Chapter 1: The Sting of Memory
The market of Puerto Escondido assaulted the senses before it ever invited them in. The air hung thick and wet, heavy with the perfume of overripe mangoes, roasting plantains, and the acrid bite of diesel smoke from a passing motorbike. Every stall overflowed, a chaotic patchwork of color against the perpetual green twilight of the jungle that pressed in on all sides. The calls of howler monkeys echoed from the canopy like distant, mournful drums, and beneath it all, the relentless, rhythmic hum of insects and the chatter of a hundred voices bartering in rapid-fire Spanish.
Eric Vance moved through it all like a ghost. He kept his head down, his shoulders loose, his hands out of his pockets so no one could mistake his posture for something threatening. A decade of training had made this second nature. He paused at a stall piled high with dried plantains and bundles of herbs, the vendor—a leathery woman with a gold tooth and sharp, knowing eyes—sizing him up before he even opened his mouth.
"Cinco libras," he said, his Spanish serviceable but accented. He gestured at the plantains, and she rattled off a price that made him scoff.
"Tres," he countered, a faint, practiced smile tugging at his lips.
She waved a hand dismissively, launching into a rapid tirade about the quality of her goods, the cost of transport, the cruelty of a world that made a poor widow scrape for every centavo. Eric listened, nodding at the right moments, his eyes scanning the crowd out of pure, ingrained habit. A young mother balanced a basket of limes on her head, a pair of teenage boys argued over a cheap soccer ball, an old man slept in a hammock strung between two poles, his face slack and peaceful.
Normal. Everything was normal.
The vendor said another number, slightly lower than her first. Eric shook his head, countering with a number just above his original. She threw her hands up, a sigh of theatrical resignation, and began scooping the plantains into a brown paper bag.
And that was when the market died.
The sound didn't fade gradually. It was snuffed out, as if someone had placed a hand over the world's mouth. The chatter, the haggling, the laughter—all of it ceased at once, swallowed by an immense and suffocating silence. The monkeys stopped their mournful calls. Even the insects seemed to hold their breath.
Eric's blood turned to ice water.
His head whipped around, his body dropping into a low, defensive crouch before his mind could even catch up. The years in the syndicate had carved this instinct into his very bones—a flicker of perceived threat, and his muscles would coil, his eyes would search, his hands would prepare to strike. He scanned the crowd, his gaze raking over the frozen tableau of market-goers, all of them turning to look at the same spot.
He saw only motionless faces, painted with confusion and mild alarm. A man in a dusty fedora. A woman clutching a string of papayas. A child pointing at something near the center of the plaza.
Eric followed the child's gaze, his heart hammering against his ribs with a force that made his vision swim. He searched for the pale, beautiful, terrible face of Andre Mariano. He looked for the unnatural stillness of a predator, the flash of a tailored suit, the cold, knowing smile that had haunted his nights for over a decade.
But there was no pale face. No tailored suit. Only a stray dog—a mangy, ribs-showing mutt with a matted coat—knocking over a crate of mangoes with a clatter that shattered the silence. The fruit rolled across the packed dirt, a cascade of orange and yellow, and the market erupted once more into sound as the vendor shrieked and swatted at the dog with a broom.
The noise flooded back in, a tidal wave of sound that washed over Eric, leaving him breathless. He straightened slowly, unclenching his fists, forcing his shoulders to relax. His hands were shaking. He looked down at them—at the faint, jagged white scars that crisscrossed his tanned forearms—and felt a wave of revulsion so strong it almost bent him double.
