Bela turned and shut the door to her quarters, slamming it a little harder than intended.

Her tattooed forehead hit the hardy banded wooden door. She took air in with a long, sharp inhale; her eyes shut tight to block out the world around her. Bela's entire face cringed into a grimace. She brought her hands up to press the heels of her palms against her closed eyes.

Bela breathed out in a harsh huff. She – lightly – knocked her head against the door a few times. She considered repeating the motion, harder this time. It was what an idiot like her deserved after all. Maybe it would knock some sense into her.

She was a fool.

She was a damned fool.

What was she even doing with herself? With Ethan?

Bela turned around to press her back flat to the door – as if turning her back to the rest of the dungeon would undo her carelessness – her weakness.

She faced the rest of her room, taking the brief reprieve from being around familiar, comforting surroundings.

Her four-poster canopy bed, which took up a considerable amount of space, flushed up to the wall opposite the door and on top of a soft, regal, red carpet. That bed had sheltered her from the harsh world – and her occasionally just as harsh family – on countless occasions. A simple end table sat to the left of the bed. The latest book Bela was working through rested atop it.

The numerous bookshelves on the left side of the bed were filled to the brim. Their contents were, in contrast to Daniela's library, loaded with nonfiction books. Their subject matter varied, but there was a general common denominator in their roots in the world around them. Science, Philosophy, and History books comprised the majority of her collection.

To the left still, closer to the door were her desks. They were pushed up against the corner, forming an L-shape. A test tube rack, numerous bottles, and a microscope joined the clutter of books and loose papers scattered on their surfaces. Two small candelabras lit up the workspace. A fine, well-used, cushioned chair was neatly tucked underneath one desk. The little study was the eye of any storm to Bela. The world could continue raging and burning around her, and she would be content to surround herself with her knowledge. It was there where she could get to the bottom of any problem.

To Bela's right was the door to her bathroom, and the roaring fireplace to its side. It kept her warm amid the fiercest blizzards. This was her go-to source of warmth when the weather beyond Castle Dimitrescu's stony walls proved unbearable. She'd spent many evenings curled up by the mound of pillows in front of the fire. It was as safe of a haven as her cozy bed.

On the right side of the bed was Bela's dresser, intricately carved of wood and iron. She could see her disheveled appearance in the mirror from where she stood. Her makeup was in dire need of a retouch after Ethan had smeared it with spackle – and after she just now smudged her eyeliner. A small assortment of jewelry rested on the dresser; there was a necklace here, a bracelet there, and a ring box tucked into one nook. A single, framed, black and white photo occupied the dresser's far corner.

Finally, Bela's dark wooden wardrobe was located in the corner by the dresser's side, facing the bed. The thing was probably far bigger than it had to be. In the days, Bela would cycle between the same couple of dresses with little variation. They were black, a little less black, and a little more black – maybe one that was a deep midnight blue, if she was feeling spicy. There was little need to shake up her wardrobe.

In the night, Bela had a small handful of simple, white nightgowns to get cozy in. Yet even those she often forgot to change into. Most nights, Bela found herself toiling away at her study, flipping page after page and scribbling down the relevant notes. By the time exhaustion would catch up to her, Bela simply crawled into bed as is, or collapsed onto the heap of pillows by the fireplace.

Bela gently knocked the back of her head against the door as she stared at her room.

The brief wave of serenity that it granted her was over as quickly as it had come. In its place reformed the pit in her stomach. It knotted and twisted and turned – making it a point to remind her that she, as Ethan would say, fucked up.

There was no other way to put it really. No words to describe so aptly how sloppy she'd been.

"I fucked up." Saying the profanity out loud was a foreign experience to Bela's lips. As if speaking them to her empty room would absolve her of what she'd done. As if staining her refined speech with the man's curses would be enough penance.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

She was better than this. She was smarter than this. She was sure as hell smarter than some nobody she locked in the dungeon.

That was untrue, apparently.

