Of course she did. I expect her personal library must have been organized by some kind of dog-element too.

[Alucard's thumb strokes over Trevor's knuckles, moving slowly. Lingering over each one, as if trying to catalog every inch of skin there. The roughness, the wonderful and familiar texture of it. The weight. Everything.]

You could. I can't. I'm proof of the worth.

[There will be fewer assassinations. His healing still works, the fae had only claimed his many lives to come, not the other advantages of his father's blood.]

What if we came back here every year?