Nocturne . ݁₊ ♱ . ݁˖ . ݁
lord!sylus x vampire!reader
content: semi-slowburn, reader is a princess, down bad sylus, prob inaccurate rep of the time period, smut, wc: 15.8k
The castle breathes in silence. Outside, rain ticks softly against the stained-glass windows, streaking down in long, glistening lines that catch the candlelight like veins in glass. The fire crackles low in the hearth behind you, more for ceremony than warmth. Heat has never moved you much—not since you died the first time.
You sit before a towering mirror in your chamber, hands resting lightly in your lap, posture composed like a statue placed on display. The gown they chose for you is deep burgundy silk, shiny and rich, pooling around your feet like blood spilled on polished stone. Black embroidery coils along the bodice in patterns like thorned vines and serpents—too ornate, too precise, too sharp to be innocent. The neckline reveals just enough to tempt, framed by sheer tulle like smoke clinging to your skin.
Your choker sits high and tight around your throat: blackened gold with rubies that gleam like fresh wounds. Earrings swing low from your ears, matching the necklace, catching candlelight like a guillotine’s blade right before the fall.
Two of your handmaidens flit about behind you like birds in spring.
“Oh, Your Highness, you’ll be the envy of the whole court,” one trills as she tightens the laces on your corset. “That color... it’s like it was made for you.”
“She’ll have half the ballroom at her feet before the first waltz,” the other giggles, brushing perfumed oil—rose and amber—into the hollow of your throat. “Did you hear? The Marquess of Evermere has returned from Ardens. And the baron from Vellenshire too. That one with the shoulders.”
“Lord Hale,” the first sighs dreamily.
You don’t speak. Don’t smile. You’ve learned the art of stillness well—how to hold your face like a mask, your body like a secret. You give them just enough: a glance, the ghost of a smirk, the illusion of a demure princess preparing for a dance. But inside?
Inside, you ache.
Your gaze meets itself in the mirror. Eyes rimmed in kohl, dark and gleaming like garnets in snow. Skin pale enough to shame moonlight. You look like something painted in oils, hung in a cursed gallery—beauty without warmth. Grace without mercy.
They don’t know why they’re afraid of you. They never have.
Your mother’s voice echoes through your skull, clipped and cold. “You’re not a child anymore. You must marry.” “The nobles are growing impatient. People will talk.” “No man of quality waits forever.”
As if marriage could fix you. As if desire could replace hunger. As if you didn’t already know what you were.
You exhale slowly. You remember his throat. How it tasted, hot and trembling. How he said your name with wonder before the end. And then fear. Always fear. Always too late.
You kissed him like a lover and fed from him like a monster.
And no one in the castle speaks of him now. They whisper of “lost suitors.” As if they simply vanished. Fled. Grew bored. You know better. You always know better.
The door clicks open behind you.
“Milady,” a familiar voice says. Low. Steady. Trusted. “Your cloak.”
Amaris steps into view—older than the others, sharper too. Dressed plainly, but she carries the weight of your secrets like a rosary. She fastens your black velvet cloak over your shoulders, smoothing the heavy fabric down with practiced hands. Her fingers brush yours—a silent gesture. A warning. A tether.
“Remember,” she says quietly, close to your ear. “You don’t have to dance. Speak little. Smile when they look. And if it gets... too much—come find me.”
You nod once. Barely.
You both know what “too much” means. You’ve danced that edge before. The trembling restraint. The sting of arousal and hunger curling inside you like a blade against silk. All these men with warm blood and sharp smiles, thinking they can touch you, claim you. They have no idea what you are.
Behind you, the maids chatter on.
“She’ll be married before summer, you’ll see,” one says. “Some lord will fall madly in love.”
Amaris catches your gaze in the mirror. Her brow lifts.
"Madly." That’s always the word, isn’t it?
You rise from the vanity with slow grace, your gown rippling in waves down to the floor. You drift to the window and draw back the velvet curtain. Outside, the garden sleeps under mist and moonlight. Beyond the hedges, the ballroom glows—light spilling from the windows like golden honey. You see carriages arriving below, men stepping out with cloaks and canes, women descending with gloved hands on polished arms.
The castle rises around them all: a monstrous thing of spires and gargoyles, marble and iron, too beautiful to ever be safe. Ivy chokes the eastern tower. Statues stand eyeless in alcoves. The ballroom is a stage, and tonight, you will perform.
Inside your chamber, the fire has dimmed to embers. Behind you, the great bed waits—massive and canopied, sheathed in black lace and crimson sheets. You haven’t slept in it in days. Maybe weeks. Sleep eludes creatures like you. Or perhaps you simply don’t need it anymore.
Amaris adjusts the clasp of your cloak.
“Your father expects you to be seen,” she says, quieter now. Her tone is gentle. But even she is nervous. You can smell it—faint, like frost before snowfall.
You rest your fingertips against the windowpane. Cold. Like you.
“Perhaps tonight,” you murmur, “one of them won’t bore me before I start to crave them.”
Amaris doesn’t smile.
A gust of wind shakes the window. Lightning flickers faintly on the horizon. Something feels different tonight. The air stirs with the scent of new blood. Not like the others. Not prey. Something darker. Closer to your kind.
“Come,” Amaris says. “Let them see their princess.”
You don’t turn around right away. Your reflection stares back at you—silent, exquisite, damning.
What poor fool will step into your path tonight? Who will dance with death and think it love?
Your lips curl into a slow smile, sharp as your teeth.
Let them come.
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
The ballroom gleams like the belly of a jewel.
Polished marble stretches beneath golden chandeliers, each one draped with chains of crystals that catch the candlelight like tears in glass. Music wafts through the air—violins, soft and elegant, just enough to veil the tension that always lingers in rooms like this. It smells of rose oil and sweat, of perfume laid thick over nerves. Of too many hearts beating in close proximity.
You descend the grand staircase slowly.
Not from hesitation—no, never that. You descend like mist curling down a mountainside: graceful, deliberate, unignorable. Your cloak billows behind you, half-open to reveal your gown– clinging to your frame like a second skin, embroidered with thread so dark it drinks the light. Your heels click like a metronome across each step.
And all at once, the room turns.
Conversation falters. Glasses still mid-air. Heads tilt upward like sunflowers to a starless moon.
You feel their eyes crawl over you. Some adoring. Some possessive. Others afraid and not knowing why.
Your parents stand near the foot of the staircase, flanked by nobles in court finery. The Queen's lips tighten into a smile, thin as a blade. The King offers a subtle nod, measured and impassive. You're already performing.
You offer bows and nods as you pass. Dignified. Mildly bored.
“Your Highness.”
“Radiant, as always.”
“I heard the fabric was imported from Orléaux…”
You smile like a wineglass—fragile, glittering, hollow.
At the base of the staircase, you turn away from the expectant crowd and glide toward the refreshments table. Champagne sweats in fluted crystal glasses, arranged like an offering. You pluck one with long fingers, feeling the chill bleed into your skin.
You sip, but don’t swallow. Let the liquid kiss your lips and rest on your tongue before you let it fall back into the glass. Gold and sweet. Faintly sour. Like love, perhaps.
Footsteps approach behind you.
“Standing off to the side already?” your mother says, voice light, false. “We haven’t even reached the second dance.”
“She looks stunning,” your father offers, more quietly. “Like a Rothschilde painting.”
You don’t respond. The music swells again—another waltz beginning.
Your mother touches your elbow. “Remember why you’re here, darling. This isn’t a gallery. You’re not to be admired from afar like an art piece. Tonight, you must engage.”
You sip again, slower this time. “I didn’t realize the meat was meant to entertain the wolves before the feast.”
She frowns. Your father chuckles under his breath.
Before they can scold you, a voice cuts in—masculine, confident, vaguely amused.
“Forgive me, Your Highness,” he says, “but if you aren’t already promised for this dance... may I?”
You turn your head slightly. Broad shoulders. Fair hair. Ceremonial medals gleaming across a navy coat trimmed in gold. You recognize him by the build alone.
Lord Hale.
You offer a slight nod, because you’re in front of your parents and cornered like a cat.
He takes your hand with practiced grace and leads you out to the floor.
The waltz is slow. Measured. Easy enough to follow, though Lord Hale moves like he knows the steps well—too well. His hand rests against the small of your back. His palm is warm. You feel his pulse through his glove. A slow, steady rhythm. A delicious kind of temptation.
“You dance as if the floor might crack beneath you,” he says, tone wry.
“Perhaps I’m wondering who I’d take down with me,” you reply.
He laughs. “Ah. One of those princesses.”
You arch a brow. “One of what, exactly?”
“The kind who prefers daggers to rings. Who spends too much time in the garden alone and makes men write poetry they’ll later regret.”
You smirk. “Regret requires survival.”
He blinks, as if unsure whether you’re joking. Then chuckles again.
As he turns you through the next step, your eyes skim the crowd—glass and silk and waxen smiles. The chandeliers above flicker, and for a moment you imagine blood dripping from their golden chains instead of crystal.
You think of Prince Alric.
He had a voice like honey and hands that shook when he kissed you. His poetry was appalling. He wrote a sonnet comparing your eyes to dusk—no, to funeral bells. When you drained him in the library, he wept. You fed until he went silent. His corpse rested between the shelves for three days before anyone noticed. The servants blamed rats.
You think of the Count from Nordmere.
He liked to talk. About horses. About ships. About all the women who’d wanted him. You bit his throat during the Harvest Ball, your lips still painted red. He died moaning your name like a prayer. Or a warning.
Lord Hale spins you again.
“You’re quiet, Princess.”
“Thinking of past dances,” you say. “Some more graceful than others.”
He grins. “Should I be flattered or nervous?”
“I suppose we’ll both find out.”
He presses in just slightly. His breath brushes your cheek.
“Tell me,” he murmurs, “what is it you really want in a husband?”
You smile against his question, slow and amused.
A pulse you can quiet.
A body you won’t tire of before your hunger grows too loud.
Someone who won’t die too easily. Or better yet—someone who might like it.