Because Ethan was proving himself to be far more than a nobody with tasty blood. He had, whether he intended to or not, outsmarted her.

Over a thousand meals Bela had partook in within that dining room. Over a million times she'd crossed its threshold to access other parts of the castle. Every single time Bela was in that room, the windows had been there.

They had not magically appeared out of nowhere, as if conjured by some sorcerer. It was not her first time seeing those highly fragile and alarmingly unlocked windows – speaking of which, someone was going to meet their maker for leaving those unlocked.

But no, Bela was not unaware of the presence of those windows.

Yet just the same, Bela had sloppily, carelessly, ignorantly turned her back to Ethan.

Ethan who, up until that moment, had been nothing but friendly with her, if not a little snarky. Bela could hardly blame him for turning the latch and preparing to open the window. In his shoes, Bela was fairly sure she'd have done the same. It was the perfect opportunity for him to stage his jailbreak. There was not a doubt in Bela's mind about it.

She was fast, sure. But she couldn't be faster than Ethan's hand, literally inches from the window. By the time she sprung across the room to close the window, it was highly likely she would just smash through it, rather than into Ethan. She had seen firsthand that he was capable of handling himself with some competence against the Moroaice. But what really set Bela on edge was what she had heard of him.

When Bela shooed the servants out of the kitchen a night prior, Tatyana had spoken up. The head servant was curious, considerate, and smart. She had a knack for being well-informed and highly tactful.

Tatyana had asked if the new prisoner would be needing food. Still on edge at the time, Bela had snappily replied that was precisely her reason for commandeering the kitchen. Apologetically and courteously, Tatyana asked Bela to be careful around the prisoner, knowing the havoc he wrecked in the village.

That was when Bela learned of the particulars – of the lycans descending unto the townsfolk in bloody slaughter. That wasn't too alarming in and of itself. There were always whispers of distant villages being cut down to feed Mother Miranda's horde of wolfmen and to grow their numbers.

What was worrisome was what had happened to the lycans.

Or rather, who had dealt with the lycans.

Dozens of them lay dead by Ethan's hand in the village below. Just one of those creatures could eviscerate an entire household. The fact Ethan had fought his way through not one, not two, but entire packs of them was alarming, to say the least. The man – who could apparently stick severed limbs back to his body – was far, far more than he seemed at a glance.

Bela would be a fool to underestimate him – to not see him for the danger that he was.

Yet that was precisely what she'd done, like the fool she was.

When Bela looked into Ethan's pained, grey eyes, all she could see was the mourning husband and desperate father. It was easy to forget the bitter curses he'd spat at her just a day prior. It was easy to downplay why they had to repair the door trim to begin with.

It was easy to disregard the fact that Ethan would kill her, given the chance. He was a prisoner, and she was his captor. She drank his blood. He was food to her. She wasn't supposed to look at him – to think of him as a person (and she was failing miserably at dehumanizing him). Bela wouldn't have blamed him if he had gone and opened that window. After everything she'd done to him, he was certainly within his right to hit her where it hurt.

Yet he hadn't.

A shudder started from the back of Bela's neck, and tingled its way down her back.

Bela flexed her fingers and took quick steps towards the fireplace. She could practically feel the cold festering within her. The warm glow of the flames relieved her of the ghostly chills. Chills that – Bela had to come to terms with – were likely a manifestation of her fear.

Bela was a hunter. A higher, superior form of life. She had been prowling these lands since before Ethan was even born. He was supposed to just be a man – a bag of meat, blood, and bones. The fact that a simple man-thing got the better of her was shameful.

Or, well – it should have been.

The pillows sank and shifted as Bela plopped down in front of the fireplace. She rubbed her hands against her tired face.

It wasn't shame that formed a pit in Bela's gut. That wasn't what was making her skin crawl. Ethan was hardly a simple man-thing. Someone who sealed up mortal wounds with nothing but disinfectant could hardly be considered a simple man-thing. That itself merited investigation – Bela could nearly feel her brain pulsing in anticipation – but not while she was busy grappling with this messy, complicated mixing pot of emotions.

