As much as he refused to admit it, both to himself and the witch - especially her - there'd been a shift in the man with messy caramel colored locks that morning and the morning thereafter when he'd had every intention of sneaking out and away from that abandoned warehouse before she would find him vanished, only to stumble upon her training with those various dummies and mechanisms that seemed to have almost been built for her unique type of... occupation and talents. Lazarus had hoped to slink out unnoticed and with any luck he wouldn't have had to see her until the next time that she happened to feel like requiring the attention of his little sister who'd, much to his dismay, taken a great liking to the white-haired woman that also just so happened to be the one woman on the face of this forsaken world that Lazarus hated. Everything about her was infuriating, if only now for the sheer fact that he was stubbornly holding onto that hate, that rage that she so seemed to coax with ease out of the dark hunter. It was in her voice as she would sneer and taunt like a matador would an enraged bull or beast, their ability to both be sickeningly sweet or venomous almost in the same instance enough to make him wretch. It was in those brilliant blue eyes that would bring a low growl to his throat as she might blink innocently up at him like she was an angel from heaven when he knew first-hand and far better than to believe that be believe those womanly gestures designed to weaken a man's will only to shift into an icy glare which was always equally met by his own harder and narrowed dark forest gaze. Every graceful move that she made, every devious smile she would give him all with that desire to bring that searing fire to his blood... every alluring of those hips, all of it was enough to piss him off just looking at her and it was only intensified tenfold as she took clear and wicked delight in seeing that reaction she would force from the man.

Then, he'd seen the bruises and the bite wounds... That had been when the shift happened. It was a shift that was so unlike the man that he nearly disgusted himself when it first pricked at that subconscious of his. Concern. Of all the damn emotions he could have felt in that moment, it had to be that. He'd been quick to suffocate it, stuffing it out beneath that hate he found himself having to remind himself that he held fiercely for her. Who the hell needed to remind themselves to hate someone, that there was absolutely no way that they'd ever be more than two enemies pitted against one another and forced to tolerate the other's presence, all because of Ellie. It was an effort that Lazarus hardly ever had to force, something that came unhealthy yet natural for him to carry in the very way he walked, in how he carried himself. The only time that the hunter ever felt such softness towards another was with the honey-blonde young woman that was his light in that pitch darkness surrounding him. And yet, there she was in all her... tempting and fierce, and sexy glory, making him feel/ Oh, he'd tried to tell himself he was being a dumbass for letting her do anything to him other than agitate him or annoy him. He'd done just about everything he could think of to convince himself that those bruises and bite wounds were none of his business and that it was just karma catching up to her for how she'd decided to ruin his night at the burlesque, for having to come to the one club on the west side of Sacrosanct that Lazarus thought he would be safe and far away from his little sister and her witch friend. What's worse was that she'd even ended up dragging him into whatever shit she'd managed to get herself into. And then there was that kiss. That fucking kiss. She'd made the beast inside roar with wicked pleasure and heavy lust, nearly wiping away all the hate that he held for her. It meant nothing. Absolutely nothing. Then, we move on to the icing that topped that cake of shit that built up to the present. She'd nearly passed out in that filthy bathroom, tumbled back into him with a dangerous amount of silver blood pouring out of that vodka-soaked wound.

She'd needed him then, that life force of hers dangling by mere threads as he held her up. He should have sat her against that wall and left her there for that guy to find. All his problems could have been solved then. He could have walked away. But he didn't, he couldn't. And he'd absolutely hated that he couldn't bring himself to ditch the white-haired woman. Especially when he looked back, dark forest gaze glaring fiercely up at the ceiling of his bedroom with hands folded behind his head as he lay there shirtless beneath those covers of his bed. If he could have just managed to not give a fuck, he could have saved himself from ever finding out that the concern he'd only just barely felt was going to be even harder to rid himself of. He wouldn't have seen the wounds. He wouldn't have seen that smile that lacked the animosity he was so accustomed to seeing. He wouldn't have seen that wild storm of emotions as she sat there on the padded floor, yanking her wrist away from his hands as he tried to help her up. The pure anger was unexpected, but what had almost caused him to hesitate was that undiluted fear he'd seen and smelled washing off her in powerful waves, hands engulfed in flames as everything went from going disgustingly well right back to shit. He'd narrowed those dark eyes at her then, his own rage suddenly forcing past that astonishment. He'd stormed out that morning, not even the faintest glimmer of what had tried to rise to the surface and exist in the man anywhere to be seen as he walked home, pushing people out of his way with those shoulders as his hood remained drawn over his head, not even caring or taking that usual pleasure in those angry glares those nameless faces shot at him with his lack of common curtesy. He hadn't even noticed the women that would walk by him with their usually intoxicating perfumes and pretty smiles that would make him consider drowning his rage with pleasurable company. He'd felt nothing but anger when he reached the door to the townshouse."Where've you been?", his sister had asked him from her seat on the couch with those college books sprawled out around her."Nowhere. Don't worry about it", he'd snapped fiercely before storming up those stairs and slamming his bedroom door.