He was still afraid. After all this time, after all the miles he'd put between himself and that life, he was still a trembling mess at the mere suggestion that Andre might be near. The dog trotted off with a mango in its jaws, and the market returned to its business, oblivious to the cold sweat trickling down Eric's spine.He grabbed the bag of plantains with a hand that still trembled, tossing the coins onto the vendor's table without counting. She said something to him, a question, or perhaps an admonishment, but he didn't hear her. He was already walking, pushing through the crowd with a single-minded purpose, his mind a whirlwind of memory.He saw his father's face. The gaunt, hollow features, the bloodshot eyes, the desperate, twitching hands that were always reaching for a deck of cards or a bottle of cheap rum. Emilio Vance had been a handsome man once, before the gambling had eaten him alive, before the debts had accumulated like a creeping plague. Eric remembered the nights spent huddled on the floor of their cramped apartment, listening to his father make promises to men with hard faces and harder voices. He remembered the bruises. He remembered hiding under the bed while his father screamed and cried.And he remembered the night it all came to an end.He had been sixteen. A cool October night, the air thick with the smell of rain and decay. The men had come to their door—sleek men in black suits with cold, professional eyes. They hadn't raised their voices. They hadn't needed to. They had simply shown his father a piece of paper, a ledger of debts that seemed to sum up a lifetime of failure, and they had given him a choice. Pay, or pay.Eric remembered the way his father had looked at him. Not with shame, not with sorrow, but with a strange, desperate hope. The man had fallen to his knees, his hands clasped as if in prayer, and had begged Eric to forgive him. Had told him that he loved him, that he was sorry, that he had no other choice. But his eyes hadn't looked sorry. His eyes had looked relieved.
The price had been seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
Eric could still remember the exact number. It was seared into his brain like a brand. For seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars, his father had sold him into servitude. He had been handed over to a man with a cruel, scarred face, who had taken him away in the back of a black car, driven for hours, and then delivered him to a mansion that looked like a fortress.
And Andre Mariano had been waiting for him.
The vampire mob king had been seated in a leather chair, a glass of wine in his hand, his dark eyes gleaming with an ancient, predatory intelligence. He had looked Eric up and down like a prized stallion, and then he had smiled. It was a beautiful smile, cold and perfect, and it had made Eric's skin crawl.
"Welcome home," Andre had said.
The memory shattered. Eric found himself standing in front of Rosa's cantina, the bag of plantains crushed in his grip. He didn't remember walking there. He forced himself to take a deep breath, then another, then another. The scent of the jungle—wet earth, blooming flowers, decaying leaves—washed over him, grounding him in the present. He was not in that mansion. He was not in that life. He was in Puerto Escondido, a tiny town on the edge of the world, and he was free.
For now.
"Cálmate, chico." A warm, weathered voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Eric looked up to see Matteo leaning against the doorframe of the cantina, a cooking spoon in his hand and a bemused expression on his face. Matteo was a local man, in his fifties, with a shock of white hair and a belly that spoke of a lifetime spent sampling his own cooking. He worked for Rosa, handling the kitchen, and he treated Eric with the easy, uncomplicated friendliness of a man who didn't ask questions.
"Just the market," Eric said, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You know how it is."
Matteo chuckled, gesturing with his spoon. "Sí, the market is a battlefield. But you survived." He paused, his eyes flicking over Eric with a mixture of concern and curiosity. "Rosa is in the back. She has been asking for you. She wants to make sancocho tonight, and she needs someone to chop the yuca."
Eric nodded, grateful for the mundane distraction. He followed Matteo into the cantina, letting the familiar smells of garlic, onions, and simmering spices wash over him. The place was quiet, empty of customers at this hour, the wooden tables wiped clean and the lanterns casting a soft, golden glow over the rustic interior. It was a simple place, but it was safe. Rosa had given him that.
He found her in the back kitchen, standing over a massive pot, her sharp brown eyes focused on the mystical dance of herbs and broth. She was a small woman, but she carried herself with a quiet authority that made her seem larger. Her sun-weathered skin was etched with fine lines, and her black hair, streaked with silver, was pulled back into a tight braid.
"Ah, there you are," she said, glancing up as he entered. Her voice was warm, but her eyes were sharp, missing nothing. They flicked to his hands, still trembling slightly, and then to his face. "Matteo said the market got your blood up."
Eric set the bag of plantains on the counter. "Just a dog knocking over a crate. Gave me a scare."
