(Thornhaven Manor, October 1887 – Morning)
Dawn was a bruise pressed against the horizon—muted purples and sickly yellows bleeding through Thornhaven's heavy draperies. Evelyn woke not to birdsong, but to the profound silence of the tomb-like Amber Suite. The scent of bergamot and old parchment lingered, a ghostly reminder of him. Her throat felt parched, raw. The blistered silver burn pulsed faintly beneath her emerald choker. A constant reminder of the monster she was becoming.
A knock. Precise. Unmistakable. Marlowe.
He stood framed in the doorway, a monolith in butler's livery. His tarnished crimson eyes swept over her, taking in her pallor, the shadows beneath her storm-grey eyes, the way her fingers instinctively brushed the choker. "Lord Thornewood requests your presence in the Crimson Parlor, Doctor Harcourt. Preparations must begin."
"Preparations?" Evelyn's voice rasped.
"For your role," Marlowe stated, tone devoid of inflection. "The betrothal announcement. The performance." He stepped aside, an unspoken command. "Lenore awaits."
Evelyn followed, her borrowed wool dress whispering against the cold floor. The manor felt different in the grey morning light—less a fortress, more a gilded stage being set. Every portrait of a stern-faced Thornewood ancestor seemed to watch her pass with judgmental eyes.
The Crimson Parlor lived up to its name. Walls draped in deep, blood-red damask. Furniture of dark mahogany. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering light on the room's sole other occupant.
Lenore, Alistair's second Sire, was a study in contained lethality draped in midnight silk. Her hair, the colour of raven wings, was swept into an intricate knot. Her eyes, a shade darker than Alistair's ancient amber, held the sharpness of glass shards. She stood by a tall window overlooking the mist-shrouded gardens, her posture radiating an unnerving stillness. A measuring tape hung like a silken snake over one shoulder. Pins glinted wickedly in a velvet pincushion beside her.
"Ah, the physician-hunter," Lenore murmured without turning, her voice a low, smooth contralto that somehow carried an edge. "Or should I say, the fiancée?" She finally pivoted, her gaze raking over Evelyn with unnerving precision. "Stand there. Arms slightly out." She gestured to the center of an ornate rug.
Evelyn complied, the physician in her noting Lenore's movements: fluid, economical, utterly devoid of wasted energy. Predator assessing prey. The pins pricked lightly through the wool as Lenore began marking adjustments, her cold fingers brushing Evelyn's waist, shoulders, neck. Each touch sent a jolt of unwelcome awareness through Evelyn, a mix of fear and the treacherous hum of Alistair's blood resonating within her.
"The Thornhaven name demands impeccable presentation," Lenore stated, pinning a dart near Evelyn's hip. Her eyes met Evelyn's. "Especially when presenting… an acquisition."
"I'm not an acquisition," Evelyn countered, forcing steel into her voice.
"Aren't you?" Lenore arched a perfect brow. "Bound by his...." She cut herself off. "Sheltered under his roof. Playing a part scripted by his necessity." She smoothed the fabric over Evelyn's ribs, her touch lingering near the hidden lancet strapped to her thigh. A faint, knowing smile touched her lips. "Carrying steel to a vampire's fitting. How quaintly defiant. And utterly useless against what hunts you now."
A wave of dizziness washed over Evelyn, sharper than before. The scent of the wool, the smoke from the fire, Lenore's subtle perfume of night-blooming flowers – it all coalesced into a suffocating wave. But beneath it, cutting through everything… the phantom tang of blood. Rich. Coppery. Essential. Her stomach clenched, a sharp pang of desperate hunger. Her vision momentarily blurred.
Lenore paused, her gaze sharpening. "The craving," she stated, not a question. "It intensifies near us. Near him. His blood recognizes its kin." She stepped back, her expression unreadable. "Control it, Doctor. Or it will control you. Silas will scent weakness like carrion."
Before Evelyn could respond, Marlowe reappeared at the door, holding a folded newspaper. "My Lord requires your presence, Doctor Harcourt. Immediately." His tone held a new urgency, his expressionless face held a hint of distraught.
Lenore glared at him. She plucked a final pin from the cushion. "We're done for now. Remember: posture. Poise. And never let them see you bleed." She vanished towards the shadows near the bookcases, melting into the gloom as if she'd never been there.
Alistair's Study was a fortress of knowledge and power. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves groaned under ancient tomes. A massive dark mahogany desk dominated the room. Alistair stood before it, silhouetted against the weak morning light filtering through heavy curtains. He held a different newspaper, his knuckles white on the edge of the page.
He didn't turn as Evelyn entered. "Silas wastes no time," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. He flung the paper onto the desk.
The headline screamed:
"THORNWOOD FIASCO: EARL'S BALL ENDS IN BLOODBATH!
HUMAN DEATHS SPARK OUTRAGE - IS THE RECLUSE LORD HIDING MONSTERS?"
Below it, a lurid subheading:
"MYSTERIOUS 'MISS SHAW' LINKED TO EARL - FIANCEÉ OR FEMME FATALE?"
A crude sketch depicted Alistair, fangs bared, standing over shadowy bodies, while a woman in a green gown (clearly Evelyn) cowered nearby.
