Lilith loved taking care of Gaiah.
She never said it, but it was obvious in the way she moved the moment Caleb or Trent called — already reaching for her coat, already halfway to the door. Sometimes she went to their house. Sometimes Caleb brought Gaiah over, handing her off with that tired, grateful look new parents get when they trust someone completely.
And Lilith… she settled into it like it was second nature.
She’d carry Lucian on one hip and Gaiah on the other, shifting them with practiced ease. She talked to them constantly — soft, steady words about nothing and everything. She bounced them, paced with them, let them grab her hair, her necklace, her sleeves. She had a way of making both babies feel like they were the only one in the room.
When they were awake, she was in motion.
When they were content, she was calm.
And when they were in the crib, she stood there and watched.
Hands folded loosely in front of her, eyes soft, body still in that way only adult vampires could manage. She didn’t sleep, but she rested in the watching — a quiet, protective stillness that made the whole house feel safer.
Caleb learned quickly.
Whenever he came to pick up Gaiah, he didn’t knock or call out. He went straight to the nursery, because that’s where Lilith always was — standing beside the crib, watching over both babies like she was guarding something sacred.
Most nights, we could find food locally — travelers passing through, strangers at the edge of town, people who wouldn’t remember us even if they tried. But sometimes the Hollow went quiet. Sometimes the world didn’t give us what we needed.
And on those nights, we had to invite someone over.
We tried not to call the same person twice. It felt… wrong. Too familiar. Too close. And I made sure never to invite anyone I knew.
Tried, anyway.
The night I called Yadira, I told myself it was fine. She and Nathalie weren’t together anymore — this time it was Yadira who aged up and left Nathalie behind. That was the story I clung to, the one that made the whole thing feel less like a betrayal and more like balance.
Payback, even.
For breaking Nathalie’s heart.
For walking away.
For leaving her behind the same way she’d once left me.
I refused to think about the consequences.
Refused to think about what it meant that I’d chosen her name out of everyone in my phone.
Refused to think about the part of me that still flinched when I saw her face on the caller ID.
I told myself it was practical.
Necessary.
Efficient.
But the truth was simpler, and I didn’t want to look at it too closely.
Some lines you don’t realize you’re crossing until you’re already on the other side.
Lilith wasn’t always as careful with her feeding as I was.
I tried to be discreet — shadows, alleys, quiet corners where no one would wander in at the wrong moment. Lilith, on the other hand, had a habit of getting seen. Not often. Just… often enough that it stopped surprising me.
She’d be feeding behind the house or near the edge of the Hollow, and some poor sim would round the corner at exactly the wrong time. They’d gasp, freeze, eyes wide, ready to scream or run or both.
And Lilith?
She’d just straighten up, wipe her mouth, and start talking.
Not apologizing.
Not explaining.
Just… chatting.
Like she’d bumped into them at the grocery store instead of being caught with her fangs in someone’s neck.
Five minutes later, the witness would be nodding along, relaxed, smiling even — completely forgetting they were furious or terrified a moment ago. Lilith had a way of smoothing over the edges of a situation until people forgot there were edges at all.
“She’s dangerous,” Lyndsay said once, watching Lilith walk a witness back to the sidewalk like they were old friends.
“She’s persuasive,” I corrected.
“Same thing.”
She wasn’t wrong.
Lilith didn’t glamor people. She didn’t erase memories. She just… talked until the anger dissolved and the fear softened and the person walked away thinking they’d misunderstood what they saw.
It was impressive.
It was reckless.
It was very, very Lilith.
And every time it happened, I told myself I wasn’t going to worry about it.
Told myself she had it under control.
Told myself she’d been doing this longer than I’d been alive.
But the truth was simpler:
I worried anyway.
Because one day, someone might not forget.
Every few nights, when the Hollow felt too quiet and our search turned up nothing, Lilith and I would sit down for a couples meditation session. It wasn’t something either of us would’ve imagined doing a year ago, but it helped — steadied the bond, cleared the noise, reminded us why we were doing all of this in the first place.
We hadn’t had any luck finding our next offspring.
The bond would flicker now and then, a faint pull in the distance, but nothing strong enough to follow. Nothing certain. Nothing that felt right.
And we had rules.
We wouldn’t turn anyone with children.
We wouldn’t turn anyone married.
We wouldn’t tear someone out of a life where they were needed.
It didn’t matter how strong the bond felt.
It didn’t matter how perfect the match seemed.
It didn’t matter how hungry the instinct was.
Some lines we didn’t cross.
So we kept going out.
Night after night.
World after world.