But instead, you answer, “Someone with shoulders like yours. And less curiosity.”
His grin falters for just a moment.
The music nears its final turn. The dance draws to a close. Lord Hale bows low as the strings fade. You curtsy, your gown rippling like a pool of red silk.
“Would you grant me another dance later?” he asks.
You tilt your head. “If I’m still hungry.”
His smile wavers. He doesn’t quite know whether to take it as flirtation or threat.
Good.
You slip away before he can say more, back toward the shadows at the edge of the floor.
The candles shimmer. The orchestra prepares a livelier tune. Laughter rises, but you don’t hear it. You hear only the whisper of wind through stone. The scent of something approaching—distant and rich. Something that doesn’t belong to any of the trembling, sweating men in this room.
Something not afraid of you.
Your heart stirs.
You sip from your glass again, the champagne now lukewarm and losing its fizz. It barely masks the hollowness in your throat.
Amaris finds you before you can escape into your own thoughts completely. She emerges from the bustle like a ghost in uniform—her maid’s dress crisp, her clever eyes scanning you with practiced ease.
“Well?” she murmurs, tucking herself into the space beside you, careful not to draw attention. “Was that Lord Hale?”
You nod. “His shoulders gave him away.”
Amaris grins. “I knew it. And?”
“He reminded me of the others,” you say simply, voice cool. “Charming. Confident. Sweet words with trembling hands.”
Her smirk softens. “Did you feel anything?”
You look down at your glass. The stem is thin between your fingers—delicate enough to snap with the slightest pressure. “The usual. A flicker of curiosity. Hunger.”
“But nothing more,” she says.
You shake your head. “They never last, Amaris. They smell of wine and cologne and fear, and when they get close enough to know me, the fear always wins.”
She leans on the wall beside you, fingers toying with the edge of her apron. “Maybe it’s not fear that does them in. Maybe it’s you.”
Your brow lifts. “You mean my appetite.”
“I mean your standards.” She flashes a grin, but there’s sympathy behind it. “You deserve someone who can handle your teeth.”
You huff, amused despite yourself, and the moment stretches—just long enough for you to feel the mood in the ballroom shift. It's almost imperceptible, a sudden hush beneath the music. A slight pause in the flow of conversation. You glance over your shoulder, brows narrowing—
And catch Amaris staring past you, eyes wide.
“Oh my,” she breathes.
You turn to follow her gaze.
At the top of the grand staircase stands a man draped in midnight black, accented in deep red and muted silver threadwork. His coat is tailored close to the waist and flares slightly at the hip, the dark silk catching the candlelight with an almost liquid sheen. Beneath it, a waistcoat in blood-red brocade glints faintly, offset by a crisp collar and a cravat pinned with a small, sharp ruby.
His posture is regal but unbothered. Dangerous in its ease.
And then there’s his face.
Sharp and elegant, with a jaw carved like marble and cheekbones that could cut glass. His skin is pale beneath the flickering light, yet warm-toned—like candlelight on parchment. But it’s his eyes that hold you. Deep crimson, glinting like garnets, framed by pale lashes. As if blood itself burned behind them.
He scans the crowd from his perch, and for a moment you think—perhaps you hope—he will look elsewhere.
Then his gaze finds yours.
And it doesn’t move.
Your breath halts in your throat. The champagne in your glass trembles.
He starts down the stairs. Slowly. Deliberately. The crowd parts like reeds in his wake, whispered names rippling in his path. You catch fragments.
“—Is that Lord Sylus?—”
“—From the northern territories—”
“—Never seen him attend before—”
So the rumors were true. A reclusive noble, sharp of tongue and colder than winter. They said he never courted, never entertained the company of women. He lived in a great manor carved into a cliffside, alone save for servants and shadow.
You’d thought him a myth. A cautionary tale wrapped in noble title.
But now he was walking toward you like you were the only light in the room.
Amaris nudges your elbow, but you don’t register it. Not until he stops just before you and offers a shallow bow.
“My lady,” he says, voice deep and smooth as polished onyx. “Would you grant me the honor of a dance?”
He doesn’t smile—not quite. Just the faintest tilt of his lips. Enough to suggest he could, if he wanted to. If you were worth it.
You hesitate, for half a breath.
Then you take his hand.
His touch is warm. Firm. Grounding.
He leads you to the dance floor as though it’s his realm, and the ballroom his dominion. The music swells. A new waltz begins.
You’ve never danced with someone who moves quite like him—precise yet fluid, strong yet poised. He spins you once, then again, as if to test your balance. You hold his gaze all the while.
“You don’t say much,” he notes, tone lightly amused.
“I find the quiet more telling than flattery.”
“A rare preference, in a room like this.”
“You don’t seem the type to enjoy this sort of thing either.”
He chuckles under his breath. “No. But then again, I’ve never had much patience for tradition.”
Your lips curl. “So what brings you here, then?”
“Curiosity,” he says, stepping closer on the next turn. “And a reputation that refuses to stay in my absence.”
You raise a brow. “You don’t like being spoken of?”
“I prefer to control the narrative.”
A beat passes. Then you ask, softly, “And what is your narrative, Lord Sylus?”
His hand tightens at your waist—not enough to alarm, but enough to be felt. Enough to make your pulse trip.
“I’m still writing it,” he murmurs. “But tonight, I’ve found a particularly captivating chapter.”
Your cheeks warm. Not from flattery—though he’s good at it. No, it’s something else. The way he looks at you. Like he’s dissecting, unspooling, seeing not just your face or gown or posture but something deeper.
Something darker.
For a moment, you wonder if he knows.
But then the waltz draws to a close. He slows your steps, bows over your hand, and presses a kiss to your knuckles.
His lips linger a second longer than is proper.
“I hope this won’t be our last encounter, my lady.” he says, eyes never leaving yours.
You want to respond. You try.
But before you can speak, he’s already turning, slipping into the crowd like smoke through keyholes—gone.
You stand still in the wake of him, hand tingling, skin flushed.
And for the first time in years, the hunger in your chest is complicated by something far more dangerous.
Curiosity.
The orchestra swelled again. One final song to end the night.
You’d retreated to the far edge of the ballroom, where the crowd thinned and the music melted into something softer, something more distant. Your empty champagne glass dangled between two fingers, the cold stem warming slowly against your skin.
Lord Hale found you there.
“I believe it’s tradition to end the evening with the same partner you began it with,” he said, stepping into your line of sight with that charming half-smile that had probably worked on countless other women.
You turned your head, regarding him coolly from beneath dark lashes. The candlelight kissed the edges of his cheekbones, gave his blond hair a gold sheen. He looked every inch the dashing suitor—clean-cut, eager, the kind who always thought they could handle you.
You hummed, just barely amused. “Are you hoping to secure a second impression that might outdo the first?”
“Only if you promise not to make me look quite so clumsy this time,” he teased, offering his hand again.
You let him lead you.
The ballroom was more crowded now than before, guests reluctant to let the night end, drawn to the final waltz like moths to flame. The floor gleamed underfoot, polished to a near mirror finish, reflecting dozens of dancing silhouettes in a swirl of satin and lace. Candles lined every sconce, chandeliers glittered with a thousand facets, and all of it blurred around you as Lord Hale guided you into motion.
“I must admit,” he said lowly as the two of you moved in slow, practiced turns, “I wasn’t expecting to see Lord Sylus tonight. Rather a legend, isn’t he?”
You arched a brow. “Does his presence trouble you?”
“Only surprised. Some say he never leaves that blasted fortress he built in the northern cliffs. Others claim he turns down every invitation.”
“Perhaps he’s finally decided to wed,” you offered with cool detachment.
Lord Hale scoffed gently, then glanced down at you with a quirked brow. “And here I thought that was your duty tonight, my lady. Did the mysterious lord catch your eye, by chance?”
You tilted your head just slightly, a smile ghosting your lips. “Are you jealous, Lord Hale?”
He chuckled. “Would you fault me if I were?”
The music continued, gentle and gilded, but your mind had already started to drift. His hands were warm in yours, his voice charming—but you barely heard him now.
Your hunger was rising.
The ballroom had become too bright, too loud. The flickering candlelight pressed at your temples. The scent of blood—sweet and metallic beneath perfume and smoke—had sharpened. Lord Hale smelled delicious, and he didn’t even know it.
You leaned in, just enough to let your lips brush the shell of his ear. “Shall we go to the garden?”
He stiffened slightly, then straightened with a grin he tried to conceal. “A midnight stroll? Won’t the others whisper?”
“Let them,” you said. “Besides, it’s better to talk away from prying eyes.”
He didn’t hesitate after that.
You passed through the wide double doors, his hand lightly at your back. The castle’s halls were quieter now, lined with flickering sconces and velvet tapestries that whispered with every breeze. The echoes of your footsteps followed you down a long corridor, past arched windows and shadowed alcoves. The air grew cooler the farther you walked, and soon you were pushing through one of the side doors, out into the night.
The garden greeted you like a lover.
Roses bloomed in beds of crimson and cream, perfuming the air with their velvet sweetness. Stone paths twisted between tall hedges and marbled statues; a fountain murmured softly at the center. Overhead, the moon hung full and heavy, spilling silver across the lawn.
You led him to a clearing nestled between hedges, just private enough. The distant murmur of the ballroom was gone now. Only cicadas sang.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
You turned to face him, the moonlight turning your gown to garnet, your eyes to blood and glass. “The garden?”
“Yes,” he said, taking a step closer. “But I was referring to you.”
You smiled, slow and deliberate. “You say the right things, Lord Hale. Most men do, in the beginning.”
He tilted his head. “But?”
“They never last.”
He chuckled, as if that were a joke. “Then I’ll have to try harder.”
His hand rose, fingers brushing your cheek, then falling to your shoulder. You let him lean in. His lips grazed yours—warm, hesitant—but you angled your head slightly, your lips ghosting past his jaw.
He froze when your mouth brushed his throat.
“Wait—”
But you didn’t.
