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The shadows were still moving when her body finally stilled.
Elvira stood in the center of the room, bare feet braced against the wood floor, her chest rising and falling like she'd just returned from some other world. The air around her still shimmered faintly. Her eyes—those storm-blue eyes—still glowed, even as her hair began to settle around her shoulders again.
Avegar stared at her from the doorway. Breathless.
Awed.
Terrified.
Not of her power.
But of what it stirred in him.
He had knelt before her in the aftermath of her scream, steadying her, holding her, feeling the pulse of something ancient flowing just beneath her skin. Now she was looking down at him—not regal, not monstrous.
Just… herself.
And he was undone.
Her skin still hummed with energy, glowing faintly as if the storm hadn't fully left her. But now, in the silence that followed, she saw something she hadn't before.
His arm.
Still bleeding.
Still trembling.
The long scar. The new cut. The old pain.
Her breath caught.
"Why did you do that to yourself?" she asked, voice trembling but soft.
Avegar looked away, shame cutting deeper than the blade ever had. "Because I didn't know what else to feel."
She reached for him, her fingers brushing the blood on his forearm. "And now?"
His eyes met hers, raw. "Now I feel everything."
The space between them was charged—pain, power, hunger, and something neither of them had a name for.
"I shouldn't want you," he whispered. "Not like this."
"I know," she said, stepping closer.
He shook his head, fighting every part of himself. "I'm still gay, Elvira."
"I'm still dangerous, Avegar."
Their truths hung between them like sparks between two live wires.
She reached for him anyway, her hand cupping his jaw, guiding his face up. "Does that make this wrong?"
He couldn't answer.
Not before her lips were on his.
This kiss was different.
Not tentative.
Not innocent.
It was fire against ice, teeth and tongue, breath and want. He groaned into her mouth, hands gripping her waist like he needed her to stay anchored to this plane. Her fingers slid into his hair, tugging gently, pulling him closer.
"Elvira," he gasped, between kisses. "You're still glowing—"
"Then kiss me like I'm the sun."
His heart cracked.
He kissed her like a sinner begging the gods for one more moment of grace.
She stepped back, still holding his gaze, and pulled the last remnants of her clothes away, baring herself. The glow had faded now, but her skin was still lit by something deeper—something Avegar had no language for.
He hesitated—torn between reverence and disbelief—then dropped to his knees.
His hands found her hips first, then slid gently down the backs of her thighs, urging her to sit. She did, easing onto the edge of the bed, breathing fast, her legs parting in a silent invitation.
Avegar looked up at her once—his eyes full of something close to awe—and leaned in.
He kissed the inside of her thigh first, slow and trembling, then higher. Her breath caught.
When his lips finally found the soft, wet center of her, she gasped aloud.
It wasn't urgent.
Not at first.
He took his time, mouth warm and careful, tasting her like he needed to understand every part of her. His tongue traced along her heat in slow, rhythmic sweeps, not fixated—just present. Savoring. Exploring.
Elvira's hands slid into his hair, fingers curling tight as she moaned, her hips subtly shifting with him.
He let himself get lost in the sound of her, the taste, the way her thighs tensed then relaxed. The way she whispered his name like a secret. His hands held her steady, his tongue moving in patterns that drew soft cries from her lips, then gasping silence.
Hot breaths mingled between them, the air thick with scent and tension. Every exhale felt like a confession.
She arched suddenly, crying out, shuddering as the pleasure overtook her. Her whole body shook, legs tightening around his shoulders, and still—gently—he stayed with her. Letting her ride it out.
When she finally fell back against the mattress, breathless and glowing again in a different way, Avegar rose to meet her.
His mouth was slick with her taste, his hands shaking. She reached for him, pulling him down into a kiss—hungry, grateful, utterly undone.
"You…" she whispered.
But the words were lost in another kiss.
He undressed slowly, trembling hands pulling at layers he didn't remember putting on. His body was lean, pale, scarred and beautiful in its own broken way. Elvira watched him like she wasn't sure if this was real.
And then he was with her—pressed between her legs, forehead resting against hers.
Their hot breaths intertwined—filling the tiny space between their lips, brushing cheeks, warming collarbones. He opened his eyes and looked into hers, deep and long. And in that moment, he swore he saw her soul.
"I don't want to hurt you," he whispered.
"Then be careful," she said, barely breathing. "But don't hold back."
He entered her slowly, his breath faltering as she took him in. Their bodies fit like they weren't supposed to—but did anyway. Elvira moaned softly, her arms wrapping around his neck, her nails scraping lightly down his back.
They moved together with the rhythm of something long-denied.
Her hips lifted to meet him, breath catching with each thrust. His hands cupped her face like she might disappear. The sound of skin against skin, of desperate breath, of whispered names, filled the room.
Avegar was trembling.
She was burning.
