Chapter 5
1475words
The door remained locked. When she shifted, fiery pain radiated from her neck.
Her fingertips found ragged flesh and crusted blood. This was no love bite or passion mark—this was a wound, as though some predator had torn at her flesh.
The memory crashed back—those blood-red eyes, that inhuman strength—all of it flooding her consciousness.
She had believed Asher was her savior, a divine gift meant to rescue her from obscurity.
He was perfect, powerful, and above all, gentle. His tenderness had been the balm healing all her wounds.
But that was a lie.
A familiar nausea, rooted in childhood trauma, rose from her gut.
Luna's parents had been hopeless alcoholics. Her childhood memories consisted of shattering glass, vicious curses, and violent, ugly struggles.
They'd beaten her too, without reason, simply to vent their drunken rage.
In that lightless childhood, she'd developed a visceral revulsion toward violence.
Poverty and instability were their legacy. She'd studied relentlessly, worked endless hours—partly to survive, partly to repay the debt of her raising.
She'd sworn that once she graduated and earned enough, she would cut those nightmarish parents from her life like excising a cancer.
She'd fallen for Asher because he embodied everything she imagined goodness could be.
He seemed utterly disconnected from concepts like violence, cruelty, or loss of control.
But last night, with his own hands, he'd shattered that divine image he'd so carefully constructed.
The door opened softly, and Asher entered carrying an elegant breakfast tray. He wore a pristine white shirt and that achingly familiar gentle smile.
"You're awake? I made your favorite—sandwich and warm milk." He set the tray on the nightstand and reached to stroke her hair as usual.
Luna recoiled like a frightened animal, shrinking away from his touch. Her eyes held nothing but fear and wariness.
Asher's hand froze midair. The smile on his face calcified.
"I..." Luna threw back the covers and stumbled from the bed, her voice raw. "I'm leaving."
"You can't leave!" Asher moved instantly to block her path, arms spread wide in an almost supplicating gesture.
"Luna, please, tell me what's wrong." His expression was agonized, those beautiful eyes filled with genuine bewilderment. "Why... why are you looking at me like that? What have I done?"
His wounded expression and pleading tone almost made Luna feel she was the one at fault.
But the memory of the previous night remained vivid and horrifying.
Under his questioning gaze, the nightmarish scene she'd tried to suppress flooded back with merciless clarity.
The night had been dim, moonlight streaming through the skylight. Within that ethereal glow, Asher had... transformed.
His body had seemed to expand under some terrible force—shoulders broadening, muscles bulging beneath his shirt, his entire frame growing impossibly larger, radiating primal, terrifying power.
Then he'd raised his head.
Those garnet eyes that once held such tenderness now blazed with crimson, predatory hunger.
Her mind had emptied, leaving only fragmented pleas and overwhelming terror...
The memories receded. Luna stood frozen, trembling uncontrollably.
She looked up into Asher's concerned, innocent eyes and forced out the words: "Do you... truly not remember anything?"
"Remember what?" Asher's expression was utterly bewildered, his gaze clear and guileless. He moved cautiously closer, his voice low and vulnerable.
"Luna, I don't know what happened last night, but I think... I must have had another episode."
"Episode?"
"Yes," he smiled bitterly, his eyes dimming. "My family has a hereditary... condition. Under certain circumstances, I lose control, become aggressive, and afterward remember nothing. I thought I was cured..."
He reached out, this time barely brushing her fingertips with his own.
"Did I... frighten you?"
"What... what happened?" His voice trembled with what seemed like genuine panic. "My head is pounding... I only remember dinner, and then... nothing. Luna, please—did I... did I hurt you?"
He looked so innocent, so tormented—utterly different from the predator of the previous night.
Luna's thoughts whirled chaotically. She described his violence with a shaking voice, but he only shook his head in confusion, repeatedly insisting "I don't remember" and "I would never hurt you." His distress and self-recrimination seemed genuine—he appeared more devastated than she was.
"I'm so sorry, Luna, I'm so sorry..." he murmured, clutching his head, his face contorted with self-loathing. "I don't understand what's happening to me... I need help."
Asher's beautiful eyes brimmed with innocence and agony, his entire being radiating such fragility that Luna's resolve began to crumble.