Rosa hummed, a noncommittal sound that made it clear she didn't believe him. She pushed a pile of yuca across the counter toward him, along with a cleaver. "Chop these into cubes. About this size." She held up her thumb and forefinger to demonstrate.
Eric picked up the cleaver, the familiar weight of the blade grounding him. He began to work, the rhythmic thunk of the metal against the cutting board providing a soothing counterpoint to the chaos in his mind. Rosa moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, adding ingredients to the pot, adjusting the heat, tasting the broth with a critical eye.
"You have a faraway look," she said after a long silence. Her back was to him, but her voice was soft, probing. "A man who runs from something always has that look. I saw it the day you walked into my cantina, two months ago, with nothing but the clothes on your back."
Eric paused, the cleaver hovering over a yuca root. He said nothing. Rosa had never asked him where he'd come from, and he had never volunteered the information. It was an unspoken agreement between them, a fragile truce that had allowed him to find some semblance of peace in this jungle town.
But she was asking now, in her own way.
"I'm not running from anything," he said finally, his voice flat. "I'm running toward. There's a difference."
Rosa turned to look at him, her sharp eyes boring into him. "Is there?" she asked, her voice carrying the weight of a woman who had seen her own share of blood and sorrow. "I ran from the mountains for ten years. I ran from the men who killed my brothers, who burned my village. I ran until I couldn't run anymore. And then I stopped, and I built this." She gestured around the kitchen, a flicker of pride in her eyes. "Running is fine, but you have to stop eventually. You have to find a place to stand."
Eric met her gaze, and for a moment, the walls he had built around himself threatened to crack. He looked down at his hands, at the scars on his forearms, at the evidence of a life he couldn't escape. "What if you can't stop? What if the thing that's chasing you is always going to be there, no matter how far you run?"
Rosa's expression softened. She walked over to him, her steps slow and deliberate, and placed a hand on his arm. Her grip was firm, grounding. "Then you make sure that when it catches up to you, you're ready for the fight."
She held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded to herself and turned back to her pot. "Now chop the yuca. The sancocho won't make itself."
Eric did as she asked, the cleaver rising and falling with mechanical precision. The fear was still there, coiled in his gut, but Rosa's words had planted a seed. A tiny, stubborn seed of defiance. He was not the same man who had been sold for seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. He was not the same man who had survived Andre's world for over a decade. He was something else now. Something harder.
The hours of the afternoon slipped away as the kitchen filled with the rich, savory scent of the sancocho. Matteo came in and out, chopping, stirring, tasting, his cheerful banter a balm to Eric's frayed nerves. The cantina began to fill with the early evening crowd, locals and a few tourists, all drawn by the promise of good food and cold beer.
Eric worked the bar, pouring drinks, exchanging pleasantries, his smile coming easier now. The restless energy that had plagued him throughout the day began to subside, replaced by the steady rhythm of his work. He was good at this, reading people, anticipating their needs, keeping them at a comfortable distance. It was a skill he had learned in a much darker context, but here, it served him well.
As the night wore on, he found his thoughts drifting back to Rosa's words. Ready for the fight. He didn't know if he was ready. He didn't know if he would ever be ready. But for the first time in months, he allowed himself to imagine a future in which he wasn't afraid.
The door to the cantina swung open, letting in the humid night air, and a group of loud, drunken tourists stumbled in. Eric's smile remained fixed, but his eyes scanned them out of habit, assessing, cataloging. They were harmless, a group of backpackers looking for a good time. He poured them their drinks and moved on.
But as he wiped down the counter, a faint chill prickled the back of his neck. He looked out into the darkness beyond the window, at the dense, impenetrable wall of jungle. For a moment, he could have sworn he saw a flicker of movement between the trees.
He blinked, and it was gone.
Eric turned away from the window, his heart beating a little faster than it should have. He told himself it was nothing. Just his imagination, playing tricks on him. Andre Mariano was thousands of miles away, in a world of glass and steel and old money. He had no reason to come to a remote jungle town on the edge of nowhere.
