Evelyn’s POV

The wind was gentle tonight, stirring the trees with a sigh that felt more like a whisper. The moon hung high and pale above the rooftops, casting a glow that shimmered on the dewy grass. I stood barefoot in the garden behind Gideon’s manor, arms wrapped around myself—not because I was cold, but because I needed to feel something that still belonged to me.

Being turned had changed everything. My senses were sharper. The world buzzed beneath my skin, like electricity woven into every fiber of my being. But it also felt like a part of me had been cut out and replaced with something ancient and unknowable. Something hungry.

And yet, in the quiet of the garden, bathed in moonlight, I didn’t feel monstrous.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

I startled slightly, turning to find Gideon standing a few feet away. His presence had become familiar, but still somehow overwhelming. He wore a dark shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms. There was something ruggedly graceful about him—even when he was doing nothing at all.

“I don’t really need sleep anymore,” I said with a soft smile. “But I do need peace. This helps.”

He stepped closer, his eyes reflecting the moonlight like polished silver. “The moon’s always been a comfort to me. I like to think it remembers everything, even when we forget.”

“That’s poetic,” I murmured, tilting my head. “Didn’t take you for the poetic type.”

“I contain multitudes,” he said dryly, but there was a glint of mischief in his eyes that made me laugh.

God, I loved when he did that—softened. Let himself be something other than the eternal protector, the brooding enigma. For a few seconds, he felt… reachable.

“You’ve changed,” I said before I could stop myself.

He didn’t ask what I meant. “So have you.”

We stood in silence, the space between us pulsing like a heartbeat.

“You’re not what I expected,” I admitted. “When you offered the deal… when you turned me—I thought you were doing it for power, or control. But you gave Claire a second chance.”

“She deserved one,” he said simply. “You did too.”

“I didn’t expect kindness from someone like you.”

He raised a brow. “Someone like me?”

“Ancient. Brooding. Probably drinks his coffee black and reads depressing novels by candlelight.”

That made him laugh—actually laugh. And it wasn’t cold or calculated; it was surprised and human.

“I haven’t had coffee in two hundred years,” he confessed, “but I do read depressing novels. And sometimes I read them by candlelight.”

We both smiled, and the world tilted just slightly.

There was a pause, long and thick, as he stepped closer. Close enough that I could see the faint scar along his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the part of him that never really relaxed.

“You fascinate me,” he said quietly. “From the moment you walked into that hospital, stubborn and desperate. You bargained your soul for your sister’s life without flinching.”

I swallowed. “You fascinate me too, Gideon. Even when I try to hate you… I can’t.”

A flicker of something passed through his expression. Pain, maybe. Or desire.

“I’ve lived for centuries,” he murmured, “but you’ve undone me in days.”

His hand reached up, brushing a strand of hair from my face. My breath caught. The sensation was light, but it struck me like lightning.

He didn’t kiss me right away. He waited. Let the moment stretch. Our breaths tangled in the moonlight.

And then, slowly, he leaned in.

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It was deliberate. Soft but consuming. Like he was tasting the beginning of something he didn’t quite trust but couldn’t deny.

My fingers found the front of his shirt, gripping it, grounding myself. His hand cupped the back of my neck. I could feel the centuries behind his touch—the restraint, the longing, the fear of breaking something fragile.

When we pulled apart, I was breathless.

“I don’t know what this is,” I whispered.

“Neither do I,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “But I know I don’t want to let it go.”

I nodded, still stunned by the weight of what had just happened.

Then I smiled, unable to help myself. “You’re a good kisser, for someone who hasn’t had coffee in two centuries.”

He chuckled, that rare thing again. “I’ll take that as a win.”

The silence returned, but it wasn’t awkward. It was full. Something had shifted.

He offered his arm. “Come. The night’s still young.”

I took it, curling my fingers around his elbow.

And together, we walked back toward the manor, the moon at our backs, and something fragile and frightening blooming quietly between us.