Your fangs pierced his skin with ease. The taste hit you instantly—rich, alive, laced with hints of wine and arrogance and something foolishly sweet. He gasped, one hand tightening on your arm, then going slack. His knees buckled as you drank. He never screamed. Just whimpered softly, uselessly, a gurgled sigh before his heart slowed and stuttered into stillness.
You released him before he hit the ground.
Lord Hale collapsed into the roses like a broken marionette, face slack, eyes wide in fading disbelief. You dabbed the corner of your mouth with a silk handkerchief, expression untouched by remorse.
“A fool,” you whispered, watching the last flicker of life drain from his eyes.
The garden around you was still again, peaceful in a way it hadn’t been moments before.
Your steps were slow but elegant as you returned to the castle. The air smelled sweeter now. Your hunger had abated. The music had faded from the ballroom entirely, leaving only the hush of winding down conversation.
Amaris found you just as you reached the corridor near the kitchens.
“Milady,” she said in a low voice, eyes quickly scanning your face. “You’re—are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” you said, dabbing your lips again, checking your gown for blood. “There’s a problem in the garden. It must be disposed of immediately.”
She didn’t ask questions. She never did.
Only gave a small nod and slipped away like a shadow.
You walked calmly back toward the heart of the castle, the faint copper tang of blood still clinging to your tongue—and something else, something that lingered heavier than before. That look in Lord Sylus’ eyes when they met yours across the ballroom.
As though he saw everything.
And wanted more.
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
You returned to your chambers long after the music had faded and the final lanterns in the ballroom had been extinguished. The corridors were hushed now, save for the occasional crackle of dying candlelight or the distant click of a maid’s hurried step. You walked with practiced grace, yet your body felt charged—alight with the thrill of the kill, and something else.
Lord Hale's blood still clung to your tongue like honeyed wine, but it had not filled the void as it once did. You had expected his end to bring the usual satisfaction, the velvety lull of satiation, the calm that came when the hunger was gone. Instead, you found yourself… restless.
You slipped out of your dress with the ease of routine, letting it puddle at your feet like discarded skin. Beneath it, your chemise stuck faintly to your body, your pulse still fluttering from the memory of two very different men.
You crossed the room slowly, fingers trailing along the edge of your writing desk as you passed, its surface littered with unanswered letters from noblemen, suitors, and friends long since drained or dismissed. You pushed aside the velvet curtain and unlatched the window, letting the wind slip in—cool, damp, and thick with the scent of roses and death.
And still… you thought of him.
Not Hale. Not the sweet, trembling fool whose name you barely recalled as his blood warmed your throat. No—it was the man at the top of the staircase. Sylus.
His name echoed like a secret against the hollow of your ribs. You had heard of him, of course. Everyone had. The eldest son of a noble house long faded into legend, a recluse rarely seen in public, a shadow with a title. Whispers said he kept to his estate, collecting relics, refusing brides, and harboring a coldness that chilled even the most persistent of matchmakers.
You had not expected him to exist.
And yet he had arrived with that unsettling poise, eyes like freshly split rubies gleaming beneath the chandelier. He hadn’t looked at you like the others. No hunger, no flattery. He had looked at you like he knew. And for a heartbeat, you had felt bare beneath it.
His touch had burned in a way you didn’t understand. Not the fire of thirst—but something quieter. Deeper. A pull, as if your soul had remembered his before your mind could.
You sat on the edge of your bed, hands folding slowly in your lap, staring at the hearth though no fire burned there tonight. You didn’t sleep. You didn’t need to. Instead, you waited for dawn, letting the darkness whisper through your thoughts.
By morning, the castle had returned to its rhythm.
You sat in the dining room across from your parents, the long oaken table spread with silverware and spiced fruit. A roast had been prepared too, though you had no appetite for it. Your tea had gone tepid in its porcelain cup.
Your mother wore that thin, practiced smile she reserved for social inquiries. “You looked beautiful last night, darling,” she said as she dabbed delicately at her lips. “Many eyes followed you.”
You offered a nod, letting her speak.
“And? Anyone catch yours?” your father added, looking up from his paper with one brow arched. “There was that young Lord Hale. Bold sort. You danced with him twice.”
You held your cup between your hands. “Mmm,” you murmured. “He was... spirited.”
“Spirited?” your mother repeated, sounding too pleased. “Did he make any overtures? Show promise?”
“He asked to walk with me in the garden,” you said simply, and watched their expressions twist just slightly.
Your mother leaned forward. “And?”
“I believe he’s not quite suited for courtship,” you said smoothly. “Too eager. Lacking composure.”
“Such a shame,” your father said flatly, turning the page. “Another one lost.”
You didn’t correct him. Let them think he’d been discouraged. Let them think he’d left with his pride wounded and heart bruised. Let them wonder, for now.
Then, as if summoned, the door creaked open and Amaris stepped inside.
She moved with her usual ease, face impassive, but her gloved hands clutched a dark envelope. She bowed slightly as she approached you. “A letter, my lady,” she said, eyes flickering meaningfully for the briefest moment. “Delivered not long ago. No seal.”
You took it. The envelope was thick, made of fine black parchment. The wax was deep red, pressed flat without a crest. On the front, only your name, written in a sharp hand—almost like it had been carved into the surface rather than inked.
You waited until your parents returned to their discussion of estate finances before you excused yourself with a graceful smile, stepping into the hallway beyond.
Amaris followed wordlessly, her curiosity practically vibrating off her. “From him?” she whispered once the doors shut behind you both.
“I don’t know,” you replied, but your heart beat once, hard.
You slipped your thumb beneath the seal and opened it.
Inside was a single sheet, folded crisply. No greeting. No signature.
Just one sentence in that same angular script:
“Tell me, did the garden still your hunger, or merely delay it?”
You stared at the page, the blood in your veins suddenly slow, molten.
Amaris looked at you. “What does it say?”
You didn’t answer. Your eyes lingered on the final curve of the ink, like the last twist of a knife.
He knew.
He had watched.
And he was still playing the game.
You stared at the letter a moment longer, as though it might shift in your hand and reveal something more—some hidden message between the words. But there was only that one line. That one quiet, knowing question that coiled beneath your ribs like smoke.
You folded the letter slowly, fingers lingering on the edges, and slid it back into its envelope. The ink had not yet dried entirely. You could smell it—metallic, dark, like blood.
Amaris shifted beside you. “I take it we won’t be burning that one like the others.”
“No,” you murmured. “This one… deserves a reply.”
A slow, pleased smile curved her lips. “Shall I prepare a carriage?”
You turned from her, the faintest curl of a grin tugging at the corner of your mouth. “No need. I imagine he’s already near. I’ll let him think I’m walking right into his snare.”
“And if it is a snare?” she asked lightly.
You looked over your shoulder at her. “Then I’ll enjoy the dance before the knife.”
You didn’t return to your chambers. Instead, you followed the path your instincts told you he would expect. Down the east wing staircase, through the old music room whose door hadn’t been opened in months, and out past the greenhouse, where ivy swallowed the windowpanes and sunlight bled like honey through fractured glass.
There, past the hedgerows and overgrown fountain, was the forgotten gate—one only a few in the manor still knew of. You slipped through it like a wraith, skirts barely whispering against the stone, and found yourself at the edge of the forest beyond the estate.
The trees were tall here, unnaturally still. No birds sang. The air was heavy.
And then, just ahead—he was waiting.
Leaning against the broken arch of an abandoned garden folly, Lord Sylus stood in black, his cloak loose over one shoulder. His red eyes caught yours instantly, gleaming like coals through mist.
“You came,” he said simply.
You stepped forward, ignoring the way the grass seemed to hush under your feet.
“You invited me.”
“I wasn’t certain you’d listen.” His voice was low, thoughtful. “You don’t strike me as the type to answer riddles.”
“And yet I answered yours.”
He inclined his head. “You’re even more dangerous than you let on.”
You gave a soft laugh, the kind that didn’t touch your eyes. “You followed me into the garden.”
“I never left the ballroom,” he said, and your breath paused.
The space between you buzzed with something unspoken. Tension? Recognition? Curiosity? You weren’t sure anymore.
“What are you?” you asked finally, not bothering to veil it with flirtation.
He stepped forward, just once. “Something like you. But older. Cursed longer. Less hungry, more hollow.”
His words scratched at something buried. You stared at him, the curve of his mouth, the stillness of his hands, the way he seemed carved rather than born.
“I don’t usually meet men I don’t want to kill,” you said.
“Is that what happened to Lord Hale?” he asked, voice gentle, as though it didn’t matter either way.
You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.
Sylus stepped even closer. Now you could smell him—oakwood and cold metal and something faintly sweet beneath it all, something not quite human.
“Why did you watch me?” you asked, voice softer now.
His gaze flicked over you, slow, unhurried. “Because I saw a mirror. And I wanted to know if it was cracked.”
You hated the way those words settled in your chest.
“I should kill you,” you whispered.
He smiled then. A real smile, sharp and beautiful. “Try.”
The invitation thrummed through your bones like music.
But you didn’t lunge. Didn’t bare your teeth. Instead, you reached out, slowly, and ran your fingers down the edge of his coat, testing the feel of him—solid, warm, maddeningly composed.
He didn’t flinch. “You don’t want my blood.”
You blinked. “No.”
“I don’t want yours either.”
The air shifted. The hunger between you was of a different kind entirely now.
Then he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “But I want something else.”
You should have pulled away.
You didn’t.
You let him linger. You let the silence stretch long and slow between you.
When you finally stepped back, his smile had faded into something more solemn.
“I’ll see you again, sweetie.” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
And you didn’t deny it.
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
The days passed, though you weren’t sure how many.
Time had always bent strangely for you—distorted by the dull, endless repetition of nobles and parties, lifeless flirtations, and the hollow echo of wine glasses clinking over music you no longer heard. But now it seemed to fold in on itself entirely. You’d wake long after noon, still wrapped in the same silken nightdress, hair tangled and skin cool as frost. You’d sit by the window and stare out into the trees, where fog clung low to the earth like a wounded thing, and you’d try—over and over—to make sense of the voice that lived behind your ear now.
“But I want something else.”
