AN: sorry for the delay. not had much time for writing. No writers block with this one, just trying to maneuver all my pawns into place :) Love gets you faster updates!

Her hot mouth seared against his as his icy fingers slipped into her carefully constructed tresses to force her lips even closer to his own. The taste of her went directly to his head like no drink ever had, sending warmth through his lifeless body. She was surrounded by the smell of him and everywhere his fingers met her skin she felt tingles like static shocks.

For the briefest, intoxicating moment, he let himself be lost in her warmth and comfort.

For the most fleeting, perfect second of her life, her heart rose in her throat as all she had dreamed of seemed to be falling into place.

And then suddenly he tore himself from her embrace and was across the room in the blink of an eye, his hands on the stone wall behind him, grounding him, keeping him from crossing back to her. They were both breathing heavily; not from lack of air but from the rising tides of passion in both of their bodies.

"Wh-," he began, trying to form a coherent thought. He could hear her racing heart and it was overwhelming him even across the room. He closed his eyes tight to try and clear his mind and he opened them to see her hand hovering over her lips, which were not even swollen from the too short kiss. He saw her swallow and then stand a bit straighter. "Stop!"

She was about to step closer, unsure if she was simply going to kiss him again or try to explain—but his shout stopped her in her tracks.

"Vlad, I—"

"I'm sorry," he simply said and then ran from the room, leaving her stunned figure alone in her room. He continued to run down the hall and out the front door, fleeing into the night. She remained unmoving at the foot of her bed, staring into the space where he had retreated to after the kiss.

What had he done? WHAT HAD HE DONE?!

He screamed into the night air, falling to his knees and grasping his head in his hands when he reached the bank of the river. Oh he truly was the devil.

In a moment of weakness, his baser desires had taken control of him, probably ruining forever the one thing he had ever loved. How could he have been so careless? How could he take advantage of her in such a way? If only he were human enough to throw himself into the steady flow of the river before him and perish within its watery embrace…

And yet, a timid voice inside his head spoke up, and yet…

She had not run from him in fear and disgust. He could not recall who had closed the distance between them, exactly, but she had not pulled away, not had a look of hatred and betrayal in her eyes. They had held pain, but not hatred. Perhaps she had also wanted…

His thoughts flew apart at the mere idea of it and he could not think reasonably.

But no, no. Such a pure, bright, good thing could not love him in such a way. No, it must have been pity that stopped her from slapping him and running away. Of course, that must be it. She had been shocked, and pitied the sick creature he was—not a man, but no longer a complete monster—had seen the conflict in his eyes and felt sorry for his twisted desires because he was her brother.

Indeed, maybe she did love him, had told him as much, but not in the way he now fully realized he wanted her to love him. He could never have her in that way, he knew. But perhaps… perhaps he could earn her forgiveness. That was a part of love, was it not? To forgive the ones you love even when they wrong you?

Yes, he would earn her forgiveness; would not let his lust overcome him again; would become human and be the brother she needed, the brother she wanted. He may have broken her trust, may want a life with her that could never be, but he may yet salvage her innocent love for him.

He slowly gathered himself up off the damp grass and calmly straightened his hair and coat before turning back to the house. As the cool glow of the electric lights drew nearer, he hesitated. Maybe he would wait a few hours, until she had gone to sleep, before returning to the house. He did not think she would want to see him again and now that he was calmer, he realized he could still taste her, could still feel her hot lips against his own. He decided he would quench the physical demands of his body so he would hopefully be able to keep his hands to himself the next day, if she would even see him.

As he sated his lust in the arms of the village whore a few hours later, he could not help from calling out to her as he came apart, "Draga".

Ilona stood frozen for what felt like eternity.

She had finally done it; she had torn aside the veil between love and lover.

Or so she had thought. She had been elated that he had kissed her back with such passion and zeal, affirming all her beliefs and confirming that her plan had worked. He wanted her! He was not her brother! He would never have kissed her like that if they had truly been blood-relations. And even if it turned out they were, she no longer cared. She would do whatever it took for them to be together. She had been working towards this one goal her entire adult life, and most of her youth; now that there was even a slight chance he felt the same, she would never settle for anything less than being his in every way.

She had been disappointed he had pulled away from her so quickly, yes, but this did not deter her. She had felt his desire and understood that he had not shared her way of thinking very long. She may have wanted this for years, but until a week ago he still thought of her as a child and a relative, even if he knew a different truth.

