Aidan

Aidan felt James' body relax against his. He kept on stroking his back gently, leading him to fall asleep, but his movements became more and more automatic. While Aidan stared at the ceiling, still, his mind raced, drowning in fear and confusion.

What was this? What was expected of him? That wasn't right, the trust he had experienced in James' embrace. The desire they shared before was one thing. A violent crash that gave him momentarily a sense of self and of reality.

But what happened that night, this kind of touch, was entirely different. Aidan didn't want this. He had seen it on James' face: the younger vampire thought there was more between them. But there wasn't. That was not Aidan's intention. He wanted to help him, yes. But he could not stand the feeling he had seen in James' eyes.

Aidan felt ashamed. He thought he had used James, to fill his loneliness, since the moment he had chosen him in this pub. A question rose in his mind and filled him with horror: had he acted with James as Stanislas had with him? Manipulating him, taking advantage of him? Was it what that was? The idea made him shiver in shame and disgust.

After all, Aidan was not capable of love. He was a killer. That was it. But James had this honesty about him. It was overwhelming. Facing this genuineness, every gesture Aidan made, every word he said felt like a lie.

The only thing Aidan knew for certain was that he was not worthy of love. He was nothing. He didn't deserve this.

The need to protect James invaded him again, frightening and painful. But this time, he had to protect the young vampire from him.

James' breathing was so calm now, and his arm fell loosely from Aidan's chest as he turned in the bed. The brush against him made Aidan's skin crawl. He felt confined as if the sheets suffocated him. He had to leave. He could not stand that. His ears buzzed and he stumbled out of the bed, trying not to wake James up.

He reached the living room, holding on to the furniture, as the house seemed to whirl around him. He was such a coward. The loneliness was all he deserved. He had to face it.

He found a piece of paper on the desk and wrote a few words with an unsteady hand.

I can't do this. I'm sorry.

And he left. The cold air of the night stabbed his lungs like a knife. He gasped for air.

Aidan paced the street for a minute, rubbed his neck, and hit the wall in front of him. He looked at his hand as blood dripped from his fist. He couldn't feel anything. He felt so empty.