Chapter Three: The Hunger
Elara spent the next day pretending the note didn't exist.
But she couldn't stop thinking about it—about the way the ink had shimmered faintly red in the candlelight, about the strange pulse she'd felt when she touched the paper.
By evening she had convinced herself it was a prank. The house creaked, servants whispered; perhaps someone wanted to frighten the newcomer.
Yet when the sun set, the mansion changed. The air thickened, the corridors cooled.
She caught glimpses of Lucien more often now: passing through a doorway, standing at the end of a hall, always watching.
And every time their eyes met, a shiver crawled up her spine.
The Library
She found him there after dinner, seated in an armchair near the fire. A book lay open on his knee, though he wasn't reading.
"I didn't hear you come in," he said without looking up.
"Maybe I learned from you," she replied.
A hint of a smile ghosted over his lips. "Doubtful. You make too much noise for a shadow."
Elara moved closer, drawn to the warmth of the fire and the cool stillness of him.
"Why leave a note on my window?" she asked softly.
He looked up then, and the faintest flash of crimson stirred in his eyes before fading.
"To keep you safe."
"From what?"
"From me."
The words hit her like a physical thing. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the crackle of the flames.
"You're not making sense, Lucien."
He rose, moving so fast she almost stepped back. "I told you not to wander at night. You don't know what this house hides. What I hide."
Elara held her ground, though her heart hammered. "Then tell me."
He took another step, close enough that she could see the fine veins under his pale skin, the tension in his jaw.
For a moment, something primal flickered across his face—pain, hunger, longing.
Then he turned away sharply. "Go to bed, Elara."
She wanted to argue, but the tone in his voice—raw, unguarded—stopped her.
When she reached the door, he added, barely audible:
"And lock it."
Midnight
Elara tried to sleep, but the mansion breathed around her, restless and alive.
Somewhere in the halls, she heard a sound like glass breaking, then silence.
She opened her door. The corridor was dark.
Downstairs, a faint light glowed under the cellar door—the one she'd been warned about.
Her curiosity won. She crept down the stairs.
When she reached the bottom, the air was cold enough to bite.
The door creaked open, revealing rows of dusty bottles and old relics… and in the corner, Lucien, on his knees, breath ragged, a shattered glass vial at his feet.
Dark liquid—blood—dripped from his hand.
He looked up, eyes burning red now, unhidden.
"I told you not to come here," he whispered hoarsely.
Elara froze. His face was both beautiful and terrible, like an angel carved from moonlight and shadow.
"Lucien…"
"Go," he said, voice shaking. "Before I can't stop myself."
She stepped back, but her eyes locked with his—and in that instant, something passed between them.
Not fear. Not pity.
Something that felt dangerously close to recognition.