You still fed, of course. You had to. The need curled in your belly like smoke, low and insistent, and ignoring it only made you sharp and irritable. You let yourself indulge—more than usual, if anything. A young captain from the southern provinces who came to your room with shaking hands and left without memory; a visiting poet who tasted like lilac and wine; even a stable boy, when your mood turned stormy and you didn’t want to talk.
It wasn’t about pleasure.
They were sustenance. Nothing more.
Because none of them made you feel anything.
Not the way he did.
Sylus.
The name alone made your stomach tighten in a way that had nothing to do with hunger. You hated how you remembered his every movement—the way his fingers brushed your wrist like it was intentional, the slow smiles he gave you, the way he’d called you sweetie so naturally— like it was a secret only he was allowed to know.
He didn’t smell like prey. He didn’t feel like prey.
There had been no fear in him.
Not even curiosity, which was more dangerous still.
He looked at you like he already knew—what you were, what you’d done, what you still needed. And not only did it not bother him—he seemed drawn to it.
But he didn’t make you hungry.
That was what troubled you most.
It wasn’t the lack of desire. You still had that. You’d felt it since the moment you laid eyes on him—it surged when he looked at you too long, when he smiled, when his lips brushed your knuckles and it felt like lightning crawled under your skin.
It wasn’t blood you wanted.
And for a creature like you, that was a deeply unsettling revelation.
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
At breakfast, your mother asked if you’d enjoyed the last ball you attended.
Some forgettable farce, full of names and faces you didn’t care to remember.
You gave a vague answer—smiling around your teacup, pretending to listen while your father mentioned something about Lord Hale’s strange disappearance.
They didn’t suspect you. They never did. You were their porcelain doll. Their lovely, pale daughter with a quiet smile and polite answers. You played your role well.
“It’s time to be serious,” your mother said delicately, buttering a piece of toast. “You’re not a child. You need to choose someone before tongues begin to wag.”
“They already do,” you murmured.
“And I let them,” she said. “Because your reputation keeps you safe. But that won’t last forever.”
Your father sighed. “Lord Davis sent flowers. A whole cart of them.”
“Let them rot,” you said.
Your mother shot you a look. “He’s wealthy, and titled.”
“He’s also dull, and I suspect he speaks to horses more than people.”
That earned a small, reluctant laugh from your father. But your mother was less amused.
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
You kept busy, as best you could.
You walked the garden paths until your shoes were soaked through with dew. You asked Amaris to rearrange the entire north wing of your wardrobe. You read poetry you couldn’t focus on, dipped your fingers in paint you never used, went riding at dusk with a blade hidden in your corset just to feel something.
Nothing helped.
No matter what you did, your thoughts circled back to him.
It wasn’t like you. You were used to men obsessing over you—not the other way around. You were used to being in control.
But now, at night, when you lay beneath the canopy of your bed with your lips still tasting of someone else’s blood, you thought of red eyes in the dark. Of his voice—low and rich and full of knowing. Of the way he watched you like a man surveying a puzzle he had every intention of solving.
You didn’t like being on edge.
You didn’t like not knowing.
“I think you’re infatuated,” Amaris said casually, one afternoon, as she fastened the laces of your gown.
You rolled your eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Is it ridiculous to note that this is the fifth time you’ve worn this color since the ball?” she said, tone amused. “And that you haven’t stopped asking which guests will be attending the next?”
You turned your head away, toward the mirror. “It suits me.”
“Mm,” she murmured. “And if he likes it too, all the better.”
You didn’t answer. But your silence betrayed you.
She stepped closer, tightening the laces with a firm tug. “Just be careful,” she added softly. “Whatever he is, he’s not ordinary.”
Neither are you, you wanted to say.
But instead: “I know.”
That evening, a new invitation arrived.
A masquerade at the Von Clares. Renowned for their winter roses and scandalous tastes. It would be full of masks, of course—and secrets behind them. The kind of place where favors were traded like gold and you couldn’t turn a corner without tripping over lust or ambition.
You scanned the list of confirmed attendees and found his name quickly.
Sylus R. Nocturne
Your heart didn’t flutter.
It throbbed.
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
The snow fell softly the night of the masquerade.
You watched it from the tall windows of your room, arms folded beneath your cloak as Amaris stood beside you, murmuring disapproval over your refusal to wear white. Everyone else would be dressed in pale silk and gauze—ice maidens and winter spirits, how terribly predictable.
You chose shadow.
A gown of black muslin and silk, rich and soft and clinging in all the right places. Your mask was carved onyx with silver filigree, a glint of crimson at the corner of the eyes—a single nod to the predator beneath the silk. Around your throat, a choker of garnets, the dark stones pulsing like a heartbeat. You didn’t look like a girl trying to catch a suitor.
You looked like a secret meant to be kept.
And maybe, tonight, you didn’t want to hide what you were.
Not completely.
You descended the stairs long after the other guests had left, a carriage waiting at the bottom of the hill. Your mother had raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Amaris gave you a long, searching look as she adjusted your gloves at the door.
“He’ll be there,” she said, not as warning, but reminder.
“I know,” you replied.
Your pulse betrayed you anyway.
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
The Von Clare estate glittered like a frostbitten dream.
Lanterns lined the walk like floating stars, the ballroom lit in amber and gold. Music drifted through the open windows—violins, lilting and haunting, as guests swept through marble corridors in silk and fur. Everywhere you looked: masks, feathers, gloved hands reaching for crystal glasses. Champagne and rumors flowed freely.
You moved like smoke through it all, polite and detached.
Eyes followed you. Of course they did. They always had.
But they didn’t matter.
You were only looking for one.
And when you saw him—standing near the terrace doors in a fitted black coat, mask tipped slightly over one crimson eye—you nearly turned and fled.
Not out of fear.
But because the sight of him sent something sharp and heated slicing through your composure.
He looked—unfair. His hair was tousled like he’d flown here through a storm, and the cut of his jacket clung to the lines of his shoulders like it had been tailored to the shape of sin. His mask was simple, matte black with no ornamentation, and yet it made him seem otherworldly. Untouchable. Watching.
But he didn’t watch the room.
He watched you.
From the second you stepped into view, his attention snapped into place. Not politely. Not lazily. But like a man seeing something he’d spent a very long time searching for.
You weren’t used to being seen like that.
And you hated how it made your knees feel.
He didn’t move at first.
Just stood there.
So, of course, you moved first.
You approached with practiced ease, chin high and smile faint. But every step toward him made your pulse louder, your throat tighter. He let you come to him, and when you stopped—only an arm’s length away—he tilted his head, considering.
“You clean up nicely,” you said coolly.
“Ah,” he murmured, voice like velvet. “She speaks first this time. I should count myself lucky.”
You arched a brow. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, taking your gloved hand in his and bowing—gently, exaggerated, a devil playing the part of a gentleman. “But if I may say... black suits you far too well. Are you trying to scare the guests?”
“Shouldn’t I?”
His smile crooked, fond and wicked. “You’re terrifying.”
You hated how warm your stomach felt.
And then, without asking, he guided you onto the dance floor.
You almost pulled away.
Almost.
But his hand was warm through the silk. And his arm, when it settled at your waist, felt too natural to resist.
The violins swelled.
And you began to move.
You hadn’t danced like this in years. Not with anyone who mattered. Not with anyone who looked at you like the world had gone quiet just to watch you move. Sylus didn’t speak for the first few turns of the room—he just looked at you, one hand at your waist, the other folded gently in yours, and you hated the way you wanted to lean into him. The way your body responded to his like it remembered something your mind couldn’t yet name.
He was too close.
He wasn’t close enough.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said at last, voice low.
You scoffed. “That implies I was meant to seek you out.”
“You mean you didn’t think of me at all?”
You didn’t answer.
He leaned in, just enough that your breath caught. “Lie better.”
You looked up at him then, letting your gaze pierce. “What is it you actually want, Sylus?”
His eyes gleamed behind his mask. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“No,” you said, sharper than you meant to. “You flirt, you watch, you say unsettling things and leave. It’s not obvious at all.”
He held your gaze as the music dipped into something deeper, slower.
“I’m courting you.”
You blinked.
Then laughed—soft, dry, disbelieving. “You don’t do that.”
“I am now,” he said simply.
The sincerity of it froze you.
He didn’t grin. Didn’t tease. Just looked at you like the statement was self-evident.
“I mean no harm,” he added softly. “If that is what you think of me.”
You stiffened. His hand at your waist didn’t press—just held you steady, as if he knew the storm behind your mask.
“Then what do you want?”
His thumb brushed your wrist—so lightly you nearly missed it.
“You,” he said.
You stared at him, breath caught behind your ribs. “That’s it? That’s your grand confession?”
Sylus tilted his head slightly, amusement curving at the corner of his mouth. “You sound disappointed, sweetie.”
“I sound skeptical.” Your voice was low, tight. “Most men want a dowry, a title. Or at the very least, an easy woman to parade.”
“I have no interest in parading you.”
“No?” You arched a brow. “Then what do you plan to do with me, Lord Sylus?”
He smiled at that—slow and wicked, but not unkind.
“I plan to spend time in your company. I plan to flatter you shamelessly. I plan,” he said, lowering his voice as he spun you gently, “to earn your trust, and then something more.”
You rolled your eyes, but it came out softer than you intended. “So, that’s what this is?”
“Yes.”
“You say that like it’s obvious.”
“It is. To me.”
You studied his face—what you could see beneath the mask. The scar at the edge of his eye. The too-honest gleam in the other. The way he looked at you as if every movement you made told him something no one else could hear.
“Do you even know what that means?” you asked, voice tinged with disbelief. “To court someone? This isn’t a card game.”
He gave a soft huff of a laugh. “What would you have me do? Write you sonnets?”
“God, no.”
“Then let me try this way.”
His arm tightened slightly at your back, just enough to make you aware of how solid he was, how easily he could draw you against him if he chose. But he didn’t. He simply let the space between you crackle.
“I don’t understand you,” you said finally, more quietly. “You don’t feel like one of them.”
“The other suitors?”
You nodded.
“I’m not.”