At one point, his lips traced along her jaw, then her throat—just barely. His fangs brushed against her skin, grazing it without breaking the surface. A gentle warning. A quiet promise. She shivered, but didn't pull away.
"I shouldn't—" he gasped. "But gods… I can't stop."
"Don't," she whispered. "Let it happen."
And so he did.
He began to move faster now, no longer cautious—only driven. The hunger between them no longer quiet, no longer resisting. Their rhythm turned urgent, aching, greedy. Her moans grew louder. His name spilled from her mouth with every breath.
Their pleasure built—slow, then quicker, surging like a wave rising to crash. She came first again, shuddering around him, crying out his name. He followed moments later, burying his face against her neck as his body gave in, pulsing deep inside her.
And then—silence.
Heavy, trembling, sacred.
They lay tangled, sweat cooling on their skin, the fire outside them finally spent.
"I still don't know what this means," Avegar said quietly.
Elvira ran her fingers over his scars, then over his heart.
"It doesn't have to mean anything," she whispered. "It just had to happen."
—---------
The halls of her estate were too quiet.
Elvira stepped over the threshold, the door creaking shut behind her. Her body ached in that low, secret way — a soreness that wasn't pain but memory. The velvet of his voice still echoed in her ears. Her lips were still bruised from his kiss. And when she touched her neck—
She swore she could still feel the ghost of his pointed teeth grazing her skin.
Not biting. Just… there. Claiming. Remembering.
His scent clung to her dress — pine, smoke, and something older. Something darker. Something his. She leaned against the nearest wall and closed her eyes, letting her head fall back.
What had she done?
She had felt him inside her — and not just his body. His breath had tangled with hers, hot and trembling. Their moans had met in the air like old spells. His eyes had looked through her, past her body, straight into the part of her that had never been touched before.
And she let it happen.
Worse: she had wanted it. Still did.
But now—alone—the ache returned in a different shape.
She pushed off the wall, searching for air. For anything that wasn't his memory in her lungs.
Her steps took her to the east wing, to an old storage room she hadn't opened in years. Dust rose thick from the stone floor. Furniture stood under shrouds like quiet ghosts. She passed them, aimless, until something called to her — faint, but insistent.
An old cedar chest sat tucked beneath the window.
She knelt.
The lock was rusted, already splintering from age. She forced it open, careful not to break the fragile wood. Inside: forgotten toys, a few scraps of fabric, a pale-blue shawl that had once belonged to her mother.
And beneath all of that—
A stack of old photographs, tied with gold thread.
Her hands stilled.
She didn't remember ever seeing these before.
Sitting down on the floor, she untied the thread with shaking fingers. The photos were sun-faded, curling at the edges, but the faces were unmistakable.
Her mother, younger.
Herself — small, maybe five years old — laughing on a blanket in the grass.
And then—
One photograph slipped loose, falling into her lap.
Elvira froze.
In this one, she wasn't alone.
A man knelt behind her — dark-haired, tall, sharp-featured, with the kind of quiet strength she had only ever seen in her dreams.
Her father.
And beside her on the blanket—
A baby. Wrapped in thick fabric, staring up at her with pale eyes. Silver eyes.
The air thickened in her throat.
She turned the photo over, hoping for something. Anything.
There, in faded ink:
Rowegan's Castle. Autumn.
Her chest constricted.
Rowegan's Castle.
The name tasted like blood and thunder. A memory she'd never dared touch.
But now—now it was burning through her.
She looked back at the baby in the photo. And then again at the man behind her.
Her father.
He was there. With me. And now—he's gone.
Gone… or taken.
By Elijah.
Her breath hitched. The truth unfolded slowly, like a bruise beneath the skin: her father wasn't just missing — he was being kept.
And she had wasted time.
Too much time.
She stood sharply, the photograph clutched in her hand like a blade. She couldn't go as herself. Not now. Not when Elijah was watching. Not when Avegar might feel her absence and come after her.
She crossed the room in long, fast strides, pulling open the mirrored wardrobe in the corner. From its back, she drew an old cloak — glamour-woven, its black fabric whispering across her skin like wind through shadow.
With it, she could change everything. Her face. Her voice. Her very presence.
The moment she fastened the collar, her features blurred — her cheekbones shifted, her hair darkened, her eyes dimmed into a quiet grey.
A stranger stared back from the mirror.
"You won't see me coming," she whispered.
Then she tucked the photo into her chest pocket.
Her father was waiting.
And if Rowegan's Castle had answers — she would tear down every door to find them.
---
Night had thickened into ink.
Elvira rode under it like a shadow. Her cloak caught the wind and twisted behind her like a second form—quiet, faceless. She'd chosen a lesser-known route: a forgotten hunter's trail that carved through the moorlands like an old scar. It twisted between low stone ridges, skirted thistlebrush and bramble, and climbed into the valley where Rowegan's Castle brooded like a broken tooth.
The moon guided her. Pale. Watchful.
