In the shadowed depths of Morwen's private chamber, four figures huddled around a low table lit only by a single flickering candle. Tobias sat with his arms crossed, his sharp features tense. Across from him were three hooded men—disciples of the old order—who had slipped past the palace guards under cover of night.
"Lucas," Morwen said, her voice low and commanding, "did you meet the duke?"
The tallest hooded figure nodded. "Yes, my lady. But the girl… she seems ordinary. Nothing remarkable about her."
Tobias leaned forward. "I heard from one of our spies that Duke Denzel and his household will arrive at the palace in two days." His lips curled into a sneer. "There's something he knows. According to the servant we placed in his manor, he's always kept her sheltered—away from the outside world, like he's protecting her from something… or someone."
James, the smallest of the disciples, shifted eagerly. "He's right. We should take the duke hostage. Threaten him—or his precious daughters—until he talks."
"Kidnap him before he reaches the palace," Lucas added, his voice muffled behind the hood. "It's cleaner that way."
Morwen's eyes gleamed with cold calculation. She rose gracefully, her dark gown whispering against the stone floor. "Then it's decided. Send men tonight. Take him to the northern hideout. I will be there to interrogate him myself." She paused at the door, not turning back. "You are all dismissed. We meet again tomorrow night at the hideout."
The hooded men bowed and vanished into the corridors like smoke. Tobias lingered a moment longer, watching Morwen leave, a flicker of unease in his eyes.
──
In her chamber, Hazel tossed restlessly beneath silk sheets. Five days had passed since that heated afternoon tea in Lucian's quarters—five days since his lips and hands had set her body ablaze, since his fangs had grazed her skin. Five days, and she had not seen him once.
Every time she asked Lazarus for permission to visit his chambers, the loyal servant offered polite excuses: Lord Primus was in council, or hunting, or deep in matters of state. Even her movements around the palace had been quietly restricted "for her safety." She felt like a bird in a gilded cage, beautiful but trapped.
A soft knock pulled her from her thoughts. A maid entered. "My lady, the tailor's assistant is ready for your final wedding dress fitting."
Hazel followed her to the dressing room, heart fluttering with nervous excitement. When the assistant unveiled the gown, Hazel's breath caught.
It was breathtaking.
Ivory silk cascaded like moonlight, embroidered with delicate silver threads that caught the light. Tiny diamonds glittered along the bodice and hem like scattered stars. The corset was structured yet soft, the neckline daringly off-shoulder, leaving her collarbones and shoulders bare.
"Do you like it, my lady?" the assistant asked with a proud smile.
Hazel could only nod, eyes wide. "I love it."
She stepped into the gown, the fabric cool against her skin. The assistant laced the corset snugly, adjusting until it fit like a second skin. When Hazel turned to the full-length mirror, she barely recognized herself. The innocent girl in the yellow sundress was gone. In her place stood a woman—elegant, radiant, and soon to be a vampire's bride.
After the fitting, she dined alone in her room, picking at her food. Midnight crept closer, yet sleep evaded her. Worry gnawed at her heart. Was Lucian unwell? Did he regret their kiss? Had she displeased him?
Finally, she could bear it no longer.
Slipping into a thin nightgown, she crept barefoot through the silent corridors, avoiding the patrols she had come to recognize. When she reached Lucian's chamber doors, her hand trembled on the handle. Without knocking, she pushed inside.
The room was dark, the fire burned low. She realized too late how bold—how foolish—she had been.
She turned to flee.
Strong arms encircled her waist from behind, pulling her back against a hard, unyielding chest.
"Running already, little rabbit?" Lucian's voice, husky and dangerous, ghosted across the sensitive skin of her neck.
"I missed you," he murmured, one hand splaying possessively across her stomach, the other tracing the curve of her hip.
Hazel's knees weakened at his touch. She nearly melted into him—until anger flared, hot and sudden.
He had ignored her for days.
Sensing the shift in her scent, Lucian released her and stepped back, turning away. He raked a hand through his disheveled hair, shoulders rigid with restraint.
"Leave, Hazel," he said, voice strained, still not looking at her.
"No." She stepped closer. "What is wrong with you, Lucian? You avoid me for days—your bride—and now you send me away? Am I not the kind of woman you want?"
He laughed bitterly. "Now is not the time, Hazel. I might hurt you."
She moved toward him again, refusing to back down. Moonlight from the window caught his face—and she froze.
His eyes were no longer crimson. They were pitch black, voids of hunger. His fangs had extended, sharp and gleaming.
"Your eyes…" she whispered, reaching up to cup his face despite the fear flickering in her chest. "They're black."
Lucian's hands clenched at his sides. "The corruption inside me craves your blood… and your body. If you don't leave now, I might drain you dry."
But Hazel did not move. She searched his tormented gaze and saw not just the monster—but the man fighting to protect her.
"Then take my blood," she said softly. "I trust you won't kill me."
Before he could protest, she rose on her toes and pressed her lips to his.
The kiss ignited something feral.
In a blur too fast to follow, Hazel found herself on his massive bed, Lucian above her, his weight braced on his forearms. He kissed her fiercely, desperately, as though she were air and he had been drowning for centuries. She could barely breathe, but she didn't care.
When he finally pulled back, she gasped for air—only for him to claim her mouth again. His lips trailed fire down her jaw, her ear lobe, the column of her throat, then lower to the swell of her breasts.
With a low growl, he tore the front of her nightgown open, exposing her to the cool air. Hazel instinctively moved to cover herself, cheeks burning, but he gently pinned her wrists above her head with one hand.
"You are exquisite," he breathed, eyes devouring her.
He released her wrists only to cup one full breast, squeezing gently before lowering his mouth to the hardened peak. His tongue swirled, teased, then sucked—drawing a loud, unrestrained moan from deep within her.
Hazel's fingers tangled in his hair as waves of pleasure crashed over her. He moved to the other breast, lavishing the same attention, until she was arching beneath him, whispering his name like a prayer.
Then his fangs pierced the soft flesh just above her breast.
The sharp sting dissolved into euphoric warmth as he drank. But something was wrong—he didn't stop.
"Lucian…" she whispered weakly, trying to pull him back.
He was lost to the bloodlust.
With the last of her strength, she leaned to his ear. "Lucian… please."
The sound of his true name snapped him back. His fangs retracted instantly. Horror flooded his face as he saw her pale, eyelids fluttering.
"No… no…" He gathered her limp body against him, pulling the torn nightgown closed as best he could.
Hazel slipped into unconsciousness, her pulse thready.
Lucian laid her gently beneath the covers, guilt and self-loathing twisting in his gut. He had nearly killed her—the one person who saw him as more than a monster.
Yet… something was different.
The corruption that had plagued him for weeks—the insatiable hunger, the violent urges—was gone. Quiet. As if her blood had burned it away.
He stared at her fragile form, anger at himself warring with wonder.
Carefully, he slid into bed beside her, pulling her close. For the first time in centuries, sleep came easily—deep, dreamless, and unafraid.
Outside the palace walls, under the same moon, shadowed figures rode toward Duke Denzel's estate, their mission clear.