“Then what are you?”
His smile didn’t fade—but it changed. Grew quieter. Warmer. A little sad.
“Something you’ll discover in time.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the best one I can give you tonight.”
You should’ve pulled away then. Pressed him further. But you didn’t want to cause a scene. And you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how badly you did want to know. So instead, you pivoted, voice drier than wine:
“So tell me, Lord Sylus. If you’re courting me so seriously—should I be expecting a proposal next? A ring? A public announcement at the next ball?”
Something in his eyes flickered.
And then—without hesitation, without even blinking—he said, “If you’ll have me.”
You nearly stumbled.
Sylus, ever steady, caught you with ease, hand tightening at your waist just long enough to keep you upright before resuming the rhythm of the dance. You looked up at him, trying to find the mockery in his face—but there wasn’t any. Only calm, devastating honesty.
“You’re not serious,” you whispered.
“I am.”
“You can’t be.”
“Why not?” he asked mildly.
“Because you know what I am.”
He leaned down, lips nearly brushing your ear. “That’s the part I’m looking forward to.”
Taken back, you stiffened again. “And if I say no?”
“Then I’ll consider myself unlucky.” He pulled back, tilting his head in mock thought. “But I’ve never had much luck, you know. I’ve had to take what I wanted.”
Your breath caught.
There was no threat in his voice—none at all. But something older lingered beneath those words. Something dragon-blooded and ancient and utterly patient.
He wouldn’t take you by force.
But he would pursue you with every edge of his will.
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
The masquerade was long over. The distant estate where it had taken place was quiet now, its mirrored halls and candlelit balconies nothing but a lingering echo in your memory.
Still, three days later you carried its residue—on the hem of your gown, in the dull ache where a gloved hand had held your waist too tightly. You told yourself you weren’t waiting for him.
And yet here you were, alone in the garden behind your family’s castle, past midnight, barefoot on cool stone.
You crouched near a trellis, fingers brushing along a rose’s stem, inspecting the split where thorns had pierced it through. It felt familiar.
You heard the crunch of boots on gravel.
Slow. Deliberate.
You didn’t startle.
“You’re bold,” you said evenly, not turning. “Coming here.”
A familiar voice answered, low and self-assured. “I’m courting you aren’t I? Should I not be?”
“That depends,” you murmured, rising to your full height. You still didn’t face him. “Do you enjoy tempting fate?”
The footsteps stopped behind you. Closer than you expected.
“I’ve never found fear to be all that useful,” Sylus said.
You turned then. He was dressed in dark charcoal again, though tonight his coat was lighter, open at the collar. The moonlight caught in the silver of his hair, made his eyes seem redder. Wilder.
He looked—at ease. As though he belonged here. As though this wasn’t dangerous.
“Then you’ve clearly never met a woman like me.”
“I suppose I haven’t.” His gaze traveled—never leering, but keen. “But I’m glad I finally have.”
You stepped away from the trellis and toward the path, keeping distance between you. “Men who get too close to me tend to disappear.”
“Lord Hale?” he asked, unbothered.
You met his eyes coolly. “You want to end up like him?”
“No, I don’t,” he smirked. “Though I suppose I’d have already been disposed of in the hedges if I were going to.”
You scoffed at that.
You moved to stand by the fountain, your hand brushing the rim absently. “Maybe I’m just waiting for the right moment.”
“Maybe,” he said, following your steps but not crowding them. “You have no such plans.”
“How can you be so sure?” You turned your body just slightly, one hand trailing the water. “You came out here willingly. Past midnight. Alone. Into a garden belonging to a woman with a trail of suitors in her wake. Not many of them breathing. Are you some fool or do you have a death wish, Lord Sylus?”
His expression didn’t falter. If anything, the corners of his mouth tugged upward.
“A death wish?” he huffed, “No, no. I have much greater ambitions, my lady. I believe I told you of them at the masquerade.”
You rolled your eyes. “Ah, yes, your plans of wedding a monster. How grand.”
“Yet here you are,” he said, “warning me, pushing me away. Doesn’t quite fit the monster you’re attempting to paint, sweetie.”
You exhaled a soft laugh. “I don’t owe you a performance.”
“No,” he agreed. “But I’m glad you’re not giving me one.”
That disarmed you more than you cared to admit.
You studied him a moment. The shape of him, tall and composed, ringed in moonlight. There was something about his stillness—it wasn’t passivity. It was coiled control. Not fear, not caution. Curiosity.
“You’re not afraid of me,” you said, not a question.
He stepped closer, just one measured pace. “Should I be?”
You didn’t answer.
He moved again, slow enough to give you time to stop him. You didn’t. Now the distance between you was almost nothing.
You looked up at him, tilting your head. “You truly are stupid,” you murmured, “or something else entirely.”
“Would it disappoint you if I said neither?” he asked. “That I just find you... interesting?”
“Interesting,” you repeated dryly.
“Enchanting, then.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“I’m not flirting for the sake of it,” he added, softer now. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
“And what do you mean, Sylus?” His name tasted strange on your tongue. Too familiar.
He considered you for a moment, then smiled—crooked, slow.
“I mean that you came out here to be alone,” he said, “and yet you haven’t told me to leave.”
You hated how true that was.
You turned your gaze toward the roses instead. “This garden has been here longer than the castle. Older than my bloodline. I like it because it doesn’t pretend to be tame.”
He moved beside you, not touching, but close enough to feel his presence radiating warmth.
“I understand that,” he said. “I don’t trust anything too carefully pruned.”
You let a beat pass. Then another.
“I could kill you,” you said at last. “And no one would hear. Not this deep into the hedges.”
“I know.”
You finally looked at him again.
“I don’t fear death the way most men do,” he said. “And I don’t fear you.”
You swallowed the strange sound rising in your throat. He wasn’t lying. Not a trace of it in his tone.
He reached out, slowly—fingertips brushing the back of your hand where it rested against the marble lip of the fountain. You didn’t pull away.
“Don’t pretend this doesn’t intrigue you too,” he said. “You never indulge men this long unless you want to.”
“Is that what you think you are?” you asked, voice lower now. “Indulgence?”
He smirked faintly. “Not yet. But I’d like to be.”
You hated the heat that bloomed in your chest. The warmth in your limbs that betrayed how long it had been since you let anyone touch you. Since you let anyone look at you like this.
He let the moment linger—long enough for you to feel the question behind his breath.
Then he stepped back.
“There’s a performance in the old conservatory tomorrow night,” he said, smoothing his sleeve. “A string quartet. Local talent, but I hear they’re decent. And the venue’s... romantic. In that brooding, candlelit kind of way.”
You raised a brow. “Is that supposed to tempt me?”
“Would it?” he asked.
You didn’t answer. But neither did you decline.
He nodded, as if your silence was confirmation.
Then he turned away, retracing his steps down the winding path—but before he disappeared into the shadows of the hedges, he paused.
“I hope you come,” he said over his shoulder. “But if not—” a pause, “—I’ll find you in the next garden.”
Then he was gone.
And you stood barefoot by the fountain, the cold marble under your palm, heart traitorously awake in your chest.
You didn’t go back inside for a long time.
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
The castle was quiet at twilight, hushed beneath a veil of mist that clung to the gables and garden walls. Somewhere, the last bell of the hour rang low.
You sat before your mirror, candlelight licking at the glass, casting twin flames in your eyes. Amaris stood behind you, carefully drawing the laces of your gown—deep ruby silk that kissed your shoulders and fell like liquid shadow down your spine.
“You’re seeing him again,” Amaris said, soft but certain.
You didn’t answer immediately. She tied the last ribbon with deft fingers and stepped around you, adjusting the fall of the skirt.
“What does Lord Sylus want, do you think?” she asked next, smoothing out a crease. “No man has lingered this long before.”
You met her gaze in the mirror. “I’ve never let them.”
A hushed laugh escapes her lips. “Your hunger knows no bounds, my lady.”
“No, it hadn’t,” you said, lifting a hand to fix an earring, “not until I met him.”
Amaris tilted her head. “And you—do you like him?”
You paused, fingertips resting against your earlobe.
“I don’t know,” you said. “He unsettles me. Intrigues me.” you pause, “But I don’t know if I can trust him yet.”
Amaris frowned faintly, stepping back.
“Is he... like the others?” she asked. She didn’t have to say the names. The castle still remembered. Lord Hale. Lord Everett. Lord Sinclaire. All now ash, or dust, or worse.
“No,” you said. “He’s nothing like them.”
She waited, sensing there was more.
You turned from the mirror and rose, smoothing your skirts with deliberate slowness. “He knows what I am.”
Amaris blinked. “He knows?”
“He’s known since the night we met. And yet he stays. He’s not afraid.”
“That doesn’t make him trustworthy.”
“No.” You looked toward the window, where moonlight was beginning to streak the garden walls in silver. “It makes him dangerous.”
“And still you go.”
You turned, lips curling slightly. “Wouldn’t you?”
Amaris didn’t smile. She reached for your gloves instead, holding them out with a quiet dignity that said she would never stop protecting you, even if she didn’t understand why.
You took them, slipping them over your hands. “If I don’t come back—”
“I’ll bury him neatly,” she said.
That did earn a smile. A sharp, passing thing.
“Don’t wait up,” you said, and swept from the room before she could say another word.
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
The conservatory was half-silvered in moonlight, the glass panes high above beading with condensation as the evening cooled. Inside, candles flickered along the arching walkways, their golden light caught on ivy leaves and the pale blooms of night-blooming jasmine. The scent was thick in the air—heady, dreamlike, almost narcotic.
You stepped inside alone, your heels silent on the polished marble floor, silk gown trailing in your wake like spilled wine. The quiet swell of the quartet filtered from another room, but here the music was more distant, intimate—something private. Hidden. A slow waltz that curled along the air like smoke.
Sylus was already there.
He stood near one of the fountains, facing away, bathed in candlelight and shadow. His coat was darker than midnight, the collar high, the silk of his cravat faintly patterned like old constellations. The moment he sensed your presence, he turned.
His smile bloomed slow, deliberate. “You came.”