And every beat of her heart echoed one truth:
He's alive.
Elijah has him.
Find him.
The photograph was tucked beneath her corset, close to her skin. A constant, fragile reminder of what was real and what could be lost again.
She didn't let herself think of Avegar. Not now. Not yet.
The road narrowed. Trees closed in. Their branches tangled overhead like bone fingers. Elvira pressed her knees to the horse's sides and ducked low against its neck. The air here smelled of moss, rot, and something metallic.
When the castle finally rose before her, it was almost a relief.
Rowegan's Castle had no grandeur left—just jagged towers, wind-split spires, and shuttered windows like dead eyes. Its outer walls had fallen in places, overgrown with ivy that looked too dark to be just plant. The gates were iron, warped with rust and sealed shut by a chain that gleamed faintly with magic.
But the gate wasn't the only way in.
Elvira dismounted, tied the horse beneath a tree, and crossed on foot. She slipped along the western wall, finding the old drainage tunnel Avegar had once whispered about, half-drunk in some careless moment. A storm grate lay loose at its mouth. She wrenched it aside with a grunt and dropped inside.
The tunnel was narrow. Damp. Breathing mildew.
She moved silently, fingers tracing the wall, cloak drawn tight around her. The glamour still held—her reflection, when it appeared in puddles, was still that of a dusky-haired merchant girl. No trace of Elvira Vastren remained.
And yet, the deeper she went, the more she felt seen.
A breath against her shoulder.
A flicker of warmth on her neck.
She turned, once, twice—but there was nothing.
Just stone. Cold and watching.
When she emerged in the underbelly of the castle—a wine cellar half-collapsed from neglect—she paused to listen. Nothing stirred. No guards. No footfall.
She knew this wasn't Elijah's main stronghold. Rowegan had been a burial place for failed kings and worse ideas. But if he was keeping her father somewhere secret—this was the kind of place no one would look.
She lit a small flame in her palm—illusion only, cold as glass—and moved through the cellar.
Room after room. Dust. Bones. Empty barrels.
And then—
a sound.
A breath.
Not hers.
She turned—too late.
A hand seized her wrist, hard as iron, yanking her around. Another caught the nape of her neck, pulling her back into a figure taller, stronger—and far too close.
"I wondered," a voice murmured behind her ear, smooth as silk soaked in poison, "how long it would take you."
Her blood froze.
Elijah.
He was taller than she remembered. Broader. His body pressed against hers like a shadow swallowing light. She struggled instantly, elbowing back, kicking—but he absorbed it, laughing low in his throat.
"Not quite your face," he said, amused. "But I'd know your scent anywhere."
His breath ghosted across her cheek.
"Pine. Smoke. Avegar's touch all over you."
She twisted again, teeth bared—but he caught her by the jaw, forcing her to face him. His fingers weren't cruel—just confident. Certain.
"Easy now," he said. "You came all this way. Let's not ruin the reunion."
She glared. "Where is he?"
Elijah's silver eyes glinted. "Who?"
"My father."
That got a smile.
"Oh," he said slowly, tilting his head. "So that's what this is about."
He released her, letting her stumble back a step. She didn't run—not yet. She needed answers. And this bastard wanted to talk.
He moved like a cat—graceful, bored, and dangerous. One moment he was pacing in front of her, the next he'd turned, sharp and sudden.
"You think I took him."
"You did take him."
Elijah chuckled. "Oh, darling. No."
She flinched at the word.
"I didn't take your father," he said calmly.
He stepped closer. She didn't back down.
"Your boyfriend did."
The words hit like a slap. Her mouth parted. Her body stayed still, but her mind reeled.
"No," she said.
"Yes," he replied, voice mock-gentle. "Avegar. Loverboy. Your dark little monster with the sad eyes. He took your father. Not me."
"You're lying."
His expression didn't shift.
"Am I?"
Elvira's heart pounded against her ribs. She tried to call up Avegar's face—his voice, his touch, the way he looked at her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.
But now…
"You don't know what he's capable of," Elijah said, voice low and steady. "You never did."
"I know he loves me."
That made Elijah pause. Just for a moment.
"Maybe he thinks he does," he allowed. "But love doesn't mean loyalty. And Avegar's always been better at loving ghosts than facing truths."
She wanted to punch him. Scream. Something. But part of her… part of her heard it.
Her father was missing.
Avegar had never mentioned it.
Why?
"Why would he do that?" she whispered, hating how hollow it sounded.
Elijah stepped forward again. Not touching her. Not yet.
"That's the question, isn't it?"
She stared at him, her hands shaking.
Then, with unbearable softness, he reached into his coat, withdrew a folded piece of black cloth—
and gently placed it over her mouth.
A touch. A silence. A claim.
"Your boyfriend," he whispered, "has a longer leash than you think, darling."
Elvira froze.
Author's note: Fun fact, this book is based on a true story, life experience