When it came right down to it, it wouldn't have mattered in the end if Lazarus would have defied his father when the time came that the young man was expected to follow the family tradition or not. He would have lived his life as he was now. Not even a mortal life would have made the dark hunter wiser in how he would spend his time, what he would do with the one and only life that he had. He would have still wasted it away as he was to this day, lost in that drunken haze to quell the beast behind brittle bars, seizing every chance to "hunt" for that temporary and pleasurable twilight companionship before slipping away before morning would find this part of the world. Nothing about him would be different. It wasn't like his miserable and near pointless existence could truly get much worse, despite the threat that the white-haired woman had been more than pleased to give Lazarus the day that he more or less saved her life. There was only one thing in this world and beyond that could possibly make everything fall around the man that wasn't already cracked or broken, shattered even. Elain. She was the only one that likely knew that if anything ever happened to the honey-blonde woman, he would have literally no other purpose. He was hardly much of a dark hunter, practically unable to remember the last time that he took up that task that had been placed squarely on his shoulders. Lazarus didn't give a shit about the beings that filled this city. Human, dark hunter, vampire, were, fae, witch... he hardly blinked or looked up from the glass he would likely be staring blankly into when another being would come within the proximity of those sharpened senses. Let them exist. Let other hunters who actually enjoyed fate's calling on their kind make up for all that he didn't care enough to do. His sole purpose in this world was to be there to protect that last ray of sunlight in his otherwise cold and dark world.

She muses over the idea of having been made into a dark hunter than the witch that she was and all Lazarus does if respond with a gruff "hmm" as though he doubted that she would, even when he admitted inwardly to himself that she probably would have. At least, she would have made a better dark hunter than himself or his sister. Looking at the younger woman as she would be outside nursing those plants that only seemed to grow bigger and greener whenever she would talk to them while sprinkling them with water or preening the dried leaves from their still green stems, the man could hardly think that she would have taken such an oath simply to make their father proud. Had she been born a son, there was little doubt in Lazarus' mind that Tal would have taken much more pride in her than Lazarus. The man had always been hard on the young man, and while their mother and even Ellie would try and assure Lazarus that the older man was only doing it because he was concerned for the man's future, wanting nothing but success and happiness for his one and only son, Lazarus didn't listen. All he knew was that no matter what he did, no matter how hard he might train only to trip over than rage that boiled in his blood, there was no pleasing the man that any of the hunters in the family council would have happily taken the title as successor in Lazarus' place. No, Tal was adamant that they would not break tradition â€" stubborn even in his determination to break Lazarus of the anger that would overwhelm the young hunter. Maybe, just maybe, if Tal's life hadn't been brought to such a screeching halt when that night came... maybe if the council had been there to slaughter the assailants that destroyed everything The Darays had built, things could have been different. But that was all nothing more than a bunch of what if's and could have been's.

It was infuriating, the witch's ability to press those buttons and take such delight in, her grin only growing as those dark forest eyes shot her that glare. He just wanted to wipe that coy little grin right off those plush lips that tasted addictively good. He stops the thought right there though, refusing to let those masculine urges stir the beast that he knew deep down still wanted her, so far from satisfied with at one singular encounter despite the large majority of the dark hunter still fiercely fighting against those damn feelings and memories that he wanted to set on fire and watch just burn into nothing but a pile of ash, never to be reignited again. It was so damn annoying, the things that she could do to him, the way that she'd been able to make him lose control even when he was stubbornly persistent in telling himself that she would not have succeeded had it not been for the wildly unhealthy amount of whiskey and rum that warmed his blood beyond total coherence. All he can do is narrow his gaze even harder upon the witch, deciding that he would refuse to give her the satisfaction of a smart-ass remark â€" which he couldn't quite think up. Which only made him even more frustrated. So focused on refusing her that pleasure of a reaction, he was hardly anticipating that she would actually ask. If anything, he fully expected her to glare at him in reply. That word is the catalyst which causing those both hazy and clear memories come rushing over him with such a force that he can't help the hunger that rips through him like a knife through paper, the beast pacing fiercely behind those bars as they rattled and threatened to release it, his reaction almost having him reaching for her as her scent hits him like a pile of bricks. Fuck. It takes more control than he knew that he had to keep from moving after her as she places that distance between them, the man hardly noticing how his own breaths became ever so slightly heavier beneath those images, the feel of her skin that his mind is quick to remember.

