He was going to speak, to say anything, but then his eyes caught on the lines of the man's back. Scars, so many scars that the extensive tattoo couldn't cover up in the light. They were messy and uneven and he could guess they stretched all the way down to his waist.
Stefan was suddenly sitting beside the man and reaching out, pulling the covers back a little more before he so very gently moved his fingertips over his skin. He knew this was what Vlad had suffered in childhood when his father had handed him and his brother over to the Turks. These weren't the marks of a well-behaved prisoner.
"Vlad," he repeated, a wave of sadness coming over his face.