He wasn't used to this. In fact, it was the exact opposite of what Lazarus was accustomed to and most definitely preferred. For him, there was nothing better than a good ol' "hit and run", a spontaneous and careless "bang and bye" if you will. One of the very first things that the man always made sure of when it came to that chase he found himself an avid pursuer in was that when he knew his quarry was ready and willing, practically pulling him into their apartments or lofts or even into the car parked in a secluded place where law enforcement was not so likely to crash the party for two, Lazarus would make it undeniably clear that there it was only a one-night stand. It was nothing more and nothing less. He wasn't going to call and see what she was doing Friday night, if maybe she wanted to catch a movie or go out to a nice dinner. He wasn't going to text her "good morning beautiful" or ask her how her day was going. That was just not him. What had happened between him and Isabelle, that was nothing that he had expected anything else from and yet somehow those tantalizing chocolate eyes, that raven black hair that fell so perfectly over her shoulders and down those supple breasts he could still remember with all the clarity of yesterday morning before everything unraveled, those luscious devil-red lips... they'd sucked him in and gotten Lazarus to break that code he'd set up to keep those pretty faces at arm's length when those much more intimidate moments passed. He preferred not to remember their faces, the way that they smiled when they laughed at his coy remarks. Only on the very rare occasion would he ever hit up the same woman twice to see if she was down for another night of rough and tumble fun in the dark, and even then, he couldn't remember the last time barely sifted through those phone numbers on his phone for a familiar name that could take him back to a night that he thoroughly enjoyed. After all, not every lay was the same.

What had happened between Lazarus and Vhalla... that was the absolute last thing that the dark hunter would have ever anticipated. He had fully expected to get drunk obviously, there just wasn't any two ways about that. He needed to, just so that he could drown those frustrating thoughts, those damn feelings that began to invade that cold and distant heart of his that very much beat in his chest. He'd put up those thick ass walls entirely around the parts of him that he had long ago believed to have died and been buried with his mother and father as they were lowered into the earth that rainy day. He couldn't remember the last time that he had been so certain of something, stubbornly determined that Isabelle would be the first and last woman that he ever cared for beyond his little sister â€" which in and of itself was something altogether different for obvious reasons â€", that it was better for everyone involved if he became romantically invulnerable and insensitive. Just the fact that the man had to lay there in his bed telling himself this was all to alien and unsettling for him. He could remember most of what happened that night all too perfectly, even the part where he'd woken up in her bed and she'd turned to rest her head on his chest. She'd looked so peaceful, so different. He'd seen fear in her for the first time, and it had risen in him that fierce protectiveness in him to see how that creep treated her. More infuriating than that image of the vampire as he held tightly onto the white-haired woman was that he actually cared. The only one in this world that he cared about like that was Ellie. Donovan and Lazarus, their friendship was nothing short of unusual, the two men tolerant if not content in the company of the other with a strong loyalty not too unlike that shared between brothers. Again, it was something that Lazarus had meant to have happen, it just did. Life liked to remind the man that there were some aspects of his life beyond his own control, or so it seemed.

But even then, the dark hunter never fretted over the were or his whereabouts. So long as Donovan didn't bring his endeavors home with him, Lazarus was more than happy to not care about what the guy covered in ink decided to do with his time. That day, when he'd seen the witch in that state so unfamiliar and so... vulnerable, it had sent him reeling in a way that felt entirely unnatural for him. He should have just left her there, and yet no matter how hard he tried to convince himself to, he simply... couldn't. And how he hated that he hadn't been able to. So, of course the answer to those unwanted things she was doing to him was of course to drown it all in whiskey and rum. They drank until they were both out of themselves, Lazarus having at one point been entirely sure that it wouldn't go anywhere, but then one thing led to another... and well, he frankly didn't feel like revisiting that moment in time. Yet try as he might, he knew that they would find him again soon enough. In the recent week, he'd done just about everything he could think of to get rid of that pesky memory. He'd gotten gone to the various bars and clubs in the city, drank until that haze wrapped around his mind, and he'd even been able to find his way into the beds of a few beautiful women. Before that night, she would have easily been able to forget about Vhalla and their encounter, but no matter how beautiful the women or how satisfying the sex, he still somehow found himself back in that warehouse when he wandered back into his own bed. And it certainly didn't help that Ellie was always texting or calling the witch, or stating that she was going to go and meet up with the white-haired woman at a diner. He'd shrug it off, do whatever it was that he wanted, but those images, the taste of her lips, the hunger in her eyes... they were never gone for long. He hated it. More than he could ever say.

Groaning, he rises out of his bed and opens the bedroom door, running a hand through messy curly caramel colored hair before rubbing the back of his neck that was adorned with a more or less fresh hickie on the side just above his collar bone, left from his latest exploration in almost desperate need of trying to evade those brilliant blue eyes that seemed to find his thoughts as of late, only to of course fail until he was able to drown himself in that favored amber liquor. He needed more whiskey, the bottle in his room having been emptied last night before he managed to pass out after hours of torturous thinking he shouldn't even have to fight against to begin with. Wearing nothing but black boxers, he walks down the stairs, those sharpened senses catching the sound of Donovan in the living room. What he doesn't expect though is reaching the bottom of those stairs and practically running into her. He goes rigid for a moment, dark forest eyes narrowing though it was only to hide the surprise that she was in his house. Again. What was it with this woman? He regards her for a moment before turning his dark forest eyes to Donovan who was draped casually on the couch."Did you let her in?", he asks the were, before turning to regard her again, that memory rushing to the forefront of his thoughts."Ellie's in the shower", he says to the witch as he regards her for another moment before turning to move towards the cabinet in the kitchen where he stashed several of his liquor bottles, his tenor tones unusually devoid of that snarl he so often met her with. He blamed the grogginess from all the alcohol and the fact that he just woke up, ready to deny any attempt from either Donovan or Vhalla if they should assume otherwise... even if he knew exactly why there was no fierce hostility presently found in him. Besides, what else was there to say? That wouldn't be... awkward? It was obvious that the two of them had been avoiding one another, though it was an obviousness that remained between them and them alone â€" not that the were couldn't probably see some degree of surprise in the dark hunter as he settles in one of the chairs at the table with that bottle of Red Stag whiskey in front of him, removing the lid and taking a deep drink though his dark forest gaze lingers on the white-haired woman.