Chapter 5

Chapter 5 – The Reunion (2)

Ten stood rigid, unable to move, his eyes fixed on Erin. Her hand, clamped tightly around his chin, trembled with restrained fury, the pressure so great it felt as if she meant to crush his jawbone. He wanted to tell her to let go, to ask her what she was doing, but the grip on his face made speech impossible.

“The one that bastard’s after is me,” Erin said through clenched teeth. “If I don’t recover soon, someone else will end up dead.”

Ten’s throat bobbed, his gaze wavering. Unable to speak, he gave a silent nod. Erin released him at last, her palm slick with sweat, her breath uneven from the effort. Pain glimmered behind her composure, but her voice carried the same sharp authority as ever.

Ten rose quickly, crossing to the table. He picked up a small vial of crimson liquid and held it out to her. “The clerics left this behind. They said it’s a potion for physical recovery.”

Erin took it without a word, uncorked the vial, and drank. The taste was vile, bitter to the point of nausea—yet she could already feel a faint coolness spreading through her body, dulling the ache that had gnawed at her bones. So that was the sort of medicine priests brewed: foul on the tongue, but effective.

“What did the clerics say about my condition?” she asked.

“Your right leg bone is fractured,” Ten reported quietly, “and a broken sword blade was lodged in your left shoulder. You were found leaning against a tree.”

“I see. You can go.”

It was senseless to push herself now. Moving too soon on half-healed limbs would only ruin her. She needed to recover fully before she could hunt again. Ten bowed low and stepped out of the chamber.

Outside, Neo was waiting, his brow creased. “How’s the Commander?”

Ten gave a faint, tired smile. “She drank the potion. She’ll be fine.”

“When I heard what the cleric said, I nearly fainted,” Neo muttered. “You didn’t see her when you carried her back—she was drenched in blood, every inch of her. I thought she was already dead.”

Ten’s lips tightened. The image of Erin—ashen-faced, her armor shredded, blood slick on her hands—flashed before him, and he grimaced.

“If you’d been a little later finding her,” Neo went on, “she wouldn’t have made it.”

Ten didn’t answer. His hand drifted to his jaw, which still tingled faintly where she’d gripped him. Neo followed his gaze toward the closed door.

“She’s the strongest in the entire Order,” he said softly. “If even she was beaten that badly… what kind of monster are we dealing with?”

Ten said nothing, only exhaled.

“At least she saw him,” Neo added, forcing a lighter tone. “That means we have a lead now. We’ll catch the bastard faster.”

“Maybe,” Neo muttered to himself. Then, more briskly, he clapped Ten on the shoulder. “You’ve been by her side for days. Go get some rest.”

“I’m fine,” Ten said automatically.

Neo snorted. “You haven’t slept in a week, and you’re ‘fine’? Don’t talk nonsense. Get out of here and sleep before you drop.”

Half-dazed, Ten obeyed. He walked to his own quarters, closed the door behind him, and leaned against it, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.

That look in her eyes… it was exactly the same as before. Kind, almost tender—and irritatingly gentle.

His reflection in the darkened window smirked back at him. “I thought I’d done a decent job,” he murmured.

As the words left his mouth, the brown curls atop his head shimmered and faded, replaced by strands of moonlit silver. His eyes—once a soft amber—gleamed a sharp emerald green.

Ten was gone. In his place stood Gabriel.

He brushed his fingers across his face, tracing the familiar lines as if reacquainting himself with an old mask. A quiet, humorless chuckle escaped him as he threw himself down on the bed.

He had meant no harm to Erin, truly. He had even restrained himself, careful not to press too far, to hurt her more than necessary. Yet he had miscalculated. He always did, when it came to her.

The air shifted. A faint scent drifted across the room, sweet and metallic, pricking at the back of his throat.

Gabriel froze.

The green of his eyes deepened, pupils narrowing like a beast’s. The craving struck all at once—sharp, consuming, irresistible. He ran his tongue over his teeth, jaw clenching. It was her scent. It clung to him still, even after a week.

He glanced down. A speck of dried blood marked his fingertip—hers. The memory came back at once: her struggle, her hand pushing against him, her nails scraping his skin when he had tried to calm her. Just a drop of her blood. That was all it took to unravel him.

He laughed softly, without mirth. “Ridiculous,” he whispered.

But the hunger roared up in his throat. Before he could stop himself, he raised his hand and drew his tongue across the spot.