But as the night deepened and the cantina grew quiet, Eric couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched. The feeling would not leave him, and as he closed the bar and made his way to his small room at the back of the guesthouse, he found himself checking the locks twice, and then a third time.
He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the symphony of the jungle. The fear was back, gnawing at the edges of his fragile peace. He thought of Rosa, of her steady hands and her unflinching gaze. He thought of his father, of the way the man had looked at him with relief instead of sorrow.
And he thought of Andre. The beautiful, terrible smile. The cold, dark eyes. The weight of a decade of captivity, a decade of being someone else's possession, someone else's toy.
The weight of a decade of captivity, a decade of being someone else's possession, someone else's toy, pressed down on him like a physical force. He could still feel the ghost of Andre's hands on his skin, the whisper of silk sheets, the taste of expensive wine and something darker. His body remembered things his mind tried desperately to forget—the way Andre's fingers would trace the curve of his spine in the dark, the possessive weight of his gaze, the cruel tenderness in his voice when he whispered promises that were really threats.
He doesn't know where you are.He doesn't care. You're nothing to him now.
The lie tasted bitter, but Eric swallowed it anyway, forcing his breathing to even out. He rolled onto his side, staring at the thin crack of moonlight seeping through the wooden shutters. The jungle hummed its endless song, indifferent to his terror. The sounds were supposed to be comforting—had been comforting, once. Now, every rustle of leaves sent a spike of adrenaline through his veins, because they sounded like footsteps. Like someone approaching softly, deliberately, the way Andre always moved.Stop. You're losing your mind.
He sat up abruptly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The wooden frame creaked under his weight, and the sound was so loud in the silence that it made him flinch. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes until he saw stars, trying to grind the memories back into the dark recesses of his mind where they belonged.
The room was small and spare, exactly the way he kept it. A bed, a wooden dresser, a single chair against the wall. None of it sitting. None of it was permanent. He kept his few possessions in a battered duffel bag tucked beneath the bed, ready to grab at a moment's notice. It was a survival instinct he'd developed in the first months of his freedom, the paranoid habits of a man who had learned that everything could be taken away in an instant.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen illuminating the dark room. A text from Rosa: Matteo's mother needs medicine. Left early. Sancocho with lies nice cold blanket. Don't run yourself ragged.
simple words for a transactional offer of trust. He typed back a brief acknowledgment, then set the phone down, staring at the message. Rosa saw too much. She watched him like a hawk watching a wounded rabbit, lots of patience for a certainty that something was hunting him.
He pushed himself up from the bed, the floorboards cool against his bare feet. He moved through the small space with practiced economy, pulling on his worn jeans and the loose charcoal linen shirt. The familiar fabric was a comfort of sorts. He moved through the dark cantina, his fingers trailing along the worn wooden counter like magnet pulling him.
The worn wood was cool beneath his fingertips, a familiar anchor in the suffocating dark. The cantina held its breath around him—the ghosts of laughter and spilled beer still clinging to the rafters, the faint scent of Rosa's sancocho lingering like a promise. His bare feet padded softly against the floorboards as he moved, stopping at the window that looked out onto the jungle.Nothing. Just the endless, breathing dark, punctuated by the occasional flicker of a firefly or the distant cry of something nameless. The dread in Eric's chest remained a cold hard ball of tension.
Then he felt it go quiet, the jungle's heartbeat stilling releasing its predictable music for an unnatural silence that pressed in from all sides like hands around a throat. The lanterns behind him began to flicker.
Eric turned slowly, his body coiling, his scarred hands lifting into loose, defensive fists. The cantina was empty, frozen in a sliver of moonlight that didn't come from any window he'd ever seen, bending in angles that violated competence felt wrong shifting viscosity.
The darkness began to bleed.