Now she must not let him try to take back what had happened. She knew him—was not surprised to hear him storm down the stairs and slam the front door as he flew into the night. He was probably out in the garden or down by the river, tearing his hair out, trying to come to terms with these new thoughts and feelings.

She couldn't help but smirk at the idea of him, the aloof and debonair Count Dracula, disheveled, conflicted, and (hopefully) horny, pacing the dewy grass. Such an image stirred her from her stiffness and she sighed, a wicked smile flitting across her face as she looked about her room as though it should have changed from the brief encounter. She spied the open book of drawings on her bed and decided to leave it in his room to consider. She felt that, more than any words she could try to use, her art could reveal her desires.

But she would wait until the afternoon when he had had the chance to calm down and think logically. She would creep into his study as he slept the sunlight away and leave it on his desk as a sign of her approval of the evenings' events; a promise that she would not let him turn away so easily.

Yes, she thought, she would finally see that she got what she wanted.

He returned an hour before dawn, hurriedly and silently making his way through the house, into his study, and down the secret passage to his lab. He had found only fleeting satisfaction in his impromptu liaison and already his body and mind, unbidden, had begun to churn with thoughts of her.

Had it only been a few days ago that she had returned, his Ina, the girl he had raised since infancy? He was truly a sick and disturbed monster, to lust after the thing he had tended to with such care and unselfish affection. Was it truly only a decade ago that he had climbed into her bed and held her when she was sick with fever? Felt her small hands entwine in the loose strands of his hair to find innocent comfort in his presence? Such a span of time meant nothing to him, and yet it seemed like a lifetime ago.

He would not let the demon that dwelled still within him have her.

He would rid himself of its malevolent influence and be simply a man; be the brother she had known and had loved, rather than the monster she pitied. He could not have her look at him again with her bright eyes clouded by worry and sadness. He would not face her as anything less than she deserved. He would perfect his serum; he was so close to the answer. He would seek her forgiveness and, should she grant him that absolution, would spend the rest of his days protecting her from any other evil that might try and claim her.

Frantic, he began concentrating his formula, boiling down herbal tinctures, selecting his freshest, youngest sample of blood and filtering it to rid it of any lingering impurities. The sun rose on the other side of the thick stone walls and still he fiddled and measured and stirred. He added nightshade juice and more foxglove extract. The idea crossed his mind that he was not unlike that mad doctor, Heir Frankenstein, as he tried to force life into dead cells. Indeed, the twisted man had used the power of lightening to create his own abomination of living death. He did not want to have to wait for a thunderstorm and had decided that he would try to shock himself with the electrical fittings for the house just after injecting himself—perhaps the combination of healthy blood, stimulants, and power would be the formula he needed. If he could simply get his heart beating again, he felt sure he would be free of his damned curse and return to being a human man.

Finally, his new and improved formula was ready. The clock on a nearby table told him in was about noon and his impatience convinced him he would have enough time before dinner to recover from any ill effects. He was too eager to find the solution to his centuries of woe, so he filled a syringe, stripped off his jacket and shirt, tied a tourniquet around his arm and injected the solution. It burned as it traveled up his arm, and as he pumped his fist, he felt it begin to slowly spread to his shoulder and across his torso. It was if flames licked the inside of his ribcage and he almost doubled over with the pain of it. But he was determined.

With the hurried steps of a madman, he crossed the room and readied the ends of the live wires. He had nothing to fear except failure and yet so much to gain. With a steadying breath against the fire in his veins and the soon-to-be-agony of the electric current, he held the two ends against the flesh of his chest and side, imagining the zap of electricity passing through the cold still muscle of his heart.

With a flash, he was overwhelmed. The cold, clean, slicing pain of the electricity made his vision turn white; the fires in his veins dimmed by the explosions in his nerves. He could not move, could not think as his entire being was consumed by the flow of the current. And then suddenly, with a distant *pop* and flying sparks, his muscles relaxed and he collapsed to the floor, the lights extinguished and the smell of burning flesh hanging in the air.

He woke up some unknown amount of time later, every muscle in his body sore and reluctant to obey his commands to push himself up off the floor. With excruciating and methodical effort, he managed to drag himself to the foot of the stairs. He blacked out again for what felt like a few moments, and then determinedly began to pull himself up, step by step, pausing after each, his muscles rippling with residual spasms with every centimeter.

Finally, with an unnatural moan, he managed to make his way into his study, laying his face on the rough surface of the antique oriental rug. He could feel the edges of darkness creeping back into his consciousness, and with a final burst of willpower, managed to shut the secret door with his foot before succumbing to oblivion.