Eric moved slowly through the manor.
But something pulled him.
He didn't know why he walked the way he did, or how he knew where to go. He just did. Like the place recognized him—or he'd dreamed it once and forgotten.
The pull grew stronger until he stopped at a set of large double doors at the end of a long, dim hallway. The wood gleamed darkly in the low light, untouched by dust or time.
His hand moved before his mind caught up.
He stepped inside.
And everything stopped.
It was his room.
No—Killian's room.
Eric's chest tightened.
He'd always thought Killian was a trick of the mind. A phantom stitched together by trauma and time.
But then he saw it.
A large painting, centered above the hearth.
Eric froze.
Alaric and Killian.
Side by side.
Their armor was dark and regal, worn like second skin. Killian's black hair was pulled loosely back, his stance confident. Like he owned the room. Like he belonged. But Eric barely registered him.
Because Alaric was smiling.
Not the guarded, razor-sharp smirk Eric had grown used to. This smile was warm. Honest. Devoted.
Directed at Killian.
Something inside Eric splintered. A coldness seized his lungs, then boiled upward until it pooled behind his eyes.
He stepped closer.
That couldn't be real. That couldn't be Killian.
Because Killian wasn't real.
And even if he was—he sure as hell wasn't him.
But Alaric looked at Killian like he meant something. Like he mattered. Like he loved him.
Eric's breath hitched, fury knotting in his throat.
How dare he smile like that at someone else.
How dare Killian stand that close to him.
Eric's hands curled into fists. He saw red. The rest of the room dissolved around him, all except that painting—those two men frozen in a moment he wasn't part of.
That should've been him.
Alaric shouldn't have smiled like that for anyone else. Not even back then. Not even for him—whoever the hell Killian really was.
Eric's lip curled as he stared down Killian's painted face. That smug tilt of the chin, the cocky gleam in his eyes. It was taunting him. Mocking him.
He hated him.
He hated everything about him.
Most of all, he hated the possibility that deep in Alaric's mind… Killian might still exist.
Might still matter.
A sharp ache spread through Eric's chest, jagged and unrelenting.
He reached out with trembling fingers, brushing Alaric's face in the painting.
"I don't care who you were to him," Eric whispered, venom thick in his voice. "You're mine now."
The room seemed to shift around him, the air warping like a held breath. Something stirred beneath the floorboards.
And then—soft, barely audible—Alaric's voice echoed in his mind.
"We were brothers in war… but love?"
The whisper faltered.
"He broke me."
Eric closed his eyes, his jaw tight, the red haze spreading through him like fire.
He turned away from the painting.
He would erase Killian—rip him from every memory, every corner of Alaric's heart.
Alaric would never smile like that again.
Not unless it was for him.
Only for him.
A presence stirred behind him.
Eric didn't turn at first. He felt it—the weight of another in the room, the shift in the air, the quiet stillness that preceded Alaric like the hush before a storm.
He closed his eyes. The red haze didn't fade.
"…You found his room," Alaric said.
His voice was low, unreadable. When Eric finally turned, Alaric was standing just a few feet behind him, shadows clinging to the edges of his frame like loyal ghosts. His eyes, dark and calculating, rested on Eric with a look that wasn't quite anger—but something colder. Suspicion. Recognition.
Yet… no accusation came.
Alaric stepped forward, his gaze flicking once to the painting, then back to Eric. "You can have it, this room" he said. Flat. Final. "It's not like he's here to use it."
His tone was glacial, but Eric saw the crack beneath it—the fracture in his armor. The way his jaw tightened ever so slightly. The way his eyes didn't linger on the painting for more than a second. Alaric was trying to appear detached, indifferent.
But he wasn't.
He was bleeding behind the eyes.
Eric stepped closer, now between Alaric and the painting, blocking it like he was guarding it. Or claiming it. He tilted his head, eyes roaming Alaric's face like he was memorizing every twitch, every flicker of emotion that betrayed the calm.
"He meant something to you," Eric said.
Alaric didn't respond.
"What was his name?" Eric asked, though he already knew. His voice was low, guttural, possessive.
Alaric looked at him—long and hard—and then, finally, he said it.
"Killian."
The name curled in the air like smoke. Heavy. Final.
Eric tasted it, let it soak into his bones. That name—the one that had haunted him, echoed in his mind, lived in the shadows of his thoughts. The name that had almost been his.
Killian.
He looked at Alaric, and a dangerous glint filled his eyes. "You loved him," he murmured, though it sounded like an accusation.
Alaric didn't flinch. "He broke me."
Eric's smile was thin. Cold.