“I did,” you said, tilting your chin. “You’re lucky I was in the mood.”
He moved closer, offering no retort—only a crystal flute of champagne, already half chilled from the silver tray beside the fountain.
You took it, letting your gloved fingers brush his. His touch lingered a moment too long.
“You look…” His gaze dropped to your gown, then returned, eyes gleaming. “Like a sin I’d commit twice.”
You arched a brow, sipping the champagne to disguise your surprise. It was cool and sweet, laced with rosewater and peach.
“Do you rehearse lines like that?” you asked, faintly amused.
“Only for you,” he said.
You scoffed softly, though your stomach fluttered. “Flatter me all you like, Sylus, but I know how this story ends.”
“And how is that?”
“With you bleeding out somewhere poetic. A ruined chapel, perhaps.”
He stepped closer, invading your air, his voice low and velvet-lined. “I’d prefer your arms.”
You nearly choked on the champagne. “You really are relentless.”
He smiled, something wolfish curling in the corners. “Relentless would mean I expected a reward. But tonight, I only wish for your time.”
You gave him a look, halfway between disbelief and reluctant curiosity.
“Dance with me,” he said, and offered his hand.
You hesitated. Then, slowly—perhaps too slowly—you placed your fingers in his.
The quartet’s distant melody deepened into a lilting waltz, and he drew you into it without hesitation. One arm curved around your waist, the other holding your hand just firm enough to guide.
The dance was long, slow, exquisitely drawn out. His gloved hand rested at the small of your back, and you swore you could feel the warmth of his palm through the silk. He didn’t rush. Every movement, every step was measured—an unspoken language, designed not just to impress, but to unravel.
“You’re quiet,” he murmured near your ear. “Should I worry?”
“I was warned you were cold,” you said as he spun you, the floor catching the hem of your gown like a flame.
“I am. To most.” He brought you close again. “But you’re... warming.”
You huffed softly. “I’d believe that if I didn’t know better.”
“Oh?” His thumb brushed your knuckles. “And what is it you think you know?”
You met his gaze, bold but uncertain. “Nothing important. I still don’t know what you want.”
“I’ve already told you.”
“I want to hear it again.”
He spun you once, drawing you close on the return. “You.”
You blinked. “You don’t even know me.”
“Then let me.”
You swallowed, pulse flickering. “There are easier women at court.”
“I don’t want easy,” he said. “I want you.”
The silence that followed was heavier than the music. Your breath caught—not from fear, but something sharper. Want. Wonder.
As the song reached its close, he didn’t release you right away. His hand slid to the curve of your waist, fingertips grazing just beneath your ribs. You didn’t stop him. Couldn’t.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” he said, voice a thread of heat along your throat. “Every night. Every time I close my eyes.”
You stared at him. “That sounds like a curse.”
“Feels like one.”
That startled a quiet laugh from you. Not dry or sarcastic—genuine. He grinned at the sound, satisfied.
“I wanted to hear that,” he said softly. “Your laugh.”
You turned your head slightly, embarrassed at the heat creeping up your neck.
He caught the moment, his voice barely above a whisper. “Come. I want to show you something.”
The music faded behind you as he led you toward the glass doors. He opened them for you, and the cool night air swept across your skin.
The balcony was empty, bathed in silver light. Below, the manicured gardens stretched in ghostly green, and above, the moon hung full and pale, veiled by drifting clouds.
“You brought me here to look at the moon?” you asked over your shoulder.
“I did,” he said easily. “Though you fiercely rival it.”
You turned just enough to smirk. “You certainly know how to flatter—for a man with a cold reputation.”
He laughed, low and quiet. “What can I say? A woman like you would inspire even the most frigid of men.”
You kept your gaze on the sky, arms folding over your chest.
“Even on this small balcony, you still feel so far away,” he said.
“Maybe I’m protecting you from danger.”
“How kind,” he said with amusement. “Though I’ve yet to experience this danger you keep speaking of.”
You said nothing.
After a beat, he asked, “Don’t you ever feel lonely?”
You glanced at him. “I think you already know the answer.”
“I know what it looks like,” he said. “But I want to know what it feels like. From you.”
You turned back to the moon. “I think loneliness becomes less a feeling and more a fact, after a time. Like gravity. Or hunger.”
“And yet you keep everyone at a distance.”
“Perhaps I enjoy being alone.”
“Do you?”
You didn’t answer.
He stepped closer, his arm brushing yours. “I don’t believe you’re unfeeling,” he murmured. “You wouldn’t be so careful if you were.”
The words caught you off guard. You looked at him—searching, uncertain.
Silence bloomed between you again, thicker this time. Heavy with something unnamed.
His fingers found your wrist, slow and careful, then slid up your arm in a reverent touch. “Tell me to stop.”
You didn’t.
His hand rose to cradle your jaw, warm and steady. The stars blurred behind him. And then—finally—you leaned in.
The kiss was soft at first, almost hesitant. Then came the pull you’d tried so long to resist. His lips were patient, his hand steady, but the heat in his chest pressed into yours, and you melted—just for a moment.
He drew back, breath ghosting across your lips.
“Do you believe me now?” he asked.
Your fingers were still resting lightly on his chest.
“No,” you said, breathless. “But I’ll allow you to keep courting me.”
A slow smile spread across his face—unpracticed, but sincere. “Then I’ll be relentless.”
You arched a brow. “I thought you already were.”
He chuckled low. “Guilty.”
Then, more softly: “There’s a lake estate I’ve been restoring, just north of the forest. It’s quiet. Unspoiled. I’d like to take you there. Just the two of us.”
You didn’t answer right away. He didn’t rush you.
At last, you said, “When?”
“Next week. At dusk,” he said. “It’s most beautiful then.”
“Already trying to sweep me away,” you mused. “What do you have planned?”
He looked at you with a certain softness you hadn’t seen before.
“I plan to win your heart,” he paused. “To show you true devotion, if you allow it.”
You held his gaze. “All right. I’ll come.”
He bowed slightly, never looking away. “Then I’ll be counting the days.”
And when he offered his arm to escort you back inside, you took it—just a little closer than before.
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
The carriage rattled over gravel as it curved through the gates of Sylus’ estate.
It loomed above the pines like something carved from shadow and myth—gothic arches stretched skyward, stone gargoyles crouched in the eaves, and a cascade of wild roses tangled up the south-facing wing. The manor was grand but strange, too symmetrical in places and oddly modern in others, as if it had been reshaped over centuries by hands that couldn’t quite agree on beauty. Its windows were lit softly, warmly, and a line of golden lamps glowed along the path leading to the front steps.
You stepped out of the carriage into the cool dusk, your skirts brushing over moss-stained stone.
Sylus was already waiting.
He leaned against the doorway with one arm braced above his head, the other tucked into the pocket of his black coat. His eyes found you immediately—hungry, fond, amused. You hadn’t even opened your mouth and he looked as if you’d just told him something scandalous.
"Welcome to my home," he said, voice low and velvety. “And here I thought the architecture was the most breathtaking thing on the estate.”
You rolled your eyes, the corner of your mouth tugging up despite yourself. “You’ve hardly let me step inside.”
“I don’t need to,” he replied, offering his arm. “You brought the storm with you, sweetie.”
He led you into a grand foyer where chandeliers glowed with soft amber light and dark wood gleamed beneath polished boots. You took in the ornate railing sweeping along the second-floor landing, the velvet drapes pulled high, the soft hush of the space—opulent, but not cold.
“I had the rooms aired out,” he said as he guided you forward, “in case you worried I spend my nights brooding among cobwebs.”
“You don’t?” you teased.
“Oh, I do. But only for effect.”
You laughed. He seemed to drink in the sound, glancing sidelong at you like he couldn’t help himself. “Come. Let me show you the more dangerous parts of the manor. Like the drawing room. I’m told it has a very sharp settee.”
He gave you a tour like no other man ever had—half guide, half provocateur.
The drawing room was moody and lush, lined with dark green paneling and lit by sconces shaped like dripping candles. An enormous fireplace stood sentinel on the far wall, and over it hung a haunting oil painting of a woman whose eyes seemed to follow you.
"Is she family?" you asked.
"No. But she came with the frame,” he said. “I thought it would be rude to separate them.”
The music room was all dusky golds and walnut wood, warmed by a hearth and crowned by a grand piano near the window. A violin rested on its side beside a silver metronome.
“You play?” you asked.
He leaned in, lowering his voice. “I do. But I only perform for an audience of one.”
“And here I thought you’d bring out a whole string quartet just to woo me.”
“I considered it,” he admitted. “But I’d rather see how your eyes shine under candlelight when I play something slow. Just for you.”
The library took your breath away.
Vaulted ceilings rose high above two levels of shelves, and the smell of parchment and polish clung to the air. A ladder stretched along the tallest shelf, and in the center sat two armchairs facing a fireplace already crackling with low flames.
You wandered toward the spines with wonder. “This is… not what I expected.”
“You thought I was illiterate?”
“No,” you laughed, running your fingers along the cracked leather of an old volume. “I thought you'd only collect books to keep up appearance.”
He stepped up behind you, voice a whisper just over your shoulder. “And what appearance would that be?”
You turned your head slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. “A mysterious man with excellent taste.”
“Guilty,” he murmured.
The tour ended with him leading you down a quieter hall, one with softer rugs and windows that overlooked the moonlit gardens. He stopped before a tall door and opened it with a slow, almost reverent hand.
“Your room,” he said. “Unless you prefer mine.”
You gave him a look, stepping past the threshold.
The room was exquisite. Deep burgundy drapes—so similar in shade to the gown you wore during your last evening together—hung from the canopy of a carved mahogany bed. A mirrored vanity sat beneath an oval window, and a faint perfume of rosewater and cedar clung to the linens. A single crystal decanter of wine stood waiting on a silver tray.
You turned to face him.
“Thank you, Lord Sylus,” you said, lips twitching. “For the tour. And the theatrics.”
He bowed slightly at the waist, though his eyes burned as they lingered on you.