The darkness did not bleed so much as it thickened. It pooled in the corners of the cantina like spilled ink, gathering mass and weight until the lantern light struggling against it seemed to drown. Eric's breath caught in his throat. His fists remained raised, his body locked in a defensive crouch, but every instinct he possessed screamed at him that this was wrong. This was not a threat he could fight. This was not a man slipping through the shadows with a blade. This was something older. Something that bent the rules of physics like a party trick.
"Show yourself," Eric said, and his voice came out steadier than he felt.Good. He'd learned that trick too—pretend you're not afraid, and sometimes the fear listens. "You've come all this way. At least have the courtesy to let me see your face."
A low chuckle rippled through the dark. It seemed to come from everywhere at once, not a person's voice but something woven into the fabric of the night itself. The sound was warm and cold simultaneously, like a kiss from a corpse.
"Always so brave, mi corazón." The words dripped with an affection that made Eric's stomach turn. "Even when you were trembling beneath me, you'd still bare your teeth. I always admired that about you."
The darkness in the far corner began to coalesce. It took shape slowly, deliberately, as if savoring the reveal. A silhouette emerged from the black—tall, impossibly so, with broad shoulders that seemed to eat the remaining light. A face followed, sculpted and pale as moonlight on marble. High cheekbones. A jaw that could cut glass. And eyes.
God, those eyes.
Black as volcanic glass, with a pinprick of crimson at the center that seemed to pulse with a heartbeat of its own. They were eyes that had looked upon empires rising and falling, eyes that had watched Eric grow from a terrified boy into a hardened man, eyes that had never once looked away from him in over a decade.
Andre Mariano stepped fully into the lantern light. He was dressed in a dark suit that probably cost more than this entire town made in a month, his silver-black hair swept back from his forehead, and his lips curved into that familiar, beautiful, terrible smile.
"You look well," Andre said, tilting his head as if examining a prized painting. "The jungle suits you. All that green and life. Though I do wonder about the company you keep."
Eric forced himself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The air tasted like copper and roses. "How did you find me?"
Andre laughed, a sound like silk being drawn across bare skin. "You know the answer to that question, querido. There's a string tied around your heart, and it leads directly to mine. You can run to the ends of the earth, and I will still feel you. I will always feel you."
The words wrapped around Eric like a serpent, squeezing the air from his lungs. He took a step backward, his heel bumping against the bar, and his hand instinctively reached for the shelf behind him. His fingers brushed against a bottle of mescal. Not much of a weapon, but better than nothing.
"I'm not going back with you," Eric said. The words tasted like ash in his mouth. "I don't care what strings you think you have. I'm not your property anymore."
Andre's smile widened, showing a hint of immaculate white teeth."Property? My love, you were never property. You were a gift. A sacrifice. Your father offered you to me, and I accepted because I saw something in you. Something precious. Something that deserved to be cherished."Cherished?" Eric spat the word like a curse. "You kept me in a cage. You—"
"I kept you safe." Andre's voice dropped, the warmth draining to leave something hard and cold beneath. "I fed you, clothed you, taught you. I gave you purpose. The world outside those walls is cruel and indifferent. I protected you from it."
"You protected me from everything except yourself."
The air between them crackled. Eric felt the weight of his own heartbeat in his throat, the hot pulse of adrenaline flooding his veins. He knew he couldn't fight Andre—he'd learned that lesson long ago, in ways that still haunted his nightmares—but he refused to go quietly. He refused to make the choice easy.
Andre took a step forward, then another. He moved through the space like a predator, unhurried and utterly confident. When he was close enough that Eric could smell the faint scent of blood and sandalwood clinging to his skin, he stopped.
"You've grown bold," Andre murmured, reaching up to brush a stray curl from Eric's forehead. His touch was light, almost tender, and Eric flinched as if burned. "I always knew that defiance was there, simmering beneath the surface. It was one of the things I loved most about you. But be careful, little flame. Boldness can turn to foolishness in the blink of an eye."
Eric's throat tightened. He wanted to scream, to lunge, to do something—anything—to break the spell of terror that held him frozen. But his body betrayed him, locked in the familiar paralysis of a prey animal too terrified to run.