She thought: he must be telling the truth. He didn't mean to hurt me. He's just... ill.
An ill person shouldn't be judged so harshly. She couldn't simply abandon him.
She drew a deep breath, as though making a momentous decision, and said: "Let's get you help."
At the Blackwood family's private medical facility, a distinguished physician conducted thorough examinations. He offered no definitive diagnosis, merely noting that Asher's "physiology presents certain anomalies" and recommending several days of observation.
Throughout this period, Luna remained at his side. Asher became docile and dependent, like a child terrified of abandonment.
Eventually, the results arrived. The doctor summoned Luna privately and informed her in grave, clinical tones that Asher's physiological markers deviated significantly from normal parameters, and his psychological profile showed concerning abnormalities.
"Our preliminary diagnosis is an episodic dissociative disorder—essentially a form of split personality." The doctor adjusted his glasses and handed her a file. "During periods of intense emotional stimulation or at certain cyclical intervals, he manifests an alternate, highly aggressive personality. His primary consciousness retains no memory of actions performed during these episodes."
"Is there... a cure?" Luna asked anxiously, her suspicions seemingly confirmed.
"Yes," the doctor affirmed before his tone shifted, "but treatment requires extensive companionship therapy. The process will be grueling for both of you. He needs an environment of complete trust and stability. Miss Luna, you must be prepared to endure his condition and weather potential harm from his alternate personality. Can you commit to this?"
These words bolstered Luna's resolve considerably.
So he truly was ill. And she would be his cure.
Back at the estate, Asher seized her hand, his expression fraught with anxiety: "What did the doctor say? Is it serious? Luna, what if I... can't be cured?"
Witnessing his vulnerability, Luna's final doubts evaporated. She clasped his hand firmly, her gaze resolute. She remained that resilient blade of grass, unbending against the storm.
"You will," she said firmly. "You'll recover."
Asher's smile broke like sunshine through storm clouds, illuminating the entire room.
He pulled her into a fierce embrace, burying his face against her neck. His voice—nearly a sigh—carried the ecstatic relief of someone who'd lost and regained everything:
"I adore you, Luna. Your scent, your strength, everything about you... I adore you so much..."
His passionate declaration sent heat flooding to Luna's cheeks. Her heart hammered against her ribs, overwhelmed by the intensity of being so completely cherished.
"I'll stay with you," she promised solemnly, returning his embrace. "You helped me before. Now it's my turn to help you."
"Thank you," Asher whispered, his voice trembling with satisfaction.
To care for her patient, Luna decided to prepare a meal herself. She bustled around the kitchen, chopping vegetables with confident strokes. "Don't let appearances fool you—I'm actually quite the chef."
No sooner had she spoken than the knife slipped, slicing deeply into her left index finger. Blood welled instantly.
"Ah!"
"What happened?" Asher appeared instantly at her cry. Seeing the crimson droplet forming on her fingertip, his brow furrowed sharply.
"It's nothing, just a slip—" Before Luna could finish, Asher seized her hand.
Before she could react, he'd drawn her injured finger into his mouth.
Luna froze in shock.
She felt his tongue working against her wound, sending strange sensations radiating from her fingertip throughout her body. This wasn't first aid. He was... feeding.
With obsessive hunger, he drew out every droplet of blood with unmistakable greed.
She watched his throat work as he swallowed, hearing the muffled sounds of satisfaction deep in his chest.
Those usually gentle garnet eyes were now half-lidded, glazed with dark hunger she couldn't comprehend—an intensity so profound it was almost palpable. The scene was profoundly unsettling.
Seconds later, he seemed to regain himself, releasing her finger with visible reluctance. The bleeding had stopped.
"What—" Luna began.
"I'll get a bandage," Asher interrupted, turning abruptly toward the stairs, his departure conspicuously hurried.
He needed distance immediately. He feared that lingering even moments longer would lead to more than just a taste from her finger.
How could she smell so divine?
Asher burst into his bedroom, collapsing against the door, breathing heavily. The taste of her blood—impossibly sweet and vibrant with life—lingered on his tongue, setting his own blood afire.
He closed his eyes as memories surged forward.