All he could think of in that moment as she spoke to him over her shoulder was how he should leave, that he should just resume his hunt for Ellie and pretend that this whole thing never even happened... just like how he was working on convincing himself that night was just some warped dream he'd had that night â€" or nightmare as he would try and convince himself to call it, even if he had reveled in it, every... single... bit of it. He turns his back to the Vhalla, almost successful in departing that clearly despite the annoying weight that seemed to suddenly find his feet then. But, unfortunately for the both of them, life decides to intervene as it just so loved to do. The shriek, the splash, it was enough to have the man turning around, knowing all too well what had happened. Maybe she just needs to stick to throwing fireballs. She has that down pat. She breaks through the surface, saving the dark hunter from having to jump in and drag her out. That was the last thing either of them needed. Scrambling onto the snow-covered earth and curling into herself, he once again finds himself in his "favorite" position; wishing he'd left while he'd had the chance, having learned by now that for some stupid reason he wouldn't be able to just leave her there. The witch's body begins shaking violently as it tried to warm itself, but it would be the equivalent of trying to spark a flame to life on soaked wood. It wasn't going to work, and she needed to get warm as soon as possible. He didn't know how much that fire affinity was tied to her, but there was a sense of urgency that moves him to take off that blood-soaked jacket and wrap her in it. It was better than nothing, but it definitely wasn't going to save her from hypothermia.

Lowering his hand for her to take as she huddles into the already drenched clothing, he's almost surprised that she takes it without protest like she had when he'd had to help her to the warehouse after effectively crashing his party of one. It takes her a moment to get her legs beneath her steadily, and so he does not release her hand until he feels certain she won't go toppling over and force him to grab her waist or anything that might trigger... things. That was going to be unavoidable however, it seemed as the woman huddles closer to the man then, her drenched side soaking into his shirt, kissing his skin with cold. He hardly notices though as that damn concern flickers ever so briefly through the dark hunter despite his stubborn struggle against the pull of that feeling he cursed every second he felt it soften him towards her. She wraps her arms around herself as she is practically burrowing into the jacket, teeth chattering beneath those teasing words and he rolls his eyes in an attempt to deny the undeniable. She demands for him to put his arm around her and he finds himself reflexively wrapping his arm around her."So much for asking", he growls lowly, though there is no aggression in those tenor tones, the man only inwardly groaning every step that they take. Why me? It is a slow walk through the cold that slowly begins to nip at his own skin, but he is distracted as he watches her from the corner of his dark green gaze, refusing to show the concern that continues to rise in him when he notices her skin reacting, those lips starting to turn purple, that urgency increasing in Lazarus as he keeps her close. He wanted to hate how she clearly needed him, but as usual, he can't â€" which only makes him even more frustrated with himself.

When they reach the warehouse, her hands are an angry red against the cold and as she reaches for the door, she can hardly move her fingers, an obvious sign that they needed to act quickly. No sooner than those words leave her icy lips does the man reach out and turn the handle, shoving the door open and guiding her inside, walking sluggishly up the steps. Almost there, then I'll be that much closer to getting outta here. They travel down the familiar hallway and those memories hit against the back of his mind, of how he'd pinned her there against the wall and devoured her. He is torn away from those damn thoughts then as the woman tells him that she would likely need help out of the suit, which he understood well enough and yet he feels that very much sober part of him recoiling at the idea. He was a goddamn man for shit sake... This was just... not an ideal situation at all for her or the dark hunter who hardly trusted himself with that already teetering control, but he nods."Just don't expect me not to look, I am still a guy", he says in tenor tones attempting to be humorous despite the red flags rising in every part of him at the thought of her bare skin, the idea once again bringing those fucking memories back in full force. It was like every five seconds, he kept flashing back to that night, and he was hardly sure how much more he could stand. When they make their way down the hall and into that room, the dark hunter focuses solely on the bathroom door where she'd locked herself in the following morning, refusing to even allow himself to see the bed, her scent already doing next to nothing to help him from thinking the very things he had been working ever since that night to forget.

They make their way into the bathroom now and he's more than content to release his hold of her, feeling like he could finally breathe as he takes a few steps back, letting his sopping jacket flop to the ground in a sloshing, dripping heap. Dark forest eyes follow her gesture with precision as she stands there shivering, and he feels himself hesitating. Why was he so unsettled by this!? It wasn't like he hadn't undressed more women than he could count... Get your shit together, you've only done this a time or a million before, this is no different. And yet, in all actuality, it was different... It was undressing the one woman that seemed so capable of enraging him and driving him to want her all in the same furious moment. Forcing himself to close the distance between them once again, standing no more than a breath away, he reaches those fingers for the zipper and pulls it down slowly, her skin showing as the soaked suit began to fall off her shoulders... down her arms.... His heart begins to thunder in his chest as he feels that desire beginning to rise in him, having to tell himself much harder than he should have to that what had happened before was not going to be happening again. Not if he could help it â€" and he'd be damned if he couldn't... even if her scent only magnified that fire in his core as his body remembered everything that he wishes he didn't. And that's when he saw the scars. They were jagged and dark as they streaked her back and immediately there is a shift in the man, that possessiveness rushing forth as dark eyes narrow sharply on the remains of those old wounds. He didn't even have to ask who did them, and that assumption only has his jaw clenching against the anger as he bites back those thoughts, those feelings that he fought viciously against. It seems like it takes him forever until finally the zipper hitches at the end of its line."There you go", he says levelly as he forces himself to ignore the seething rage beneath those dark forest. A part of Lazarus wanted to demand what happened, what she'd done to deserve those scars, but in a fashion so very unlike himself, he doesn't. He doesn't press the matter. He doesn't want to know, because if he knew, then he would care...