Little Lucifer possessed grey eyes that were a perfect replica of Alaric's—cold, piercing, yet harboring a profound, watchful curiosity. At only a few months old, he rarely cried. He simply observed the world with a chilling composure, as if he instinctively understood he was born of the two most dangerous people on the face of the earth.
"He's too quiet for a baby, Alaric," Anna whispered, cradling Lucifer before the warmth of a roaring hearth.
Alaric, who was meticulously cleaning his sidearm in the corner of the room, looked up. "That is because he knows no one dares touch him as long as I draw breath."
Setting his weapon aside, Alaric approached and took Lucifer from Anna's arms. His movements, usually brusque and efficient, softened into a deliberate tenderness as he held his son. He kissed the infant's brow—a stark contrast of a man whose hands had extinguished hundreds of lives now cradling a new one with such profound care.
