Virella didn't sleep that night.
Not because she couldn't—vampires could sleep, contrary to human myth—but because she didn't trust herself not to dream of him. Of Alaric. Of the way his eyes still made her chest ache and her instincts twist.
She stayed perched on the iron railing of her family's abandoned estate, a crumbling gothic thing hidden behind thorns and shadow just outside the city. A place too old for comfort, too quiet for peace.
The sun hadn't yet risen when Varen stepped out of the shadows.
"Tell me he's dead," he said without greeting, without warmth.
Virella didn't flinch. "You never say good morning."
"I'm your brother, not your butler. Tell me."
She looked away, watching the mist curl between trees. "He's not."
Varen growled under his breath. His golden eyes flashed like twin lanterns in the dark. Where Virella was composed and cold, Varen was fire and blade—unpredictable, dangerous, and fiercely loyal to those he loved.
"He faked it again?" he snapped.
"He said you were the reason."
Varen scoffed. "Of course he did. Typical Alaric. Running from the truth like it's sunlight."
"He said you tried to kill him."
"I did."
"Varen."
"I missed," he muttered, then kicked a loose stone off the edge of the porch.
Virella turned to him. "Why do you hate him so much? Is it just instinct? Or something else?"
Her brother didn't answer at first. He glanced up at the rotting spires of the estate, the place that once held their family before time and blood turned it into a mausoleum.
"I don't trust his soul," Varen finally said. "There's something about him. Like he's not telling the whole story. Like he's older than he lets on."
"He says he's seventeen," Virella deadpanned.
Varen raised an eyebrow. "Right. Seventeen going on a thousand."
She hated that he made her doubt. But part of her understood—Varen had been by her side through centuries of near-losses and betrayals. If Alaric had lied once, who was to say he wouldn't lie again?
Still, he was alive.
That meant something.
"I'm going to the school," she said suddenly.
Varen blinked. "You're what?"
"Midnight High. It's where he's hiding. Or playing. I need to know which."
"You're going to sneak into a human high school to spy on your maybe-boyfriend?"
"I'm going to enroll," she corrected.
Varen stared at her like she'd sprouted a second head. "You're insane."
"I haven't been seventeen in decades," she said with a smirk. "Might be fun to pretend."
"I'm coming with you."
She rolled her eyes. "They'll never believe we're twins. You look like you've been bench pressing coffins."
"I'll blend," Varen said. "Humans like moody, muscular types. I'll be popular."
She almost laughed. Almost.
Before she could argue, Lena arrived, casually appearing through a broken garden gate like she'd always belonged.
"Good, we're all here," she said cheerfully. "So, when do we start Operation High School?"
Varen groaned. "Not you too."
"Oh, I'm coming," Lena said, stretching. "Someone needs to make sure you two don't set the cafeteria on fire."
Virella gave her a grateful glance. "We start tonight. Registration closes at midnight."
Varen frowned. "We're vampires. We don't need a mortal education."
Virella smiled thinly. "We don't need love either. But here we are."
---
The next night, Virella stood before the cracked brick walls of Midnight High, her heart doing something it hadn't done in a century—it fluttered.
Fake IDs, charmed records, and a forged transfer letter got her through the doors. Lena charmed the registrar with a smirk and Varen glared his way into approval.
The school smelled of waxed floors, hormone sweat, and over-perfumed bodies. It was both nostalgic and alien. Virella hated it. She also kind of loved it.
Then she saw him.
Alaric. In a hoodie and jeans. Laughing with a teacher near the lockers like he belonged here. Like he wasn't a centuries-old liar with a habit of faking his own death.
He turned. Saw her. And froze.
The look in his eyes was a mix of guilt, delight—and something unreadable.
Virella smiled, sharp and sweet.
"Hello, classmate," she said. "Miss me?"
---