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Draga	By : sisterstyx Category: S through Z > Van Helsing Views: 1921 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Van Helsing, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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The next two days passed with little of consequence. Ilona reacquainted herself with the house, admiring the changes and updates Vlad had made in her absence. She went into town and was warmly greeted by all the townsfolk, regaling them with stories of Rome and Tuscany and Venice and handing out little trinkets she had brought back from her travels.

Ilona had always been an unnamed idol of her little village. Not only as their own member of the nobility or as a patron of the town hospital and orphanage, but as a kind, warm, sympathetic young woman that they felt was a shining symbol of their little corner of the earth. She stopped by the boulangerie and the post office and then made a quick round at the hospital before handing out sweets to the local school children. Whatever whispered words may be said behind closed doors about her cold and bizarre brother, these people genuinely loved and admired Ilona and she wholeheartedly returned their affections and tenderness. She was so glad to be back with her friends and loved ones again, her joy shone forth from her eyes like beacons in a storm. No one left her presence without sporting a smile, a happy word on their lips.

These same two days were spent in the lab for Dracula. As many hours as he had spent pining for the return of her, he now feared being in her presence. That night after his near fatal error, he had hesitated as he dressed for dinner, but when she rapped lightly on his door and peaked in her head to ask if he was almost ready, he saw no reservations or questions in her eyes and was somewhat relieved. She had not noticed anything was amiss. Their dinner passed in intimate banter again and he agonized over staying with her longer or trying to get as far away as possible within the confines of the great house. His serum was advancing—the concentration he achieved when she was out of the house drove him to think faster, more creatively. But it wasn't enough. He had no way of gauging how long it would take before he could rid himself of this curse and no way of knowing if it would be permanent. But he had hope. And, as he met the warm gaze of the one thing he coveted most, he was given motivation.

She returned to the chateau in the evening of the third day with a smile undimmed by cares or fears. As her maid helped her dress for dinner, she sighed with a contentedness she had not felt in years. Had she been a younger girl, or perhaps not a well educated lady with a title and a handsome fortune in her name, she might have skipped down the stairs to supper. However, while it would bring a chuckle to his lips, she could already hear Vlad's voice scolding her gently for such improper behavior.

As they sat down over their food, he asked her to recount her activities in the village and she merrily elaborated on the people she had seen, the differences she had noted, the gifts she had both given and received. It was as though she were a child again, divulging all the secrets of the imaginary friends she had played with down by the river.

"Oh, Vlad, how could I be so daft? I've completely forgotten to give you your present!" He waved a hand to dismiss the need for any such token, but she persisted. "No, you cannot deny me this. I will be appeased and you have no power to stop me." She was absolutely right, of course, so he reluctantly, though with secret anticipation, agreed to be presented with this gift after drinks.

An hour or so later, they headed up the stairs and she lead him to her door where he stopped short. It was not at all proper for a man to enter a woman's bedroom, but before he could remind her of this, she had already crossed to her dressing table which was still covered with an assortment of things she'd yet to put away while unpacking. He reluctantly crossed to her side, the reprimand dying on his lips at the sight of her excitement.

"Ah, here we are!" She turned to face him but did not jump at his closeness. She had grown up around his eerily silent steps and had, instead, learned to rely on other senses to determine his proximity. When he looked down she was presenting him with a large, leather bound book, roughly 45 by 60 centimeters. He made no move to take it from her, but instead she laid it flat on her bed and opened the broad cover to a few pages past the beginning. He knew immediately what this book was and was transfixed by the bright, bold strokes on its open pages.

This was a book of sketches.

Ilona had always excelled in everything she attempted as a child. She was an avid rider, skilled musician, learned scholar, and all around talented young woman. But ever since he had given her a sketch pad and charcoals, her true passion had been for art. How could he have forgotten her very reason for leaving to go to Italy, the history of which was surpassed by none other in the arts of sculpture and painting? She had gone to the home of sweeping vistas and renaissance classics to learn and study and grow. And, as he looked at the image before him, he could see the expertise her delicate hands had gained in her years of study.

Sketch was too broad a term for the picture before him. It was truly a work of art. He wanted to look closer and admire the details of image but she had already turned the page, showing him an equally skilled watercolor. Scenes of people, of places, of ancient buildings and quiet conversations that he had never seen; the Roman Forum at dawn, the sky shades of grey and violet, the afternoon sunlight streaming through the arches of the Coliseum, children playing on the bank of the Tiber, a couple huddled close at a table outside a café. There were hundreds of such images, in a variety of mediums, each filled with attentive care and an eye for everyday beauty. His cold fingers reached out to stroke the brilliant blue sky behind towering columns that he could only dream of. It was just like when she was a little girl and drew him the daylight he could not experience himself.

He was so absorbed by the paintings he almost jumped at her soft voice, "I wanted to give you Rome, to have you there with me, to see what I saw, feel what I felt." He tore his eyes away to stare into hers, suddenly hyper aware of how close they were, the right side of her body pressed against his, her warmth spreading into his flesh, her heart beat resonating in his own still chest.