Listening.
Searching.
Waiting for the right person — someone whose life wouldn’t collapse the moment we touched it.
During meditation, Lilith would sit perfectly still, eyes closed, breathing slow and even. I’d try to match her rhythm, try to quiet the part of me that wanted answers now, wanted clarity, wanted the bond to snap into place the way it had with Lyndsay.
Sometimes it worked.
Sometimes it didn’t.
But every time, when we opened our eyes, she’d look at me with that steady certainty she carried like a second heartbeat.
“We’ll find them,” she’d say.
And I believed her.
Even on the nights when the world felt empty.
Even when the bond stayed silent.
Even when we came home with nothing but the echo of our own footsteps.
We were still looking.
Still trying.
Still choosing to do this the right way.
Even when it wasn’t easy.
And then, finally, it happened.
The bond hit me on a night when I wasn’t expecting anything — not even a flicker. I was halfway across town when it brushed against me, light at first, then unmistakable. A pull. A recognition. The same spark I’d felt with Lyndsay, the same certainty Lilith had felt with Robert.
Tiara Goss.
New to town.
No partner.
No children.
No ties that would shatter if we stepped into her life.
Everything in me settled the moment I saw her. She was tending bar at the lounge in Willow Creek. And when she looked at me, her expression shifted — not fear, not confusion, but something closer to curiosity.
The bond hummed between us.
I invited her to see the training grounds, half expecting her to hesitate. She didn’t. She agreed easily, like she’d been waiting for someone to ask.
When she arrived, she was open, receptive, almost relieved. I explained what we were, what the bond meant, what turning would require. She listened without flinching. Then her eyes lit up — bright, excited, certain.
She wanted this.
She wanted us.
She wanted to belong.
And I felt that familiar warmth settle in my chest — the quiet, steady feeling of welcoming someone home.
I told her she was part of the family now.
She smiled, wide and genuine, and followed me back to the house for her transformation time. Lilith met us at the door, took one look at Tiara, and nodded like she’d already known this was coming.
“We have another fledgling,” I told her.
Lilith’s mouth curved into that small, knowing smile she saved for moments like this. “Good.”
Tiara headed upstairs to get some sleep before the change — the last real sleep she’d ever have — and I stood there for a long moment, letting the reality of it settle.
Another bond.
Another life joining ours.
Another thread in the family we were building piece by piece.
It felt right.
It felt inevitable.
It felt like the Hollow had been waiting for her.
After Tiara settled into the guest room — the same one Lyndsay had used, the same one Robert had paced through on his first night — the house fell into that soft, late‑night quiet I’d come to love. Lucian was asleep. Tiara was resting before her transformation. And the Hollow felt… expectant.
Lilith glanced toward the stairs, then at me.
“Meditation?” she asked.
We’d discovered, almost by accident, that we liked doing it together. Not the formal kind Caleb taught at the spa, but our own version — sitting close, breathing in sync, letting the bond settle between us until the world felt steady again. We moved from room to room depending on what was free: the nursery, the living room, the training hall, even the hallway once when Lucian refused to be put down.
Tonight we chose the living room. It was the only space big enough for both of us without stepping on toys or tripping over floor mats.
We sat facing each other, knees almost touching, the quiet hum of the Hollow wrapping around us. Lilith closed her eyes first. I followed.
And there it was — the new bond.
Faint, still forming, still fragile. But present. A soft thread stretching from us to Tiara upstairs, warm and steady and full of potential. Every fledgling felt different. Lyndsay had been sharp and bright. Robert had been calm and grounded. Tiara felt… open. Ready. Like she’d been waiting for this without knowing it.
Lilith breathed in slowly, and the bond pulsed in response.
“She’s a good match,” she murmured.
“She is.”
“We’ll take care of her.”
“We always do.”
The meditation wasn’t long — it didn’t need to be. Just enough to welcome the new connection, to acknowledge the shift in the house, to settle ourselves before the transformation began.
Lilith found her next offspring in Windenburg.
She’d gone out alone that night, following a faint tug she said felt “promising but not certain.” I didn’t question it. Lilith’s instincts were older than most cities. If she felt something, it was worth listening to.
She ended up at the small park in the Lykke Centre — quiet, tucked between shops, the kind of place where people linger without meaning to. Orlando Ervin was sitting on a bench, watching the fountain like he was trying to decide whether he liked this new town or not.
Lilith sat beside him.
They talked for a while. Nothing dramatic. Nothing supernatural. Just two strangers sharing a bench, letting the conversation find its own shape. And somewhere in the middle of it, the bond settled — soft, certain, unmistakable.