“Rest well, my lady,” he said. “We ride at dawn. I plan to win your heart between the gallops.”
“I didn’t know it was a race.”
“Oh, it always is.”
And then he was gone, the door whispering shut behind him, leaving only the flicker of firelight and the ghost of his smile.
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
The morning dawned soft and golden, kissed by mist. Thin ribbons of fog still clung to the hills as you stepped out of the manor and into the chill air. A groom was already leading two horses into the courtyard—one deep chestnut, the other black as spilled ink. Both stood proud and gleaming beneath their saddles, their breath puffing in white clouds.
And beside them stood Sylus.
He wore a black riding coat with silver embroidery threading the cuffs and collar, open just enough to hint at the dark shirt beneath. His hair was slightly tousled by the wind, and the morning sun caught the edge of his red eyes, turning them a deeper, darker garnet.
“You’re late,” he said with a grin.
“I’m ten minutes early.”
“Exactly. Which means I’ve been waiting ten minutes too long.”
He held out a gloved hand to help you mount, but even after you were seated, he lingered at your stirrup, eyes traveling the length of you as if he were memorizing the image for some secret purpose.
“You look breathtaking on horseback,” he murmured, then added, “Though I suspect you look breathtaking in most places.”
You arched a brow. “And do you say that to all your guests?”
“No,” he said, swinging into the saddle beside you with effortless grace. “Only the ones who haunt my dreams.”
With a sharp whistle, he urged his horse forward, and you followed, the two of you setting off at a canter through the trees beyond the estate.
The forest thinned as the path wound uphill, giving way to open fields scattered with larkspur and buttercups. The wind played in your hair. Sylus rode close, stealing glances more than once, and you caught his smirk each time you pretended not to notice.
“You ride well,” he said at last, eyes crinkling in amusement. “Not that I’m surprised. You seem the type to tame wild things.”
“I suppose I have a talent for it,” you said, lips curving. “Are you offering yourself up as an example?”
“Oh, I’m far too wild to be tamed,” he drawled, reining in as the horses crested a low ridge. “But if you’re brave, you can try.”
You both slowed as the fields unfurled into a meadow below, bright with flowers and dappled sunlight. Sylus led the way off the path, guiding your horses into the taller grasses until they came to a gentle halt. The breeze rippled across the blooms in soft waves, and the scent of earth and honeysuckle wrapped around you.
“Let’s rest a moment,” he said, dismounting. “I want to show you something.”
You slid down from your horse, letting him steady you with one hand at your waist. He didn’t let go right away. His gaze lingered too long.
“I thought you were showing me something,” you said, teasing.
“I am.” His voice dropped. “But I think I already found it.”
Before you could reply, he turned, brushing through the flowers until he plucked a small cluster of wild violets. He came back slowly, a boyish light in his eyes you hadn’t quite seen before.
“Hold still,” he said softly, stepping in close.
You tilted your head as he tucked the violet behind your ear, his fingers brushing your cheek. The contact was fleeting but warm, intimate.
“There,” he said, voice suddenly quieter. “Perfect.”
You blinked at the tenderness in his expression, the way his eyes softened, how his smirk faded into something unguarded.
“You’re beautiful,” he added. “But you know that, don’t you?”
“I like hearing it from you,” you murmured.
He laughed, but it was hushed—gentle, like a secret—and you reached down to pluck a bloom of your own, a tiny wild daisy.
“Your turn.”
He tilted his head, trying to look unimpressed, but you caught the slight pink tinge creeping into his ears. When you tucked the daisy above his ear, he froze—not out of resistance, but embarrassment.
“A daisy?” he asked, clearly trying to recover his usual charm.
“It suits you.”
He gave a sharp exhale of mock offense. “I was hoping for something more dangerous.”
“You look dangerous enough. I wanted to try something softer.”
He smiled at that—something real, without guile. His gaze dropped, just for a moment, and when it returned to you, it had a shimmer of something new. Not fire. Not flirtation.
Something closer to wonder.
“I don’t let people see me like this,” he said, voice low. “But I think you knew that already.”
You reached out and touched his hand, lightly.
“I did.”
And for a moment, the two of you stood still in that field, wind curling around you like silk, flowers swaying at your feet, the world distant and hushed.
Then he stepped back, just a bit, clearing his throat.
“If we stay here much longer, I might say something I can’t take back,” he said, half-teasing, half-true. “Shall we ride on?”
You nodded, heart warm, and let him help you mount again.
As you turned your horses toward the path, he cast one last glance over his shoulder at the flowers behind you.
“I’ll remember that meadow,” he said.
You smiled. “So will I.”
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
The next night, you had wandered out into the gardens without quite meaning to, drawn by the warm hush of twilight and the way the roses glowed like fading embers in the dusk. The moon was just beginning to rise, silvering the hedges and trailing vines with pale light. All was quiet—save for the rustle of leaves, the chirp of night insects, and the slow breath of the night on your skin.
You sat on the edge of the stone fountain in the center of the garden, fingers trailing the water’s surface as you lost yourself in thought.
“Ah,” came a low, familiar voice behind you, “so this is where my darling has run off to.”
You turned, startled—but not truly surprised.
Sylus stood at the edge of the path, half-shadowed by a climbing arch of ivy. His coat was dark, finely tailored, and the open collar of his shirt gave him a roguish ease that made your breath catch. The candlelight from a nearby lantern flickered across his features, carving his cheekbones in gold.
“You found me,” you said with a small smile.
“Of course I did. Do you think I’d let you vanish into a moonlit garden without following?” His tone was light, teasing. “Besides, I have something for you.”
He offered his hand.
Suspicion curled pleasantly in your chest. “What is it?”
“You’ll see. But you’ll have to trust me.”
You placed your hand in his, and he pulled you gently to your feet. His touch was warm, his grip firm. As he led you through the garden, he stole glances at you again—he was always stealing glances—and each time, you felt them like brushstrokes of heat.
He brought you to the east wing of the manor, down a quiet corridor you hadn’t yet explored. When he opened a tall oak door and stepped aside, you realized what he’d been hiding.
A dining room—not the formal hall used for noble dinners, but something smaller, more intimate. The chamber was awash in soft candlelight. Dozens of candles flickered across the table and mantle, their golden glow reflecting off decanters of wine and polished silver. A bouquet of wildflowers sat in a crystal vase at the center, echoing the ones from the meadow. The scent of roasted duck and honeyed pears wafted through the air.
Your brows lifted. “You set all this up?”
“I had help,” he said. “But the thought was mine.”
You turned to him, uncertain whether to be amused or charmed.
He tilted his head. “Too much?”
“It’s perfect,” you said. “Though I’m beginning to think you’re trying to seduce me.”
He gave a slow smile. “And if I were?”
You didn’t answer. Instead, you let him pull out your chair and sink into the evening like a warm bath. The two of you dined by flickering light and soft shadows, wine poured freely between teasing remarks and half-truths shared in glances. He asked about your childhood. You asked about his travels. He gave answers that hinted at more than he said.
“You’re a mystery,” you said at one point, sipping your wine. “One moment, you’re all fire and bravado. The next, you’re quiet. Thoughtful. I can’t decide which is more dangerous.”
“Both,” he replied, lips brushing the rim of his glass. “But you’re not afraid of danger, are you?”
“No,” you said slowly. “Only of being bored.”
“Then you have nothing to fear with me.”
The air between you grew denser as the meal wore on, conversation turning into something more like a game—more space between the words, more heat behind the smiles. The shadows grew deeper. The only light now came from the candles, casting your features in gold and painting Sylus’s lashes across his cheekbones.
At last, as the final bite of dessert disappeared and the wine settled warm in your veins, Sylus stood.
He walked around the table and held out his hand.
You blinked. “What are you doing?”
“Dancing,” he said simply. “If you’ll join me.”
There was no music, only the whisper of the wind outside and the occasional creak of candle wax softening in the warmth. But when you placed your hand in his, he drew you close with the ease of someone who had already pictured this moment a dozen times.
Your bodies fit together too well.
One of his hands found your waist, the other your fingers, and he guided you into a slow turn, the candlelight spinning softly around you. His touch was reverent but confident, his steps smooth, practiced.
“Tell me,” he said, voice low and rich with mischief, “is this the part where you fall helplessly for me?”
You raised a brow, stepping in closer with a smirk. “I think it’s sweet how you assume I haven’t already.”
His eyes flashed—something wickedly pleased and undeniably fond. “So you admit it.”
“I admit nothing,” you murmured, letting him guide you into another slow turn, your skirts brushing against his legs. “Except perhaps that I enjoy this more than I thought I would.”
“Dancing?” he asked.
You looked up at him. “Being with you.”
For a heartbeat, Sylus didn’t answer. His hand at your waist held just a fraction tighter, his gaze suddenly serious in the candlelight.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing the back of your hand. “Because I haven’t been able to think of anything else.”
You smiled—soft, unguarded. “You’re shameless.”
“I’m honest,” he countered, spinning you gently and catching you again with practiced ease. “And entirely yours, if you’ll have me.”
You blinked, heat blooming at your throat. “You’re dangerous when you talk like that.”
“Then I’ll keep doing it,” he said with a grin. “Because I like what it does to you.”
You laughed, and he looked at you like he could live off the sound. Then he leaned in just slightly, forehead almost brushing yours.
“I want to keep dancing with you,” he said, quieter now. “For as long as you’ll let me.”
Your fingers tightened just slightly around his. “Then don’t stop.”
And he didn’t. He held you closer, swaying with you in the hush of the candlelight, long after the conversation faded and only the distant chirping of crickets and the silvery spill of moonlight kept you company.
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
The hallway was quiet as the two of you wandered back through the dim corridors, the lingering warmth of candlelight still clinging to your skin like a second perfume. Your arms brushed occasionally as you walked, and Sylus didn’t seem in any hurry to let the night end. His jacket had long since been unfastened, hair slightly tousled, lips still curved in that easy, contented smile he wore only with you.
When you reached your bedroom door, he stopped and turned to face you. His voice was soft when he said, “Sleep well. We’ve another long day tomorrow, if I’m to impress you further.”
