The heavy oak doors creaked open, and the sudden draft of cool air felt like a lie. Alaric walked in, and the moment he crossed the threshold, the sweet, heavy scent of Silas's Heat hit him like a physical blow to the chest. Silas saw the change in the Prince immediately. Alaric's gray eyes darkened until they were almost black, his pupils blown wide with predatory hunger.
Alaric didn't rush. He walked slowly, his boots clicking rhythmically as he approached the shivering man on the floor. He knelt beside Silas, but he didn't touch him. He just let his own scent—the smell of cedarwood and expensive tobacco—wrap around Silas like a heavy, suffocating blanket.
"You look like you're suffering, Silas," Alaric said, his voice vibrating with a dark satisfaction. He could see the way Silas's pupils were shaking, the way his body was arched in silent agony.
"Help... me," Silas whispered. The words felt like glass in his throat. He hated himself for saying it. He was a Vane. He was the Ghost. But the Heat was a monster he couldn't fight with a knife.
Alaric reached out, his cool fingers brushing against Silas's burning cheek. The contact sent a jolt of electricity through Silas that made him whimper. "I'll help you, Silas," Alaric whispered, leaning closer until his lips were brushing against Silas's ear. "I'll give you everything your body is begging for. But I want the truth first. Where did you hide the drive you stole from my father's safe?"
Silas shook his head, trying to hold onto his last bit of loyalty. "I... I can't..."
"Then stay here and burn," Alaric said, starting to stand up. "I can smell how much you need me. How long do you think you can last before your heart gives out?"