The next few days came and went with the man lounging around the house, having went and purchased himself a few good bottles of whiskey to avoid frequenting any of the bars or clubs in the city. He didn't want to see her. He didn't want to hear her voice. He wanted to pretend that she simply didn't exist. On top of the fact that he'd encountered one of the last faces he thought he would ever see, and that was just one more thing Lazarus didn't even want to think about. Yet no matter how many shots or straight drinks he took, Ellie seemed determined not to let him forget about the white-haired woman. She was worried about the lack of response that she was getting from the witch. All the texts she'd sent, all the unanswered and unreturned calls, it had been enough to show brightly in those glacier blue eyes. She had the audacity to ask Lazarus if he knew where she was and he would just snap back with something like "why the hell would I?" or "she's your friend, not mine". His sharpness was never enough to get a rise out of that saint-like woman and she would just continue calling and texting, only to be left not knowing what was going on. When the third day does finally come, he can't help but lay there in that bed of his, warring once more against that concern that emerged from those smothering blackened depths of his jaded heart. Something wasn't right... Who cares? She's not your problem, Lazarus. She was being a bitch so she deserves whatever's going on in her life right now. She's probably just out slashing throats or whatever since that's her job. He told himself this over and over again, and no matter how many times he tried to just sleep off that annoying pang of worry, he couldn't shake that feeling. Dammit. Finally deciding that he had to do something though he is quick to make the point to himself that he was only going to go and check in on her for the fact that Ellie was worried and nothing more, he throws on some relaxed fit jeans and white t-shirt. Pulling that black jacket over his shoulders and drawing that hood to rest over those messy caramel colored locks, he puts on those black aviators and departs down the stairs, out the front door, and towards the warehouse.

He'd tried convincing himself to just turn around and forget about it. Several times, actually. But before he knows it, he's turning down that empty alleyway and approaching that large door. He hesitates for a moment though, sharp senses honing in on something that didn't belong amongst the rotting trash and dampness. He recognizes the scent as the scent of the undead, and as he only seemed to grow stronger the closer he got to that door, that sense that something definitely wasn't right rising beyond the point of being ignored. Pushing his way through that large door, he finds that those dummies were in almost the same exact place they'd been three days ago. There were no new scorch marks, and everything was eerily still, like she hadn't touched them at all today, and it was already the afternoon. Maybe she's just not here. Leave. He's about to finally rid himself of all that concern when realizes that he can hear the faint murmur of voices behind the closed door leading to her apartment up that metal stairwell. Just leave, Lazarus. He tries again to subdue that feeling, that concern that seemed adamant on driving him mad, until finally he can't stand it and with a groan, he moves up those stairs. Hesitating again as he tries one last time to talk himself out of being here at all, he knocks. Why does he knock? He doesn't know, but he does... Her voice answers, but something in those grating syllables his mind tries to convince him she's just barking another command at him, there's another sign that whatever was happening behind this door was not something he would expect. Reaching for the handle, he pushes that door open and dark forest eyes snap to the white-haired woman. She wasn't alone, though. His focus finds her gaze wide with horror and he feels his eyes turn to the man whose lap she is sitting on, those hands wrapped around her arms in the same exact place the hunter knew those bruises to exist. It hits him like a brick wall then, that fresh scent of silver blood and the way that he seemed to be forcing her to stay in his lap all clicking into place. If she had reacted the way that she had at his simple gesture to help her up, that anger so quickly awakening in those brilliant blue eyes at his harmless touch, there was no way in hell that she was okay with this man's hands on her.

And he wasn't just any man. Lazarus is quick to notice that stench of death that rolls off him and now those bite wounds he'd seen on her neck that night only confirmed what was going on here, her words ringing through his memory. Suddenly, there was a fierceness that roars into those dark eyes that narrow maliciously onto the man, knowing his name even as he dares to speak of how he, too had distinguished the hunter's scent. He can't explain where that sudden and fierce protectiveness comes from or why it sets fire to his blood over the witch that he was so stubbornly determined to feeling nothing â€" not even concern or worry or whatever the hell it was that had brought him here to begin with - for, something that had only ever been reserved for Elain and Elain alone, but he doesn't even bother to take the time to try and smother it. As the vampire is finished with his words laced in venom clearly directed towards the woman in his lap, he turns his attention to Lazarus and he feels those figurative hackles rise, the monster writhing ragefully against those brittle bars with teeth bared."My name isn't any of your business", he snarls darkly, his hands instinctively tightening into fists as his gaze bore fearlessly into the vampire. His next string over words has him nearly taking a step towards them, but he reminds himself that he didn't know anything about this bastard other than a name, his race, and that if he could render the witch as helpless as a mouse trapped beneath a cat's paws, then he would need to be careful. "Until you know what your target can do, do nothing but watch and listen". Those had been but a handful of words that his father had given Lazarus on his first day of training."I know who you are. And no, I haven't. Let her go", he growls darkly, threateningly as he remains where he was, though he was only mere moments away from losing that restraint. The last thing he wanted was for his actions to get the white-haired woman hurt... but he wouldn't even allow for himself to begin to admit that that was why he lingers, why he hesitates when he felt that rage so burning in him, that readiness to do what he'd done to that alpha all those nights ago.