breaking, and you’re just standing there looking at me like I’m a patient you’re waiting to lose."

Shane felt a sharp, sudden pang in his chest. He tried to pivot, to hide behind his usual cold logic. "Why does it matter if I'm here? Why does it bother you so much?"

"Because I don't want you drinking from anyone else!" Ilya roared. "I saw how you stole from the other fighters. And then there's Rose. And fucking Miles. What are they to you, Shane? Are they your real life? Do you drink from them too? Is that why they're allowed to know you while I'm kept in the fucking dark?" 

Shane’s eyes darkened, the ancient predator flickering behind his pupils. "Rose is like me, Ilya. She’s a vampire. And Miles is a friend I met through her, a human who knows the truth and doesn't care. That's all they are." He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous, intimate level. "And I have never... never felt about anyone the way I do when I'm around you. I don't take from them the way I want to take from you." 

Ilya’s breath hitched. The anger was still there, but it was being overtaken by a desperate, suffocating need. He grabbed the lapels of Shane’s coat, pulling him forward until their foreheads touched.

“Then don’t do it,” Ilya choked out. “Don’t drink from anyone else. Don’t you dare touch other people. I want to be the only one who keeps you alive. I want you to want me the way I want you; completely, until there’s nothing else left. Give me your past, your present, your future... and take everything from me in return. I don't fucking care if it kills me.”

Shane didn't flinch. He stood his ground, his back against the cold brick, his face a mask of pale indifference that belied the storm inside him. But the request, the absolute surrender of it, made his dead heart ache.

Ilya saw the hesitation and decided to end it. With a sharp, deliberate movement, he caught his own tongue between his teeth and bit down. Hard.

Shane watched in a trance as Ilya’s mouth filled with a deep, vivid crimson. The scent hit him like a physical blow, more potent than any bag of medical waste, more intoxicating than any human he had ever known. Ilya didn't wait. He lunged forward, his hands tangling into Shane’s damp hair, and crashed his mouth against the doctor’s.

It was a blood oath. As they kissed, the warm, iron rich flood from Ilya’s tongue smeared across Shane’s teeth, a literal offering of life. Shane groaned into the kiss, his hands gripping Ilya’s waist with a force that would have bruised anyone else. 

Shane’s control disintegrated. He shoved Ilya back against the brick, his hands moving with a frantic, possessive energy. He dropped to his knees in the puddles, his movements almost blurring as he stripped away the obstacles of Ilya’s fighting gear. Ilya gasped, his head hitting the wall behind him as Shane’s hands found his skin. But Shane bypassed every safe option and buried his face against the heat of Ilya’s inner thigh.

Shane knew the anatomy perfectly. He knew that the femoral artery sat right there, a pulsing highway of life just beneath the surface. It was a lethal spot. One wrong move, one bite too deep, and Ilya would bleed out in minutes. It was the ultimate display of trust and the ultimate threat of death.

"You are a goddamn lunatic, Ilya Rozanov," Shane growled against his skin, his voice vibrating with a terrifying affection. "I have spent years trying to avoid someone like you. And now I realize fighting you was a losing game from the start."

He looked up, his eyes entirely black, his face stained with the blood Ilya had fed him from his mouth. Ilya looked down at him, his chest heaving, a delirious smile playing on his lips despite the pain.

"Then take it, sweetheart," Ilya whispered. "Take it all."

Shane didn't hesitate. He opened his mouth over the sensitive skin of Ilya’s groin, right where the pulse was strongest. As he let his fangs slide out, he felt Ilya’s hands lock into his hair, pulling him closer. When the bite finally landed, it wasn't just a feeding. It was an anchor. Shane drank with a desperate, rhythmic intensity, while Ilya’s body arched in a mixture of agony and pure ecstasy.

As he kept drinking, his hands weren't idle. One hand stayed locked around Ilya’s thigh, keeping him pinned, while the other reached up to stroke him with a frantic, possessive energy. He began a rhythmic, heavy handjob, timing the friction with the way he swallowed the hot, metallic life from Ilya's artery.