The taste hit him like lightning. Sweetness flooded his senses, dizzying, ecstatic. His body trembled. He could feel his reason slipping away, melting into heat and want.

He wanted her. Not just the blood—the woman.

He wanted to sink his teeth into that pale neck, to drink from her until she trembled beneath him. He wanted to tear the white uniform from her body, to stain her purity with his touch, to brand her skin in red. He wanted to lose himself in her warmth until he forgot he had ever been human.

And he could. His disguise was perfect, his presence unsuspected. Nothing stopped him now.

He caught himself just before the thought could bloom further. His teeth ground together, and he forced out a bitter laugh. “You’ve kept yourself in check for this long,” he muttered. “Don’t lose it now.”

Eighteen years. Eighteen years since that night, and she still remembered him. He had seen it in her eyes—hatred, disbelief, and something else. The memory of him, carved too deep to fade.

That, at least, pleased him.

“I’ve missed you, Erin,” he whispered into the quiet room. He wondered how she would react if she heard that. Would she shudder in disgust? Spit at him? Or stare at him with that cold, empty calm of hers?

He didn’t care. Whatever she did, it would still be hers.

Perhaps it was the cleric’s potion, but Erin’s recovery came faster than expected. Her wounds had knit cleanly, the pain receding with each passing day. Neo had tended her first, then Ten had taken over her care.

And the thirst that had plagued her since the battle—the strange, gnawing dryness she couldn’t explain—had vanished entirely once the cleric arrived. For the first time in weeks, she could rest without waking in pain.

Still, her meals left something to be desired. Ten insisted on serving her only soups and porridges, citing the cleric’s instructions.

“I could eat bread, at least,” she grumbled one afternoon.

“Not yet,” Ten replied without hesitation, setting another bowl before her.

She sighed. The soup, at least, smelled decent. Small bits of minced meat floated among the vegetables. She took a spoonful, and despite herself, found it good.

He must have noticed, because he smiled faintly and placed something else on the table—a small loaf of rye bread.

“You said you wanted bread.”

“Rye’s dry as dust,” she muttered, though she took it all the same. Dipping the crust into the broth, she bit down and hummed softly. “Finally, something that feels like real food.”

Ten said nothing, just watched her eat with a quiet expression.

When she had finished, she wiped her mouth and asked, “Any new victims?”

“None so far.”

“Good.” She leaned back, her crimson eyes narrowing. If the attacks spread while she was bedridden, the Emperor himself would take notice—and worse, word would reach Duke Ferr, her adoptive father. The man already considered her a liability. She could not afford another stain on the family name.

I need to find him—and end this before it grows.

The memory of the attack burned behind her eyes: the stranger’s grin, the sound of her own bone breaking, the mockery in his voice as darkness took her.

My name is Gabriel. Call me that, when we meet again.

She clenched her jaw. The gall of him—to ask that of her while snapping her leg like a twig.

A chill pricked at her spine. She rubbed her lips absently, only to realize Ten was watching her.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She studied him for a moment, then let out a low chuckle. “Do I look it?”

Ten blinked, startled by the tone. Erin propped one arm on her raised knee and rested her chin on her hand, examining him. He’d been with her for four years now—steadfast, silent, dutiful.

But something about him was different lately.

Has he ever looked me straight in the eye before?

She sifted through her memory. No—Ten had always averted his gaze. He claimed it was respect, but she had noticed the faint blush that colored his ears whenever she caught him doing it. That had amused her once.

But ever since the day she was attacked, he had met her gaze freely, without hesitation.

Her eyes narrowed.

“Sorry,” Ten murmured, lowering his head. “I shouldn’t have asked—”

She moved before he could finish. Her hand shot out, seizing his wrist. With a swift pull, she dragged him forward; he stumbled, falling across her lap.

In the same instant, the cold gleam of a blade flashed. Erin’s dagger, drawn from its sheath beneath her thigh, pressed hard against his throat.

Ten froze. His eyes widened, startled—not by the weapon itself, but by the deadly certainty in her expression.

The room fell silent. The air between them throbbed with tension.

“…Commander?” His voice cracked.

“You’re not Ten,” she said evenly.

His lips parted. “W-what are you saying? Of course I am—”

“Ten never meets my eyes.” Her tone sharpened, the blade kissing his skin. “But you—you never once looked away.”

She leaned in, her gaze unflinching. “Who are you?”