She invited him back to the training grounds.
He agreed without hesitation.
When they arrived, things were… complicated.
A cosplay club had decided to hold a gathering in the graveyard that night. Capes, face paint, plastic swords — the whole thing. A dozen sims running around pretending to be vampires while Lilith stood there, very much the real thing, trying not to look offended.
“It’s fine,” she muttered later. “Just… inconvenient.”
But Orlando didn’t seem bothered. If anything, he looked amused — like the whole scene confirmed he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
When Lilith explained what we were, what the bond meant, what turning required, he didn’t flinch. He didn’t question it. He didn’t even hesitate.
He asked to be turned.
And Lilith welcomed him to the family.
Afterward, she asked quietly if he would let her feed. She was starving — she’d been out for hours — and the baby needed to eat. Orlando offered his wrist without hesitation, trusting her in a way that surprised even Lilith.
She fed quickly, cleanly, careful not to overwhelm him. When she finished, he looked steady enough, and she guided him toward the house so he could rest before the transformation.
They were halfway up the path when they saw me standing in the doorway.
One look at my face, and Lilith stopped cold.
“What happened?” she asked.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. The words were stuck somewhere behind my ribs, and the house behind me felt wrong — too quiet, too heavy, like it was bracing for something.
Lilith pushed past me.
And then she saw him.
Lucian was in the nursery, starving, exhausted, and sitting in his own filth. His little face was blotchy from crying, breaths hiccuping in that way that meant he’d been at it far too long. Too long for any infant, vampire or not.
Lilith froze for half a heartbeat — just long enough for the shock to hit — and then she moved.
Fast.
Focused.
Silent.
She scooped him up, whispering soft, steady words that didn’t match the fury simmering under her skin. It took time to get him fed, changed, and settled. Longer than it should have. He was too tired to latch at first, too hungry to calm down, too overwhelmed to know what he needed.
Lilith didn’t stop until he was clean, warm, and breathing evenly against her shoulder.
Only then did she come looking for me.
She found me in the kitchen.
“Mateo.”
My name wasn’t a question. It was a warning.
“You left him like that?” Her voice shook — not with fear, but with anger sharpened by exhaustion. “He was starving. He was filthy. He was exhausted. I am in my last trimester, and I do not need this from you.”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
Her eyes were bright with hurt beneath the fury. “You don’t get to neglect him. Not ever. Not for a minute. Not for anything.”
“I know.” My voice felt thin, scraped raw. “Lilith, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“No.” She cut me off, but the edge in her voice wavered. “You don’t get to say anything until you explain why.”
And I would have taken the anger. I would have taken all of it. I deserved it. But the truth was sitting in my chest like a stone.
“I got a call,” I said quietly. “Sydney died.”
Lilith’s expression changed instantly — the fury collapsing into something softer, deeper, aching.
“Oh,” she whispered.
She stepped forward and pulled me into her arms.
When she finally let go, she exhaled slowly, the last of her anger leaving with the breath.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know.”
“I know.” I swallowed hard. “But you’re right. I should’ve taken care of him. I should’ve… done something.”
She nodded, but her voice stayed firm. “I forgive you. But it can’t happen again. No matter what’s going on. He depends on us.”
“I know,” I said again, and this time it felt like a promise.
She studied me for a moment, her expression shifting from concern to something like realization.
“Mateo… you’re still in your dark form.”
I looked down — the fangs, the shadowed skin, the faint shimmer of power still clinging to me. I hadn’t even noticed. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d fed. I couldn’t remember shifting. I couldn’t remember anything except the phone call and the way the world had tilted under my feet.
“I didn’t even feel it happen,” I said.
Lilith touched my arm, grounding me. “You were upset. Your body reacted before you did.”
I closed my eyes and let the dark form fade — slowly at first, then all at once, like a shadow pulling back into the shape it belonged to. When I opened them again, Lilith was watching me with that steady, unblinking calm she saved for moments when she needed to be the strong one.
“We’ll get through this,” she said.
And for the first time since the call, I believed her
And somewhere in the house, two brand‑new fledglings were trying to make sense of the chaos they’d walked into.
Tiara had been the one to step up.
While Lilith was tending to Lucian and I was falling apart in the hallway, she’d taken Orlando by the arm and shown him to the guest room — the same one she’d slept in just hours earlier. She explained where the extra blankets were, how the transformation would feel, what to expect when the sun rose.
Orlando followed her quietly, wide‑eyed but trusting, and the two of them disappeared down the hall without a word of complaint.
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