The combination was too much for Ilya. He let out a choked, broken sound, his fingers digging into Shane’s scalp until his knuckles turned white.

Shane finally pulled his teeth back, the wound weeping a few stray drops that he immediately chased with his tongue. He looked up for a fleeting second, his face a ruin of blood and hunger. Ilya was looking down at him, his head lolling against the brick wall, his eyes glazed with a mixture of shock and worship. He looked like he couldn't believe what he was seeing: the sophisticated, cold Dr. Hollander on his knees in the dirt, his mouth smeared with Ilya’s own blood.

"Look at you," Ilya rasped, his voice barely a whisper, thick with that heavy Russian accent. "You’re covered in me. You look like a fucking god, Shane. My god."

Shane didn't give him time to finish. He leaned back in, his blood-stained lips closing over Ilya’s cock. The sensation was electric. The heat of the blood still coating Shane’s mouth combined with the chill of the rain created a contrast that sent Ilya’s head snapping back again.

Ilya’s breath came in ragged bursts. "Yes, just like that. Drink me... I told you I’d be yours, didn't I? Fuck, you’re so beautiful when you’re being this bad. My perfect, starving slut."

Shane ignored the teasing, focused purely on the sensation of Ilya’s pulse racing beneath his tongue. He was losing himself in the task, his usual precision replaced by a raw, animalistic drive. 

He was being reckless. He was being insane. Anyone could turn the corner and see exactly what he was. But he didn’t care. Not when Ilya’s cock was pulsing inside his mouth and his gaze was burning his face.

Ilya’s body gave a violent, final shudder as he reached his limit. He slumped against the wall, his knees finally buckling as the last of his strength evaporated into the rain.

Shane stood up slowly, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of a hand that was shaking. He looked at the carnage they had created in the dark: the blood, the rain, and the raw, terrifying intimacy of it all.

"Get up," Ilya panted, the words catching in his throat. He looked wrecked, his hair plastered to his forehead and his eyes still wide with the aftershock of the bite and the orgasm. He reached out, grabbing Shane’s shoulder to pull himself steady, his grip bruising. "We have to go. I need to fuck you. Now." 

Shane didn't argue. He couldn't. His own body was screaming with a dark, heavy need. He grabbed Ilya’s hand and pulled him toward the end of the alley. 

They barely made it back to the apartment. The moment the door clicked shut behind them, the silence of the hallway was replaced by the sound of bodies slamming against wood.

Shane didn't even turn on the lights. He didn't need them. He could see the frantic rhythm of Ilya’s pulse in the dark, could see the way the younger man was already reaching for him, his movements clumsy with desperation. 

"Bed," Shane commanded, his voice low.

They didn't make it there gracefully. They collided against the wall of the narrow corridor, their mouths finding each other in a desperate, bruising rhythm. It was a chaotic scramble of limbs and wet fabric. Shane’s hands were shaking as he peeled the soaked shirt from Ilya’s overheating skin. Ilya was just as frantic, his fingers fumbling with Shane's buttons, his breath hitching every time Shane's skin brushed against his own.

By the time they reached the edge of the mattress, their clothes were a trail of discarded heaps on the floor.

Shane pushed Ilya back onto the sheets. Ilya immediately reached up, his fingers digging into the muscles of Shane’s shoulders, pulling him down for a kiss that tasted of lingering iron and salt. Shane let out a low, vibrating growl against Ilya’s lips, his hand sliding down the hard, defined planes of Ilya’s abdomen, feeling the way the muscle jumped under his touch.

Shane hiked himself up, straddling Ilya’s thick thighs. The contrast was stark: Shane’s pale, marble-like skin against the scarred, tan, and battle-worn body of the fighter beneath him. Shane reached for the bedside table, his fingers finding the lube with a tremor he couldn't hide. 

"You're going to prepare yourself for me?" Ilya groaned, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. His eyes followed every movement of Shane’s hand, fixated on the sight of those pale fingers opening up his body. "So I can finally fuck my miracle? So I can finally sink myself into all that perfect skin?" 

