Alone

The door shut behind Gwynne with a click that echoed like a dare.

I stood alone in the gilded room, swaddled in satin and steel-boned frustration. The corset pinched, the gown swished when I moved, and the heels they’d forced on me were an elegant joke. I looked like a relic stolen from a painting, and yet—beneath the layers—I was still a weapon waiting for her chance.

Lucien was going to keep me here.

He hadn’t said it in so many words, but Gwynne had. The message was clear: I was the prize, the provocation, and—worst of all—the guest. Dressed like one of them, displayed like one of theirs.

But I wasn’t theirs. Not yet. Not ever.

So I moved.

Slowly at first, testing the perimeter of the room. The thick carpet muffled my steps, but the air buzzed with the quiet hum of enchantments woven into the walls. There were no mirrors—strange, for vampires. Instead, the room was layered with gold-leafed panels and frescoes of ancient battles, some of which I recognized from the old books in my father’s library.

Doors. Drawers. Hidden alcoves. Vampires weren’t careless, but they were vain—especially the old ones. Vanity always left gaps. There, in the drawer of a carved side table, I found an antique hairpin—silver, slender, sharp. Decorative to anyone else. Lethal, if placed right.

Into the corset it went.

Next, I paced the room again, looking higher, lower. A porcelain vase by the window was hollow and light—could be thrown. The curtains, velvet and heavy, could double as rope in desperate hands. A candelabra by the hearth had twisted arms that could be snapped off and used like stakes.

A paperweight on the mantel? Too heavy. A stiletto heel? Impractical, but if I had to, I could snap it off mid-run. I cataloged everything. The weight of the crystal goblets. The narrowness of the fireplace poker. How the chandelier above creaked with the slightest breeze.

And still, my thoughts weren’t in this room. Not entirely.

They drifted back—unbidden—to the forest outside Greystone Abbey. The way the air had gone still, just before dusk. The rustle of leather boots on fallen leaves. The vampire had been older than me by a century at least, but arrogant. He’d called me a child.

He hadn’t even seen the knife until it was in his throat.

Silvered edge. Quiet step. Strike and twist.

Another, months later, in the back alleys of Dunsleigh. A barmaid had gone missing. I found the creature feeding in a cellar—messy, young. I’d driven a stake through his chest while his fangs were still buried in her neck.

It had never been about rage. Rage got you killed.

It was precision. Planning. Knowing your enemy and exploiting every weakness. I knew their weaknesses better than anyone.

Which made it all the more humiliating that I’d been captured at all.

I even counted the seconds it would take to reach the nearest exit in a sprint—seven. Nine, if I hesitated to grab the letter opener on the writing desk.

I wouldn’t be caught off guard again.

But I missed when precision didn't enter my mind. The chaise lounge flooded my mind with memories of velvet. Where red-velvet curtains swayed as if they were breathing.

I had crept along the upper balcony, boots silent on the worn wooden rail. Below, the abandoned theater glimmered with candlelight—too warm, too pretty for what I knew it hid.

Seven disappearances in two months. Locals claimed ghosts. I knew better.

The vampires that fed here were clever, theatrical. They didn’t just kill—they performed. Lured victims with illusions, music, false opulence. Then drained them behind the curtain.

That night, I was the intermission act.

A rustle behind the curtain. A whisper. Then a shadow peeled away from the stage’s edge, tall and predatory.

He moved like he owned the world. Broad shoulders, long coat, hair like black ink, eyes gleaming red-gold in the candlelight.

I didn’t know his name then. Only that he radiated power.

I took aim with the crossbow.

“Don’t you think it’s rude,” he said, voice a smooth velvet drawl, “to shoot before introductions?”

I blinked. He was looking right at me.

Impossible.

I fired anyway.

He moved too fast to see, but the bolt skimmed his cheek—close enough to draw blood. His smile sharpened.

“I liked that coat,” he said coolly, flicking blood off his jaw.

“Then you’ll really hate what’s next,” I muttered, jumping down.

I landed hard, rolled, came up with a silver dagger in one hand and a flare vial in the other but he came at me like a storm—fluid, precise—but I’d been training for this. I fought dirty, fast. Flipping over the orchestra pit, slashing at his side, shoving the flare vial into his face and watching it burst with light and heat.

He cursed, staggered, and for a breathless second—I had him. Blade pressed to his throat, knee to his chest. I’d pinned a vampire king and I didn’t even know it.

“You’re fun,” he rasped.

My brow furrowed. “You’re bleeding.”

“You’re trembling.”

“I’m excited.”

“You’re insane.”

I didn’t disagree.

Then he flipped us. One moment, I was in control—the next, he had me pinned to the floorboards, fangs inches from my neck, breath cold and strange.

“Kill me or kiss me,” he said.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

I shoved him off with a knee to the gut. By the time I reached the stairs, he was laughing—low and quiet and far too pleased.

I didn’t kill him that night.

If I had, I wouldn't be in his castle now.

When the knock came, I didn’t flinch.

A pale, silent maid entered, her head bowed. “The court has gathered,” she murmured.

I followed her through winding halls of marble and shadow, the scent of old magic thickening with every step. Each corridor twisted like a riddle, lined with ancient portraits and blood-red carpets. The walls seemed to breathe. I could feel the pulse of centuries humming beneath my heels.

As we neared the ballroom, voices began to rise—elegant, amused, dangerous. Laughter mingled with murmurs, too sweet to be sincere. The scent of blood lingered beneath perfume and candle smoke.

When the grand doors opened, I stepped into the lion’s den.

The ballroom was a cathedral of decadence—crimson drapes, golden candelabras, glittering chandeliers overhead. Vampires lounged and glided and glared, all in their best silks and wickedest smiles. The moment I entered, the room stilled.

Every eye turned to me.

Not in surprise.

In appraisal.

Some wore curiosity like perfume. Others—hunger, unmasked.

Lucien stood at the far end, dressed in black and silver, a glass of dark wine in one hand. He watched me with the kind of gaze that could ignite and unravel in equal measure.

Let them look.

I walked forward like I belonged there—because I would make sure I did. Not as a pawn.

As a threat.