Andre's smile softened, and something almost like pity flickered in his dark eyes. "You're afraid I've come to take you back. To drag you kicking and screaming to that mansion, to lock you in your old room and throw away the key." He chuckled softly. "That would be so easy, wouldn't it? So familiar. You could hate me, and that hatred would give you strength. But I'm afraid I have a different purpose tonight, corazón. A different question."
"Then ask it," Eric forced out. "And then leave."
Andre's hand dropped to his side. He turned away, walking toward the window, his silhouette framed by the moonlit jungle beyond. For a long moment, he simply stood there, staring out into the darkness, and Eric had the strange impression that the man was weighing something. Measuring something.
"Tell me about the woman," Andre said finally. "The one who runs this establishment. Rosa, isn't it?"
Eric's blood turned cold. "She's nobody. Just a woman who gave me a job. She doesn't know anything about me, about us, about any of it."
"No?" Andre glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. "Interesting. Because when I looked into her eyes tonight, I saw something rather different. I saw a woman who would burn the world down to protect you. I saw a woman who looks at you the way I once did, before you learned to hate my touch."
Eric's fists clenched at his sides. "Stay away from her."
"And if I don't?" Andre turned fully, his expression unreadable. "What will you do, little flame? Fight me? You know that ends poorly for you.Run? You know I can find you anywhere. Hide her? She has a life here—a purpose. Would you take that from her to satisfy your own guilt?"
"Guilt?" Eric's voice cracked. "You think I feel guilty?"
"I think you feel many things, though you try to bury them beneath that hard exterior." Andre's voice softened, taking on a hypnotic quality. "I know you, Eric. I know every scar on your body and every fear in your heart. I know you dream of a life you can't have because you don't believe you deserve it. And I know that if I gave you a choice—if I gave you a chance to be free, truly free—you wouldn't know what to do with yourself."
The words hit Eric like a physical blow. He staggered back against the bar, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The mescal bottle was still in his hand, his knuckles white around the neck, but he'd forgotten it. All he could see was Andre's face, all he could hear was the accusation in his words.
"I want to show you something," Andre said. His voice was calm, almost gentle, but there was a weight to it that made Eric's skin prickle. "Something that exists in the spaces between moments. A possibility. A future."
"No," Eric said, but the word came out as a whisper.
Andre raised his hand, and the darkness surged.
It came from all sides, a massive tide of black that swallowed the lantern light and drowned the world in a silence so absolute it seemed to have weight. Eric felt himself falling, tumbling through nothing, his breath stolen from his lungs by the sheer wrongness of it all. Then, just as suddenly as it began, the fall stopped.
He was standing in the cantina again.But something was wrong.
The tables were overturned. The glass on the floor had been shattered, with knocked-over liquor bottles beyond repair. The unmistakable smell of blood and cordite curled through the air, staining his lips with the taste of it. Burn marks scarred the walls, and through the gaping holes where the windows used to be, flames consumed the jungle outside.
But what made Eric's legs buckle, what sent him crashing to his knees with a cry that was swallowed by the silence, was the bodies. Rosa lay crumpled by the kitchen door, her hand still reaching for a knife that would never find its mark. Matteo was slumped over the counter, his cook's apron soaked dark red. And there were others—the tourists from earlier, the old man who came every morning for coffee, the young woman who sold her crafts at the market—all of them broken and still, scattered across the floor like discarded dolls.
EVERYONE WAS DEAD. HE SANK TO HIS KNEES. IT WAS HIS FAULT HE HAD DOOMED THEM TO THIS FATE.
The voice was not his own, but it echoed in his skull with the force of a scream. He had brought this here. He had fled to this place, and in doing so, he had painted a target on the backs of every innocent soul within a hundred miles.
IT HAS NOT COME TO PAST, YET. THE VOICE CAME FROM BEHIND HIM. BUT IT WILL BE DEPENDENT ON YOUR NEXT CHOICE.