Shane looked down, his fangs catching his lower lip as he felt the force of his own intrusion. The sensation of his own slick fingers was nothing compared to the sight of Ilya watching him, his blue eyes dilated so wide they were almost black.

"You want that?" Shane challenged, his voice a low, dangerous rasp. "To fuck me? To ruin me?"

"Oh fuck yeah," Ilya snarled, his hands flying to Shane’s hips, his fingers digging in with a possessive force that promised bruises. "I want to ruin you for anyone else. I want to see you filled with me in every possible way. I want to be so deep inside you that you forget you were ever anything but mine."

The bluntness of it made Shane’s head snap back, a broken sound escaping his throat. He reached for the bottle one last time, and poured a generous amount of the cool lube over Ilya’s cock. He spread it with a slow, agonizing stroke, his eyes locked on the way Ilya’s hips jerked instinctively at the contact.

Shane shifted, positioning himself with a shaky breath. He didn't rush. He wanted to feel the exact moment the barrier between them vanished. He sank down slowly, his eyes squeezed shut as he took the first few inches.

"God, Shane," Ilya hissed, his hands tightening on Shane’s thighs. He looked up, his expression a tortured mix of disbelief and longing as he felt the way Shane’s body gripped him. "You’re so warm. Always so warm inside. And so fucking tight..." 

Ilya trailed off, his voice cracking. He didn't ask the question out loud, but it was written in the desperate, searching look in his eyes. Shane felt the unasked question like a physical weight. He leaned down, his damp hair shielding their faces from the rest of the world, and pressed his lips against Ilya’s. He let out a broken, shaky breath, his muscles twitching with the effort of taking all of him.

"For you," Shane whispered, the confession sounding like a vow. 

The effect on Ilya was instantaneous. The euphoria in his eyes turned into something almost feral. He let out a wrecked, triumphant sound, his fingers digging into Shane’s hips with a new, possessive urgency.

"Say it again," Ilya groaned, his hips jerking upward instinctively, burying himself as deep as possible.

"Always you," Shane gasped, his eyes fluttering shut as the overstimulation began to peak.

He began to move again, a slow, rhythmic grind that allowed him to savor every nerve ending as it caught fire. There were no fangs this time, no sharp sting of a bite to distract him. It was just the raw intimacy of being filled.

Every slide was a revelation, a sensory overload that made his head swim. The scent of Ilya’s sweat, the heat of his skin, and the way he kept whispering Shane’s name like a prayer, it was all too much. Shane’s internal rhythm fractured. Every nerve ending in his body was screaming, pushed far beyond the threshold of what he could process. His vision began to spark at the edges, white noise roaring in his ears. 

He was going to break. He was going to hit the peak far too soon, the pleasure too sharp, too concentrated for his heart to handle.

As Shane’s body stiffened, his breath hitching into a high, broken sob, Ilya’s hand suddenly shot up. He wrapped his fingers firmly around the base of Shane’s cock, a human ring of heat and bone that clamped down with bruising authority.

"Not yet," Ilya growled, his voice a vibration Shane felt in his very marrow. "You’re not going anywhere yet, my love." 

The sudden denial was a physical blow. Shane’s head fell back, his eyes welling with tears that wouldn't fall. His chest heaved, his pale skin flushed a feverish pink as he stared at the ceiling, his mouth worked soundlessly. He was vibrating, his muscles twitching with a frantic, unspent energy that had nowhere to go.

"Please," Shane choked out, a single tear finally escaping. "Ilya, please... I can’t... it’s too much."

"I know it is," Ilya whispered, his own face a mask of sweat-streaked euphoria. He watched the way Shane’s pupils pulsed, the way his fangs were bared in a silent, pained plea for release. "That’s the point. I want you to feel every single second of this."

Seeing Shane so completely undone, weeping from the sheer weight of the pleasure, was obviously the final spark for Ilya. He released his grip on Shane’s length only to grab his waist with both hands. 

In one powerful, dizzying surge, Ilya flipped him.