"These are beautiful, draga." He could feel her breath on her face and the smell of her was suddenly drowning him. A voice in his mind told him to step away, that this closeness was both inappropriate and dangerous for them both. Yet his feet were planted firmly in that spot, and she did not seem to be moving away either. It was all he could do not to wrap his arms around her and pull her body flush against his so he could feel all of her.

He lost complete track of the passage of time. They may have stood that way for centuries, unmoving, unchanging, on the precipice between comfortable familiarity and the terrifying unknown. Then suddenly, he was on fire as her lips were pressed against his.

She was suddenly transfixed by those eyes she knew so well. His body was like the cool, unyielding statue of a god. She felt as though his strength, his sturdiness could shelter her from everything and wished he would gather up her small, weak form and let her melt into him. She wondered what it would be like to have his body hovering over hers, her heated skin pressed against his deliciously cool flesh, his strong grip sure and yet gentle, his kisses devouring her very soul.

Yet it was his eyes that stole the words from her lips, kept her rooted to her spot, staring up at him over her shoulder. He stared at her, a mixed look of awe and fear, pain and desire; she could see the war he found himself waging within his own mind. She had hoped this gesture would land the fatal blow, would show him what she felt, what she wanted. What she had always wanted.

She could not pinpoint the exact moment she had realized Vlad was not really her brother, at least not biologically. Yes, they both had dark hair, but hers was a warm chocolate compared to his ebony strands. They both had piercing eyes but his were cool and hooded where as hers were bright and mysterious. Their skin tones were incomparable, but that could be attributed to his allergy to sunlight. His cheekbones were more pronounced and jaw line more square, the shape of her eyes was more exotic and her lips fuller. They did not resemble each other, yet there were many siblings who could claim a similar issue. They were year apart in age, but that was also not unusual nowadays. But as she grew older, she could not help but notice every variation, every incongruity between their faces and bone structure.

At first she thought they just may have looked like each of their parents. After all, they were dead and she had no pictures or portraits to compare their features to. Perhaps they were only half siblings, maybe his mother had died and their father remarried or she may even be illegitimate and he had never wanted to reveal her muddied genealogy. They had almost never spoken of the rest of their family—Vlad had made it clear they had no remaining relatives and she had trusted him, content to have him be both parent and friend.

And then she had begun to feel something else entirely for this kind, gentle, powerful man who mysteriously struck fear in the hearts of everyone but herself, who took such care to teach her and yet spoiled her with gifts of dresses and lavish trips to Paris. She had written it off to burgeoning hormones and had tried to divert herself with thoughts of the young men in the village; had even kissed the boy would come to shoe the horses under her favorite tree by the river. Yet she could not stop her thoughts, her fantasies, her dreams from turning to his cool touch and hypnotizing voice.

It was then she had realized she could not stay in this house with him any longer. She had to tear herself away before she acted on these possibly sinful impulses. She may not have thought of him as her brother for many years, but that didn't mean she had proof of the fact, and he had never given her any indication he reciprocated her feelings. Indeed if anything, he still saw her as a child and not the young woman with needs and desires she had become. And so she had devised a plan.

She would leave, go far enough away so that he could not visit her and she could not be tempted to run home even briefly. Either her incestuous thoughts would fade away in the splendor and majesty of Rome and all it's diversions and attractive young men. Or she would finally return home, inarguably a fully grown woman, and would convince Vlad to rid themselves of their roles as siblings and embrace her with a different kind of love.

Well she had gone to Rome. She had flirted and conversed and even toyed with the men there and yet none held her attention or stirred the fire within her belly that always arose when she thought of his gaze or the sound of his voice. So she had come home with a resolve that would either destroy her or fulfill her every desire.

She had not been disappointed with what she had found so far. He had looked at her as he had never looked at her before. She had caught his lustful, wandering glances at dinner; had felt his conflicting desire to kiss her; could feel the tension currently keeping his body against hers, unable to turn away.

She would never wish him pain, and yet was both elated at the prospect of his returning her feelings and satisfied that he was finally feeling a bit of the frustration she had felt for the last 10 years. She knew her actions would probably change their lives irrevocable and, hopefully, for the better. She could not bear to leave his side again, but she also could not merely stand by as his companion and not try for more. And here was her chance.

The book she had spent seven years compiling held all her hopes and fears and desires in its brushstrokes. She had poured her love into its pages, frantically trying to show him the world she would give him, wishing to be his sun, his warmth, his light. She wondered if he could read her face as clearly as she could read his, but knew she had always surprised him with how well she could tell what he was thinking. If he could read even the smallest piece of her thoughts, surely he could see the love she held for him, the passion that was threatening to rip her apart if she was forced to contain in much longer.

They stood there, in her room, the presence of each other threatening to overwhelm them, searching for something, anything in each others eyes that would confirm what they both wanted. And then her eyes flicked down to his lips and suddenly their worlds and bodies collided in a mind-shattering kiss.
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Draga