You tilted your head. “You’re trying to impress me?”
He smirked. “Is it not obvious?”
You stepped closer, your voice low. “Then you should know something.”
He blinked, something alert and still in him now. “What’s that?”
You reached past him, hand brushing his wrist. “I’d rather stay with you tonight.”
Sylus didn’t speak for a beat. His red eyes darkened, not with suspicion or confusion, but with an unmistakable surge of emotion—hunger, want, and something softer beneath it all.
“…Are you sure?” he asked, quieter now, his tone carefully measured, like he was offering you the chance to undo the words if they’d come too fast.
You nodded. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
He hesitated for only a heartbeat before reaching for your hand. His fingers laced gently with yours, thumb tracing the top of your knuckles in an absent-minded way that made your chest ache.
“This way,” he said, his voice velvet-wrapped steel.
He led you down the hall—just a few doors down—to a grander set of double doors, which he pushed open with a single hand. There was a piano near the window, half-shuttered, and a decanter of deep red wine waiting near the hearth. The bed—massive, four-posted, dressed in black and deep gold—waited at the heart of the room like the end of a vow.
The room glowed gold and amber in the firelight. Candles flickered across every surface, painting Sylus’s skin in warm shadows as he led you in, hand still clasped around yours like he couldn’t bear to let go. The door shut behind you with a soft click.
You hadn’t let go of his hand either.
His room was grand but intimate—dark wood, velvet drapes, a fire crackling in the hearth like it was summoned just for you. The scent of it mingled with whatever cologne clung to him: cedar, spice, something deeper beneath it all that made your head swim.
He turned to you with that slow, dangerous smile, his voice low. “You’re sure?” he asked, even as his thumb traced gentle circles along your wrist. “You want to stay here tonight?”
“I want your bed,” you said simply, truth pulsing in your chest. “I want you.”
He didn’t need to be told twice.
Sylus stepped closer, backlit by the fire, his chest rising in shallow breaths. The heat in his eyes was almost unbearable.
Wordlessly, he began to undress.
He took his time.
He undid each button of his shirt—slow and methodical, as if he wanted you to feel every moment stretch. His gaze never left yours, even as he shrugged the fabric from his shoulders, revealing skin kissed by candlelight and shadow, sculpted muscle shifting beneath pale scars and ink-black veins that glimmered faintly in the fire’s glow.
Your gaze lowered, hands trembling slightly as you reached for him, brushing your fingers along the lines of his abdomen, tracing the place just above the waistband of his slacks.
He let you explore.
He didn't rush you. He looked at you for a moment, reverent, eyes dark and full of something deeper than hunger—like he was memorizing you, like he’d waited lifetimes for this. His fingers skimmed your cheek before reaching for the straps of your dress, voice low and warm like velvet as he murmured, “Let me see you.”
You let him.
The gown slipped from your shoulders with a gentle sigh, pooling around your feet. Cool air kissed your skin, but Sylus’s hands were already there to warm you—roughened palms sliding slowly from your waist to your hips, mapping the curve of you like sacred terrain. His breath hitched softly as he drank you in.
“Darling,” he whispered, more prayer than curse, “you’re beautiful…”
He kissed you then, deep and slow, his hands spanning your waist, then sliding lower to pull you close. You let him walk you backward until your thighs touched the edge of the bed—but instead of lying down, you turned, climbed into his lap, straddling him where he sat.
He made a low sound, hands instinctively catching your thighs, palms broad and warm against bare skin.
You kissed again, messier now, your fingers in his silver hair, his mouth dragging down your neck. When you shifted your hips, grinding slow against the hardness beneath his trousers, he cursed under his breath. The brush of his slacks beneath you made heat flare low in your belly, but it was his mouth—hungry and searching—that stole your breath as he kissed you again.
You melted into it, arms winding around his shoulders as his hands splayed across your back, pulling you closer. His tongue slid along yours, tasting, teasing, deepening the kiss until you were gasping softly into his mouth.
Then he leaned back slightly, eyes glowing like coals.
“Drink from me.”
You froze, breath catching. “Sylus—”
“Please,” he whispered, thumb brushing your cheek. “I want to feel it. I want you to take what you need.”
You shook your head, voice tight. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
His smile softened. “You won’t.”
“You don’t know that—”
“I do,” he said, cupping the back of your neck. “You won’t kill me. You couldn’t. Sweetie…” His gaze searched yours. “Don’t you want to feel my heartbeat? Feel how it beats for you?”
He guided you down slowly, gently, until your lips hovered over the column of his throat. Your fangs slid down instinctively, the sight of him—so open, so warm beneath you—unraveling the last of your restraint. With trembling hands, you guided his head to the side, kissing the place where his pulse thundered strongest.
And then you sank your fangs in.
He gasped—so did you.
The rush of warmth, the thrum of his blood, the taste of him—it was overwhelming. He groaned low in his throat, arms wrapping tightly around you as your hips rocked without thinking. The taste of him was unlike anything you’d known—rich, powerful, intoxicating. His blood lit something inside you, a deep, primal connection blooming as he moaned your name, hips twitching beneath you.
The intimacy of it—his arms around you, your body pressed to his, the way his blood warmed your chest as you swallowed—made your vision blur. You could feel his heart hammering beneath your lips, could hear the slight tremble in his breath every time you moved against him.
“Sylus…” you moaned into his neck.
He was panting, hands roaming everywhere—your back, your hips, your thighs—moving you faster against him. The friction made you dizzy, hungry for more. Pleasure built in hot little waves, cresting right along the pull of blood between your lips.
But then you forced yourself to stop.
You licked the wound, breath shaky, and looked down at him.
The bite had already begun to heal.
Your heart thudded. “How… what are you?”
His hand caressed your cheek. “Something ancient. A fiend. Made for you. Always you”
You looked at him, dazed. “Sylus…”
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “Now let me take care of you.”
With ease, he lifted you from his lap and laid you gently on the bed, his mouth trailing heat down your neck, your chest, your stomach. Every kiss felt like devotion, every touch like worship.
When he settled between your thighs, you gasped—already aching, already open from the way you’d ground against him. But he didn’t rush.
He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh first. Then another. And another.
“You’re everything,” he said softly, right before he lowered his mouth to you.
The first brush of his tongue made your hips jerk, your hands flying to the sheets. He groaned softly at your reaction, then anchored your thighs with his hands and deepened his attention—licking into you slowly, thoroughly, like he was savoring every sound you made.
“Sylus—please—”
He moaned against you, the vibration against your most sensitive spot making you writhe.
“Say it again, my love.” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Say my name while I taste you.”
“Sylus—”
“Louder.”
“Sylus,” you breathed, louder now, as his tongue dipped lower, slow and thorough and maddening. His hands held your hips steady, his mouth unrelenting, drawing soft, trembling sounds from your lips with each motion.
Every flick of his tongue felt like fire, like honey, like unraveling.
When he slipped two fingers inside you—long, thick, curling perfectly with each stroke—you couldn’t help it. You cried out, hips rocking, thighs trembling around his head as he murmured encouragements against your skin.
“That’s it, darling,” he whispered. “Just like that… Let go for me.”
And when you did—when that wave crested and broke and your body shuddered around his fingers—he held you through every second, his mouth not leaving you until you were gasping and pliant beneath him.
He kissed his way up your body after that, slow and indulgent, like he couldn’t bear to miss a single inch of you.
When he reached your mouth again, you kissed him with everything you had—tasting yourself on his lips, breath still trembling. Your hands moved to the last of his clothing, pushing it down, eager to feel all of him against you.
He groaned into your kiss when your hand wrapped around his length—thick and hot and aching for you. He caught your wrist gently, stilling you.
“Do you want this?”
“Yes,” you whispered. “I need it.”
He ran his thick tip through your folds, teasing, throbbing with the ache to be inside. Each nudge of your clit had you twitching from the overstimulation—wanton moans spilling from your swollen lips.
Then he slid in slow—inch by inch—until he was fully buried inside you with a low groan. Your hands clutched at his back, your name a sigh on his lips.
The stretch made you gasp—he was so thick, the fit almost too much—but he didn’t move right away. He stayed still, kissing your cheek, your jaw, whispering, “You feel so good… So perfect around me…”
He began to move, thrusts deep and agonizingly slow, pressing kisses to your throat, your shoulder, your lips. He laced his fingers with yours above your head, bodies moving together in perfect rhythm.
Each drag against your walls had you digging your nails deeper into his back, earning deep groans from Sylus. His tip nudged your sweet spot with every thrust, causing more desperate pleas to leave your lips.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, moaning into his mouth. Every thrust stole your breath, sent pleasure building low in your belly, sparks dancing down your spine.
“You’re mine,” he whispered against your lips, voice thick with emotion. “Only mine.”
You tightened around him in response, lost in the delicious friction, the drag of his body inside yours, the heat of his mouth as he kissed every inch of you he could reach.
“My love,” he whispered, voice breaking. “My darling girl…”
It went on and on, the pleasure building with agonizing sweetness—like a fire stoked slow and careful until it consumed you both.
And when you were close again, when you were teetering right on the edge, he held you tighter, kissed you deeper, and broke against your mouth with a ragged plea:
“Marry me.”
You gasped, stunned—but he kissed you again, desperate now, and repeated it like it was the only thing that mattered.
“Marry me, sweetie… Say you’ll be mine.”
And then the climax hit—yours first, then his, bodies locking together as the pleasure rolled over you both in perfect synchrony. You gasped his name, and he groaned yours like a vow, spilling delicious warmth into you with a trembling exhale.
As you both came down, he held you—sweaty, breathless, hearts pounding in unison. His lips brushed your temple as he whispered again, softer this time:
“Say yes.”
a/n: ummmmm sooooo…. i’m not sure what planted the seed for this… it was just supposed to be freaky vampire sex initially. i think the duke raf & duke zayne fic permanently altered my brain and then this was born. i hope we like?🤍 also lowkey i hardly proofread this so pls lmk if u see any mistakes
🏷️: @potania @violentriddlehoard @glitterykingdomangel
