He raised a finger, pointing to a deep-red velvet chaise lounge nestled in the shadows of the great hall.

"Go there and lie down."


My legs trembled as I imagined what would come next, but I forced myself forward and lay back against the soft velvet.

Dracula approached and leaned over me. In the dim light, candlelight danced like flames within his crimson eyes.

"It will hurt," he said softly. "I'll try to restrain myself."


I nodded, my throat too constricted to speak.

His hand slipped behind my neck, supporting my head—cold as winter ice, yet unexpectedly gentle. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, growing faster with each passing second.


"Relax," he whispered, as his other hand swept the hair from my neck with delicate precision.

I tried to steady my breathing, but each breath came quicker and shallower than the last.

As he bent closer, his breath ghosting across my skin, I caught the scent of ancient parchment mingled with winter pine.

Pain lanced through me, sharp and sudden.

I bit back a cry, my nails carving crescents into my palms.

Warmth trickled down my skin.

My vision swam, edges darkening.

His hand tightened slightly at the nape of my neck—a silent comfort.

Time thickened like honey. My breathing grew shallow, my heartbeat slowing. The candlelight stretched into golden ribbons before my eyes.

Just as consciousness began to slip away, the piercing pain vanished.

Dracula straightened, dabbing the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief. Color had returned to his face, but his crimson eyes remained fixed on my wound, some inner battle raging in their depths.

"Enough," he said, his voice rough with restraint.

I tried to sit up, but my arms refused to obey.

Seeing my struggle, he scooped me up with one arm as if I weighed nothing. Before I could protest, I was cradled against his chest.

"You..." I tried to speak, but my throat was too parched to form words.

"Don't speak." He carried me toward a side door. "The ceremony is complete. Now you must rest."

Beyond lay a narrow corridor lined with ancient portraits. Dracula carried me to its end and shouldered open another door.

A bedroom awaited.

A fire crackled in the hearth, its warmth enveloping me. A four-poster bed draped in snow-white linens dominated the room, a carved screen standing sentinel beside it. Heavy curtains shut out the howling winter beyond.

He laid me on the bed with unexpected tenderness.

"The wound will heal itself." He straightened and retrieved a small bottle from the bedside drawer. "But you'll be weak for days. Drink this."

I accepted the bottle, watching the deep crimson liquid swirl within.

"What is it?"

"A tonic to help your body adapt." He turned toward the door. "Ring the brass bell if you need anything. Someone will come."

"My lord, wait—" I called weakly.

He paused but didn't turn.

"When will I... have to... again..."

"Three days," he said. "I will find you then."

The door clicked shut.

I stared at the ornate ceiling patterns. My neck throbbed with dull pain. When I touched it, the bleeding had stopped, but two small punctures remained.

I drank the potion.

It tasted bitter at first, with metallic undertones, but soon sent warmth coursing through my veins.

My eyelids grew heavy, and darkness claimed me.