Ethan was no ordinary person. He was something else entirely – something that was stronger, smarter, and more resilient than he looked. While Bela struggled to weigh Ethan to be her equal, he was certainly no bottom feeder in the food chain. It was not a deer or a hare that had confronted her with the threat of the bitter cold.

She had been cornered by a wolf. Cunning and fierce, and highly dangerous when backed into a corner of their own.

All of this life, Bela had been taught that she was the wolf among sheep. It just so happened that Mother often left out the part where there were other wolves out there. She had especially left out the part where the most mundane, pitiful looking sheep could turn out to be a wolf in disguise.

So no, there was no shame for a wolf to outsmart a wolf.

There was fear that Bela felt for sure. She could admit that to herself. Being confronted with the one thing to put you in grave danger tended to do that. It didn't matter if you were a wolf, a hare, or a man-thing. Staring a mortal threat in the face would leave any sane person shaking.

Bela blew out a harsh sigh. She kicked off her heels in the attempt to get comfortable despite the unease continuing to brew within her.

She was enough of a fool as is. Continuing to lie to herself and deny what she already knew would only make her a bigger fool.

Her skin crawled and her entire being shuddered with dread in that moment because of two reasons:

One – she had fucked up. Plain and simple. Bela had gotten comfortable with Ethan, and as a result, had been careless. She had been put right into Ethan's metaphorical crosshairs by her own doing. She had nobody but herself to blame for nearly being frozen solid.

Two – it was because of who had held her very life in his hands for a tense, impossibly long minute.

Ethan's damned, gorgeous, terrifyingly stony eyes were going to be seared into her memory for a while. She had found those eyes of his to be attractive, ever since the moment she tore a sickle into his leg. In the dining room though, they held such a different glint to them.

Sad, despondent, traumatized when talking of those awful people who cut his leg off.

At ease, even mirthful during their brief tangent with the spackle.

Determined, vengeful, and ferocious when all that stood between Bela and certain doom was an unlocked window.

With eyes locked to the dancing flame of the fireplace, Bela came to terms with the fact she had no idea how she got here.

How had she come from locking the man up in a cage, to leaving her back unguarded, with Ethan having full access to the window and the bitter chill beyond? Sharp turns such as those should have been so easy to draw out. All Bela was drawing were blanks.

She was a fool, yes, but she wasn't so much of a fool to have deluded herself into thinking they were friends. How could someone like her be friends with a man she locked up to keep as a source of blood?

Was she that weak-willed? That all it took for her to drop her guard was – what? A pretty pair of deep grey eyes? Sharp, quick wit and entertaining conversations? A handsome face?

She'd gone from simply wishing to mitigate Ethan's suffering to trying to make him comfortable – to actually enjoy his time in the castle, despite all the reasons he never should. It was a fool's errand (and what a fool she was) to make the man feel content as blood-cattle, all while his captive daughter was mere floors away from him.

It would do Bela better to just drop it all. She had no business interfering with the man's happiness.

Bela stood up from the pile of pillows on the floor. With purpose in her stride, she padded across the smooth stone floor and proceeded to her desk. She sunk down into the familiar cushioning of her seat. Grabbing her pad of stationery and a pen, she got to work. Mother – and by extension, Bela assumed, Mother Miranda would want a write up of the man-thing's condition.

February 10 / 5:30PM / Castle Dimitrescu

SUBJECT: Ethan Winters

The subject has been captive in the castle dungeons since the morning of February 9. Shortly after his capture, the subject suffered multiple lacerations, puncture wounds, and the amputation of his right ring finger. Consequently, the subject is estimated to have lost 20-30% of his blood as a result of his injuries, and the feeding from Ladies Cassandra and Daniela Dimitrescu.

Bela rolled the pen between her fingers for a beat. The sight of Ethan's bloody, tortured body was fresh in her mind. The strokes of her pen were harsher on the stationery than necessary when she resumed writing.