The world spun for Shane, the mattress meeting his back with a soft thud as Ilya’s heavy weight settled between his splayed thighs. Ilya pinned Shane’s wrists above his head, his large body looming over him like a storm cloud.

"My turn," Ilya rasped, his eyes dark with a terrifying, worshipful hunger.

He didn't give Shane a second to recover. He drove back inside with a relentless, punishing depth, his rhythm turning into a hard, driving force that obliterated what was left of Shane’s sanity. Each thrust was a deliberate attempt to push Shane even further into the haze, the sound of their bodies meeting filling the quiet room with a wet, frantic percussion.

Shane was drowning. His feelings had reached a jagged, unbearable peak where pleasure and pain were no longer distinguishable. His back arched off the mattress, his head tossing from side to side as he let out a series of broken, high-pitched sounds. He needed to ground himself, needed to latch onto something real before he splintered into a thousand pieces.

Blindly, Shane reached out, his fingers digging into the muscle of Ilya’s back. He pulled him down, his mouth finding the junction of Ilya’s neck and shoulder. He didn't think; he just struck.

He wasn't feeding, but his fangs sank deep into the hot, sweat-slicked skin. He nipped and bit at the heavy muscle, leaving a trail of sharp, stinging marks that felt like brands. Ilya didn't flinch. Instead, he let out a guttural, triumphant roar, his pace becoming even more violent. He met Shane’s aggression with a brutal, driving rhythm, his body answering the bites with a raw, human power.

Ilya let out a low Russian curse, the words breaking apart in his throat as he pushed himself to the limit. "Yes!" he choked out, his voice cracking into a raw, desperate shout. "Mark me, Shane... it’s all yours. Every goddamn bit of it. Take it all!"

The declaration was a jagged edge of surrender, and it was the final blow to Shane’s control.

"Mine," Shane growled back, the word sounding thick and dark, his mouth a messy, wet wreck of blood and saliva. He didn't wait for a response; he surged upward, capturing Ilya’s mouth in a collision that was less a kiss and more an act of consumption.They were beyond the reach of the world now, two entities colliding in a storm of friction and devotion. 

The end came like a physical collapse. As the pressure built to an unbearable peak, Ilya gathered Shane in his arms, pinning him down and driving home with a final, staggering depth.

Shane’s vision went white. He let out a long, silent scream, his body locking into a rigid arc as he came, the release was so violent.

Ilya followed a second later. He buried his face in the crook of Shane’s neck, a low, animalistic sound tearing from his throat as he filled Shane with a hot, pulsing weight. He didn't pull back. He stayed heavy and deep, his heart hammering against Shane’s ribs like a trapped bird.

The room fell into a heavy, pulsing silence, the only sound the ragged, uneven rhythm of their breathing and the rain still lashing against the glass.

As the initial haze of the climax began to lift, Ilya made a slight movement to shift his weight, his muscles beginning to relax. Shane’s reaction was immediate. He tightened his legs around Ilya’s waist, his fingers curling into the sheets as he pulled him back down.

"Don't," Shane whispered, his voice trembling and stripped of every ounce of his usual composure. He sounded small, almost fragile, as he looked up at Ilya with eyes that were still wet and wide. "Don’t leave. Please. Stay just like this. I want to keep feeling your heat... I need it."

Ilya’s expression softened into something so tender it was almost painful to look at. He didn't say a word. He simply lowered himself back down, kissing the tears from Shane's temples and keeping them fused together in the warm, messy aftermath.

The heavy tension of the night had finally broken, leaving behind a silence that felt soft and sheltering rather than empty. They lay tangled together, the mess of their collision forgotten in favor of the warmth of their bodies. Ilya hadn't moved; he stayed exactly where Shane had asked him to; deep and steady, a heavy anchor in the drifting haze of Shane’s aftershock.

Shane let out a long, trembling sigh, his fingers tracing the bite marks he’d left on Ilya’s shoulder.

"You're still shaking," Ilya murmured, his voice a low vibration against Shane’s neck. He began to pull back with agonizing slowness, his movements gentle as he reached for a discarded shirt to wipe away the sweat and blood from Shane’s skin. It was a quiet, domestic kind of care.