Evelyn's breath hitched. "They're painting you as the butcher. And me as… your accomplice? Or victim?"
"Both," Alistair hissed, turning. His amber eyes burned with cold fury, not directed at her, but at the invisible puppeteer. "Silas feeds the press lies through thralls and bribes. He's trying to isolate us. Stokes human fear. Make the Thorn a target for mobs and magistrates alike." He slammed a fist onto the desk. A hairline crack snaked across the polished wood. "He makes our charade infinitely more dangerous."
The scent of his anger – ozone and cold stone – mixed with the ever-present bergamot and parchment. To Evelyn's heightened, starved senses, it was intoxicating. The blood craving, momentarily suppressed by shock, roared back. Her focus narrowed on the pulse visible in the hollow of his throat. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. A siren song. Her mouth watered. She took an involuntary step forward, then stopped, clenching her fists so hard her nails bit into her palms. Control it.
Alistair's gaze snapped to her. He saw the dilation of her pupils, the slight tremor in her hands, the way her breath hitched as she looked at his neck. The fury in his eyes banked, replaced by sharp assessment. "The hunger," he stated flatly. "Lenore reported it."
"It's… manageable," Evelyn lied, her voice tight.
"Liar." He moved with preternatural speed, suddenly before her. The cold radiated from him, a counterpoint to the heat flooding her own skin. He reached out, not to touch her, but to gently grasp her wrist. His fingers were icy, but the contact sent a jolt of electricity through her, momentarily eclipsing the gnawing hunger. He lifted her hand, turning it palm up. Four crescent-shaped wounds bled sluggishly where her nails had pierced her own skin. "Denial is a luxury you cannot afford, Evelyn. Not here. Not now."
He released her wrist. The absence of his touch made the craving surge back, sharper, more desperate. A low whimper escaped her lips before she could stifle it. Shame flooded her.
Alistair watched her struggle, his expression unreadable. Then, with deliberate slowness, he drew a small, silver-embossed flask from his waistcoat pocket. Uncapping it, he held it out. He rolled up his sleeve and bit his wrist, cutting the vein. He placed it over the cap, his blood flowing out like a peaceful river. The scent that hit Evelyn was unlike anything she had ever known. It was rich, dark, metallic. She watched longingly as it dripped into the cap. Blood.Pure, potent vampire blood. His blood.
"Drink," he commanded, his voice low, resonant. "A sip. Enough to silence the beast within. Enough to let you think."
Evelyn stared at the cup, repulsion warring with ravenous need. The royal blood within her screamed for it. Her human soul recoiled. "I won't… I can't…"
"Do you wish to rip open the throat of the next human servant you see?" Alistair's words were brutal, precise. "Or collapse trembling at Lady Nightshade's salon, revealing yourself to Silas's spies? This is not surrender, Doctor. It is strategy. Control requires fuel. This is yours."
The craving was a vice around her lungs. Her vision pulsed. The memory of a maid's ruined throat from the ball massacre flashed behind her eyes. Control. The word echoed. Hunter's discipline. Physician's pragmatism.
With a trembling hand, Evelyn took the cup. The metal was cold. She raised it to her lips. The scent was overwhelming, intoxicating, terrifying. She took the smallest sip. A sense of overwhelming satisfaction came over her. She gulped down the rest.
Fire.
It exploded across her tongue, down her throat, into her veins. Not heat, but power. Ancient, icy, and immense. The gnawing hunger vanished, replaced by a terrifying clarity, a surge of strength, a hyper-awareness of every dust mote in the air, every heartbeat of the human servants in the mansion. Her senses sharpened to a painful edge. The world snapped into crystalline focus. The exhaustion, the dizziness, the weakness – gone. Replaced by a predatory stillness that felt both alien and terrifyingly right.
She lowered the cup, gasping. Her eyes met Alistair's ancient amber. They held no judgment, only watchful intensity. "Well?"
"It… works," she breathed, the tremor gone from her voice. The power thrummed beneath her skin, potent and unsettling. She felt invincible. And utterly damned.
A ghost of satisfaction touched Alistair's lips. "Remember that feeling. That control. That power. You will need it tonight." He took the cap back, closing the flask. "The Gilded Wraiths will host a masquerade in three days. Our first public appearance as an engaged couple. Smile for the vipers, Evelyn. Dance with the devil. And watch your back." He turned towards the window, the newspaper headline a stark accusation on the desk. "The performance begins at dusk in three days. Do not falter."
Evelyn stood rooted, the borrowed strength thrumming in her blood. The scent of his offering lingered on her lips – salvation and damnation intertwined. The hunter had drunk the wolf's blood. The gilded cage was now center stage. And the most dangerous monsters, she realized, wouldn't be wearing fangs. They'd be wearing silk and smiles, waiting for her to stumble. The craving was silenced, but a new hunger awoke – the hunger to survive the nest of serpents she'd just agreed to enter. She adjusted the choker hiding her silver burn. Never let them see you bleed. Lenore's warning echoed. Tonight, she wouldn't just play a fiancée. She'd play the perfect predator.