The injuries were assessed and given priority as per standard triage procedures. Pressure was applied to stem the bleeding, and the sites of each of the wounds were disinfected. Upon removal of the improvised bandages, the wounds were observed to have sealed over. The knuckle of the amputated finger appeared as though the torn skin had been sutured months prior, and given much time to heal. Further inspection of the rest of the subject's wounds revealed similar findings. All lacerations and puncture wounds had sealed together after the application of disinfectant. In spite of the severe blood loss, the subject was conscious and lucid, if not distressed.

Yes – this was what she was good at. This was what she was supposed to be doing. Micromanaging Ethan – getting him to stretch his legs, ensuring he was properly fed, making sure he had a pillow to lay his weary head on – perish the thoughts. It was none of her concern.

On the evening of February 9, it was found that the subject was suffering from chills, nausea, clammy skin, and a fever. In addition, the subject's right hand suffered impairment of movement. When asked about his ability to mend his wounds, the subject professed to having a condition, but refused to elaborate further. Said condition was reported to not function for illnesses.

Bela consciously left out the part where she cradled Ethan's head on her lap and soothed his fever with the cool rag to his forehead.

Taking into consideration the subject's symptoms, and previous injuries from hours prior, he was deduced to be suffering from sepsis, caused by a foreign body that had been sealed within his right arm. An incision was made towards the center of his arm, and the fragment of a knife was extracted from within. The incision was sealed with disinfectant and the application of pressure to the site. The subject immediately showed signs of improvement, as the severity of his symptoms decreased.

The subject. The captive. The prisoner.

Bela would do well to remember who Ethan was supposed to be.

Discussion with the subject revealed more details of his condition. Thus far, the condition's extent had proven to work for all outward injuries, while illnesses within were not susceptible to his condition. According to the subject, his leg hand once been amputated.

Bela consciously untightened her grip on the pen.

With the use of disinfectant, he was able to reattach his leg at the point of amputation. Full functionality of the limb was, evidently, restored. Personal observation of this claim is lacking. However, judging by the efficacy with which his body recovers from injury and severe blood loss, the subject's claim is entirely plausible.

They stood on two clearly opposing sides. Bela had taken a needless, careless risk by bringing him up to assist with the door trim's repair. It was a risk that Ethan had nearly made her pay dearly for. Mother had made it explicitly clear that Ethan was to remain imprisoned and alive. Bela had to learn to listen.

The subject also claimed that he had "caught" the condition from the same people who amputated his leg. The identities, and number of the individuals who allegedly spread their condition to the subject are, as of writing, unknown. Further inquiry is needed to discern if the persons unknown had the exact same condition as the subject, or a variation of such. Physical examination of the subject may also yield more detailed results.

By the time Bela completed her brief report, the flare of indignance within her had subsided. The rush from the sense of accomplishment fizzled away. Along with it went any sense of direction and purpose she had with regards to severing her odd connection to Ethan. Bela leaned an elbow on the desk, placing her face in her hand. Slowly, absentmindedly, she turned to glimpse at her dresser – at the single, framed, black and white photo. She glanced at it as she always tended to when troubled and torn and conflicted.

The faces stared back at her, almost tauntingly.

Bela always was too much of a softy for her own good. It's like she enjoyed tormenting herself with these divergent thoughts and emotions.

She did know how she wound up nearly blasted with a face-full of winter air. She did know what she was doing.

The truth was that she had allowed it all to happen. The window incident – no, that wasn't quite planned. There was no pin for that on the drawing board. That had not been some gambit that she planned ahead to test Ethan – nothing of the sort.

What Bela did allow was the development of this… relationship she had with Ethan, as small and budding as it may be. It was a leap of faith on her part – a dangerous one. It had paid off in numerous ways.

Ethan was comfortable around her now, to a degree. He was willing to talk about himself. The times Ethan mentioned his late wife, Bela's stomach turned more than she would care to admit; those handsome grey eyes of his would grow so distant and hazy. She could nearly feel the pain he felt. The same applied when learning the vague origins of his condition. The poor man had been through much.