"I didn't think... I didn't think it could be like that," Shane admitted, his voice barely a whisper. He looked up at the ceiling, his usual poise replaced by a fragile honesty. "Without the hunger. Just... you."

Ilya stopped for a moment, his hand resting on Shane's hip. He looked down at him, his blue eyes searching Shane’s face with an intensity that felt like a question he was afraid to ask. There was a flicker of something there, a shadow of doubt that Shane caught but couldn't quite name.

"Shane," Ilya began, his voice uncharacteristically small. "What if I were like you?"

Shane frowned slightly, shifting to look at him. "A vampire? Why would you want that, Ilya? You’re..."

"You don't want me to fight anymore," Ilya interrupted, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as if reading his own fears there. "I see it every time I leave. You think I’m fragile because I’m human. Because I can be broken in ways you can’t. If I were like you, you wouldn’t have to live in that constant, suffocating fear. You wouldn't have to watch the clock every time I step into the ring."

Shane’s expression softened, but his grip on Ilya’s shoulder tightened. "I don’t think you’re fragile, Ilya. I’ve seen you take hits that would drop a man twice your size. I don't worry because you're weak; I worry because I know the cost of that world. And I know you can do so much better than bleeding for a crowd that doesn't care if you go home or not."

"And if I didn't? If there was no ring? No fight?" Ilya turned his head, his eyes searching Shane’s with a sudden, sharp intensity. "What are we in fifty years, Shane? When I’m slowing down and you’re still... this? You’re talking about a future, but I’m a flickering candle next to a sun that never sets."

Shane reached up, his thumb tracing the jagged line of Ilya’s jaw. "The future isn't about how long we last, it's about who we spend it with. You aren't a candle to me, Ilya. You’re the only light I’ve seen in years of darkness."

Ilya let out a shaky breath, but the shadow didn't leave his face. He pulled back just enough to look down at the marks Shane had left on his skin: the bruises, the shallow puncture marks, the cooling slick of their shared heat.

"No, I mean..." Ilya cut him off, his voice dropping into a register of raw vulnerability. "If I were like you… if there was no blood between us, no hunger to bridge the gap, would you still want me? Would I be enough if I couldn't give you that?"

Shane felt a cold spike of realization. Ilya wasn't just talking about safety or longevity; he was talking about his worth. He was terrified that his blood was the only thing keeping Shane anchored to him.

"You think I'm here for the blood?" Shane’s voice was a low, dangerous hiss, but his eyes were shining with a painful kind of love. "Listen to me. I can’t live without you. But you don't ever have to be like me. You don't have to change a single cell in your body to keep me."

He leaned in, pressing their foreheads together, his breath warm against Ilya's lips.

"It was never just about that, Ilya. I don't want you to feel like you’re a necessity for my survival. I want you because you’re you. If your blood turned to water tomorrow, I’d still be right here. You aren't my medicine. You’re not some blood bag to me. You're my home. Don't ever mistake my need for your safety as a lack of faith in your strength."

Ilya didn't answer, but he closed his eyes, leaning into Shane’s touch as if absorbing the words into his very bones. The insecurity was still there, a quiet ghost in the corner of the room, but for the first time, the weight of it felt shared.

He held Shane tighter, pulling him back into the heat of the sheets, while the rain outside continued to wash away the rest of the world.

Shane still couldn't fathom the sheer, staggering absurdity of it all. Why this magnificent, vibrant creature, so full of untamed strength and light, would ever want to tether himself to something like Shane. Why a soul like Ilya’s would even consider stepping into the cold, stagnant shadows of an existence like his. But as he held him, feeling the steady thrum of Ilya’s heart against his own chest, the "why" no longer mattered. He realized then, with a terrifying clarity, that he was no longer capable of existing in a world where Ilya Rozanov wasn't the center of it. Perhaps he had known it since that very first moment in the infirmary, that he wasn't just fixating on a human, he was succumbing to his only reason to remain.