"Then I'll fix you," he whispered. "I'll replace him."
He stepped closer, until there was barely any space between them. "You won't need to remember him. I'll make you forget."
Alaric said nothing, but something flickered in his expression—something unreadable.
Eric reached up and touched his face, gentle and unnerving all at once. "Say his name again," he said, almost a command.
Alaric stared at him, unmoving. Silent.
Eric's eyes darkened, possessive fire burning behind them. "No? That's fine."
He leaned in, lips brushing the air beside Alaric's ear.
"You won't be saying it much longer."
Alaric didn't move. Not when Eric leaned in. Not when his breath ghosted hot against his skin.
It was the stillness that did it—that awful, calculated stillness of a man who'd endured too much, who'd learned not to flinch even when he should.
Eric hated it.
He hated that kind of control.
"I can see it," Eric said, his voice low, thick. "The way you look at me sometimes. Like you're wondering… if I'm him."
His hand trailed slowly up Alaric's chest, fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt, barely touching.
"You're not," Alaric said.
The words were sharp.
But he still hadn't stepped back.
Eric's lips twitched, eyes narrowing like a predator amused by the resistance. "No. I'm better."
The tension coiled between them like a drawn bowstring. Alaric's breathing changed—just slightly. Controlled, measured. But Eric noticed. He always noticed.
"You gave him this room," Eric murmured, his fingers now at Alaric's collarbone. "Let him sleep in your space. Stare into that fire. Maybe into your bed."
Alaric's jaw clenched, but he didn't answer.
Eric's fingers slid higher, grazing the side of Alaric's neck. "You let him close," he whispered, voice dark with jealousy. "How close, Alaric? How far did he get before you let him ruin you?"
"Stop," Alaric said quietly.
But Eric didn't.
His hand curved behind Alaric's neck, pulling him in—not enough to close the distance, but enough to make his intent clear.
"You didn't push me away when I touched you," Eric said. "You still haven't."
Alaric's eyes were hard, unreadable. But his silence betrayed him.
"Was he gentle with you?" Eric breathed. "Did he worship you the way you wanted—quiet, reverent, soft?"
Eric's lip curled. "Because I won't be. I don't want pieces of you. I want all of it. I want what he had—and more. Every memory, every scar, every ruined part he left behind."
His hand tightened just slightly, not enough to hurt—but enough to stake a claim.
Alaric's voice, when it came, was low and strained.
"You think you're different. But you're just like him."
Eric's laugh was a whisper. Dangerous. Hollow.
"No, Alaric. I'm worse."
And then the distance closed—not fully, not yet—but enough that their foreheads almost touched. Enough that Eric could see the faint tremble in Alaric's lashes. Enough to feel the tension in his body like a drawn wire.
"You're not running," Eric said, softer now. "You could. But you're not."
Alaric moved.
Not away. Forward.
He didn't grab or shove or growl—he simply leaned in, slow, until their bodies were nearly flush.
"You want to be mine so badly," Alaric murmured, voice like ice melting over a blade. "But you don't even know what I do to the things I keep."
His hand lifted—fingers ghosting down Eric's jaw, deceptively soft. Then they trailed lower, across his throat, just above the pulse hammering beneath his skin.
"I break them," Alaric whispered.
Eric's breath hitched.
Alaric's gaze never wavered—steady, cutting, dark with something far beyond lust. "I tear them down until there's nothing left but devotion and ruin. And they beg me for more."
His lips were at Eric's ear now, every word a slow cut.
"Would you beg, Eric? Would you bleed for me?"
Eric's control snapped taut, blood roaring in his ears, a heat pooling low and urgent. He hated how much he liked this—how Alaric's words sank deep into something base and feral inside him. He was hard now, painfully so, and he didn't care. He didn't hide it.
Alaric felt it.
Smirked.
And then, without touching him further, without even glancing down, Alaric leaned in even closer and said, almost sweetly:
"You said you would tell me everything...tell me now.."
His voice dropped lower, darker.
"I want you to tell me."
He circled behind Eric
"Tell me who you really are. What you've done. What you've dreamed. What you're afraid I'll take away from you. Speak it."
Eric's throat went dry.
"Speak it," Alaric said again, more firm now—like a command, like a king used to obedience. "Or I'll pull it out of you myself."
Eric's lips parted, but no sound came. Just heat. Just need.
And then—just before he could speak—
The hunger hit.
Like a wave crashing down his spine. His vision pulsed, the edges of the room darkening, tilting. His irises shimmered—then bled into crimson.
He was starving.
Not for food.
For him.
For this.
For everything Alaric refused to give—and everything he promised to take.