Eric spun around, his heart hammering against his ribs. Andre stood in the doorway of the cantina, his silhouette framed by the roaring flames. His suit was immaculate, untouched by soot or blood, and his face bore that same unreadable expression.
"Choose, little flame," Andre said. His voice carried across the burning wreckage as if the fire itself were whispering. "Come back to me, and I will spare them. I will erase this future from the threads of time, and they will live out their lives in blessed ignorance of the fate you spared them."
"And if I refuse?" Eric's voice was raw, scraping against his throat like broken glass.
Andre smiled. There was no pity in that smile.No mercy. Only the cold, patient satisfaction of a man who knew he held all the cards.
"Then I will return tomorrow night," Andre said, "and I will bring my hunting party with me. These people will die, and their deaths will be on your hands. Their blood will stain your skin for the rest of your life, and you will carry that weight until the moment you finally accept that I am your only salvation."
Eric's vision blurred. Tears burned his eyes, and he didn't try to stop them. He thought of Rosa—her sharp brown eyes, her no-nonsense warmth, the way she looked at him with a trust he didn't deserve. He thought of Matteo's easy laugh, the scent of his cooking, the way he treated Eric like a son. He thought of the life he'd built here, fragile and tentative, but real.
And he thought of what it would cost to protect it.
"Choose," Andre repeated. His voice was gentle now, almost coaxing. "Come home, and they live. It is that simple."
ER FROZE. The word hung in the air between them, a single syllable that held the weight of a lifetime. He looked at the bodies around him, at the future that awaited them all, and he knew what he had to do. He knew the choice that would damn him, and he made it anyway.
"Okay," he said, and his voice was steady despite the shards of his will scattering around him."Okay. I'll come back."
Andre's smile widened, and something like triumph flickered in those dark, ancient eyes. "Hmm," he said, glancing toward the apparent vision of Rosa's body in her blood-stained apron. "And that one, I can see, is very fond of you. How touching. I'll make sure she suffers last, so she can witness what happens to those who harbor my property."
A sob tore from Eric's throat. But before he could respond, the world shattered.
The vision dissolved like smoke, leaving him gasping in the dim lantern light of the real cantina. He was on his knees, his hands pressed flat against the cool wooden floor, his chest heaving as he dragged air into his burning lungs. Andre stood before him, watching with an expression that might have been amusement.
"An interesting glimpse into the future, isn't it?" Andre said. "But as my little vision showed you, it is not set in stone. Your next choice will decide everything."
Eric pushed himself to his feet, his legs shaking. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, tasting blood where he'd bitten his cheek. "You're a monster," he said, and the words carried more weight than any curse he'd ever spoken.
Andre inclined his head, accepting the title like a compliment."Yes. But I am a monster who loves you, and I will not let a frightened bird like Rosa Quispe take what is mine." He stepped forward, close enough that Eric could feel the cold radiating from his skin. "Come with me willingly, and I will spare them. Fight me, and I will paint this town red. The choice is yours, my little flame. Choose wisely."
Eric's mind raced. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, could feel despair coiling around his intestines, cold and crushing. He looked toward the kitchen where Rosa slept, and he knew with absolute certainty that he couldn't let her die. He couldn't bear that weight.
So he made his choice.
"Alright," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Alright, you win. I'll go with you." He stepped forward, feeling the cold, magnetic pull of Andre's presence drawing him in. "But you swear on whatever god you worship—if there's any blood left in your veins—you'll leave Rosa and everyone else here alone."
Andre's smile softened, and he reached out to cup Eric's face in his cold, pale hands. His thumb brushed across Eric's cheekbone, catching a tear that had escaped despite his best efforts. "I swear it on your mother's grave," he murmured. "You have my word."
Eric flinched at the reference, but he didn't pull away. He stood frozen as Andre leaned in, pressing those cold, perfect lips to the corner of his mouth. The kiss was both tender and possessive, a branding that seared Eric's skin, marking him once more as Andre's own.
"Welcome home, mi corazón," Andre whispered against his skin. "I have missed you more than you could ever know."