Consequently, Ethan's relaxed demeanor would make future feedings even more delightful. His blood was marvelous – some of the best she'd ever had. Yet, there was one other benefit to Bela's leap of faith that she took joy in. One that was as good as any drop of his sweet blood.

Ethan didn't look at her like she was a monster.

"Damnit," Bela cursed under her breath, unable to tear her eyes from the photo.

No, no – the biggest benefit thus far was that Ethan had stayed his hand in a clear choice of mercy. In spite of locking him in a cage and drinking his blood, Ethan had shown her mercy. Bela's misstep should have earned her a painful, freezing death. Instead, she had been spared that fate. Whether Ethan had done it out of the kindness of his heart, or because of the odd, growing bond between them, Bela couldn't be certain. She did not want to flatter herself by assuming herself to be so charming so as to have already won Ethan's fondness – especially not fondness enough to save her life.

It was not an option to drop it all and be done with it, as she had considered moments ago. After Ethan stepped away from that window, Bela owed him one.

And maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was sloppy. Maybe she lost her senses. But Bela felt she had crossed some point of no return or another. If, when this all started, she had been half committed to the idea of turning Ethan into a willing, contented supply of blood, then now she had to be committed all the way.

Something had shifted in Bela's psyche. She still wasn't sure what it was.

It cropped up around the time Ethan had pleaded with her over Rose – of how the poor baby was all that the widower had left of his late wife. And all the more when Ethan slipped into unconsciousness in Bela's arms, and she held him there for a moment longer. Or a minute. Maybe five.

Bela gulped.

"Do not give me that look," Bela mumbled to the picture across the room, as if it would respond this time.

It never had.

It never would.

"Yes, yes," Bela rolled her eyes as the imaginary replies rang in her ears.

There was no way forward but to continue nurturing her odd relationship with Ethan. She had her reasons, with his sweet blood being close to the top of the list.

No – at the top of the list.

She would need a moment to gather herself and her wits. The stand-off in the dining room had rattled her more than she cared to admit. Ethan was probably sick and tired of her anyway. The sight of her probably filled him with unease and dread that he kept hidden from her. He would probably bloody his head on the wall if he had to put up with her yammering again so soon. Bela could grant him an evening of peace and quiet. He deserved as much.

Bela could bother him in the morning when he was well rested. She could resume her fool's errand then – of trying to make the man feel at home while imprisoned in the farthest thing from what one could call a home.

It was times like this Bela wished for the old days – of mindless, euphoric slaughter. When the feeling of warm blood on her hands and a fresh kill at her feet made her feel alive.

Those days were easy. They were simple.

Wrestling with her mind in an uphill battle, all because of a silly man-thing like Ethan and poor baby Rose?

This was not easy. This was not simple.

But it was for her own good. At least, that's what Bela felt to be true, deep in her un-beating, nonexistent heart. The same fictional heart which leapt and thumped in her chest when Ethan thanked her for returning his journal.

Maybe she was simply losing her mind.

A/N: Thanks so much for reading! Make sure to punch those fave and follow buttons if you haven't already! Drop me a review to let me know what you thought of our next little interlude! It truly makes my day hearing from you fellas, and absolutely feel free to shoot me a message if you'd like to chat about the story thus far.

I didn't originally plan to have this Bela Interlude, but there was a lot of curiosity around what she was thinking during the big window standoff. So, we have here our second glimpse into Bela's mind. I believe I confirmed some things that you may have already suspected, and some you didn't. It's a tough balancing act giving these peeks into Bela's head without unveiling too much. I hope I was able to strike the right balance to show what drives Bela, but still maintained a thick enough chunk of mystery around her.

I also pushed through with this interlude because I hit a bit of a wall with the next Ethan chapter, and wanted to get some content out while continuing to refine the next pub. I hope this chapter was up to snuff at least. I'll catch you guys at the next update!