*Bruno*
Bruno pressed himself tight against the couch's armrest, heart thudding like it might give him away. The velvet fabric scratched at his cheek, and it smelled faintly of old perfume and dust, like forgotten things hidden too long in the dark. His nose twitched, but he didn't dare move. Hopeful, he could go unnoticed this time, or at least, he hoped, to be forgotten. Because he had learned quite quickly, it was better not to get any sort of attention. Especially when the tall woman, whom he supposed was his grandmother, according to his mama, Lady Funda, was around.
Suppose she didn't notice him. She didn't hit him.
Bad Lady. Dragon Lady. That's what he called her in secret. She even looked like one—sharp nails, sharp teeth, always breathing heat. If she had wings, she'd flap them just to knock him over. If she could breathe fire, she'd cook him just for breathing too loud. But for now, it seemed like kicking if she couldn't smack him. And pushing him if she could yank were her choices.
Lady Fudna was angry and ornery as a dragon from Ana's books. In fact, the whole lot of them that stood in the fancy room, which smelled like sour spices and gold, were bad. He didn't like any of them.
They said mean things about Ana. As a knight, he couldn't help but want to defend her honor. Bruno pinched into the sides of the couches with a gentle pop. His little claws were growing in and pierced through the fabric. Intentional or not, he smiled a little. Happy to think he ruined something of theirs.
He wished he could do so much more. But it was better to hide for now. Even with his mama sitting on the couch, nursing a chipped cup of coffee, because, of course, they'd give her the broken mug, not the nice ones they had. They never treated Mama nice either– no, it didn't change much. Aunt Funda could still hit him.
And he wasn't going to retake another chance.
Wasn't worth it. Bruno's arm still throbbed from the bruise he got yesterday. He curled his fingers tighter and popped another claw through the couch's yellow fabric. That little sound drew his mother's attention.
"Bruno," Mama tutted, finding him crouching."Stop fidgeting." She reached over to yank him up, instantly making his burgundy eyes flash in panic.
No! The Dragon Lady will see me!
"Mama, no! I need to–" Hide. But his words were falling on deaf ears. Her grip slipped without thinking, her eyes already drifting toward him—the only person who ever pulled her attention. Bruno watched it happen again, that soft look she only ever wore for Lord Mykhol. It curled like smoke in her eyes, dreamy and distant.
Mama, Bruno groaned inwardly but took his chance. The boy quickly shrank back to the floor. Safe. Out of sight. Protected once more, his gaze lifted only to peer back at the vampire with guarded curiosity.
Lord Mykhol knelt at the hearth, ramming the iron poker deep into the fire. Smoke belched out, hot and heavy. Embers cracked and scattered, lighting his face in flickers—his cheekbones like glass, eyes shadowed. That smile Mama liked so much was gone.
Bruno stared. Something about the way Mykhol watched the flames—quiet and still, like a snake waiting to strike—made his skin crawl. It had been quite some time since Bruno returned to report his time with Ana. The subject of Sir Pendwick was enough to make the young lord fall quiet. Make his face turn serious, almost like he were brooding in some lost thought.
The wind howled beyond the thick stone, whistling like a ghost through the high windows. It filled the silence with a sound both sad and angry. Bruno's tiny shoulders tensed at the sound.
Lady Funda, ever pacing, clicked back into the room's center. She muttered something sharp—about King Alexander and some boy—but Bruno stopped listening the second her eyes snapped to him.
"So, King Alexander is making his move. He is going with the Celbest boy." Lady Funda walked past the couch, eyes darting around the room. Wild and unfocused. Until they saw him, something snapped behind her eyes as if suddenly remembering he was here.
"You! Why didn't you come to tell us now?!" She snarled in full fang. "You should have come directly after!"
Something sharp sparked in her gaze.
Not good. Bruno pulled his limbs in tight, making himself as small as possible. He curled inward—his sore arm against his chest, legs tucked tight. His little claws, half-formed but sharp, hooked into the threads. The rug was scratchy, smelling faintly of dust and feet, and the warmth from the fire only reached halfway across the cold marble floor. He braced for a slap or worse. With Lady Funda, pain always came fast. Without warning.
Mama scuffed, sitting up.
"My lady, Bruno, was entertaining her Empress." She reminded me with a high and proud voice. "Otherwise, we would have gone straight away. You know we would have."
"Entertain?"Lady Funda's laugh scraped like a fork across a plate. "What could this ignorant child possibly entertain an Empress with?"
Bruno peeked past the couch fringe. His mother stood now, rising to her full height like she could meet the dragon blow for blow.
"A lot, actually." Naska's voice flared with heat. "Bruno is much smarter than you think. You should give him more credit. The Empress dotes on him—"
"Dotes?" Lady Funda's voice cracked upward. "You mean pity."
The word landed like a slap. Even Bruno flinched.
His mother went still. Not blinking. Not breathing. Shoulders drawn back like a drawn bowstring. "Pity?" she echoed, soft and deadly. "You dare say my son needs pity?"
Her voice darkened into something sharp and shaking. "Bruno doesn't need pity—it's the Empress who needs—"
A sudden clearing of the throat cut the air like a knife. Both women stopped mid-breath, heads snapping to the last and quietest in the room. Lord Charles.
"Regardless of when we knew about it, it changes nothing now. We have bigger problems." Lord Charles went in a calmer tone, offsetting the shrillness of his wife. His voice has an effect on the vampire in real time. Lady Funda's arms dropped to her sides as he stood and moved to her. His pudgy hand reached out, fingers thick and pale, curling around hers. Like magic, she deflated. The monster returned to her cage with just a touch.
It was like magic how he could do that. Lord Charles always did that. Calmed her like a spellcaster. A cold wizard—one who cast words like runes and never raised his voice. But if there ever was a part that wanted to thank him. He knew better.
Lord Charles, his supposed grandfather, was on the opposite end of the scale. The wizard didn't hit. He didn't praise either. He didn't see Bruno—not unless it served him. Today was no different.
The stumpy man just didn't want to waste more time going back to his precious books and money. Otherwise, he wouldn't get involved at all. But perhaps that was better.
Compared to the dragon lady, a wizard would at least look at Bruno occasionally. In a neutral way, of course, but at least he looked at him once in a while, acknowledged him, unlike someone else.
Bruno shifted his gaze back to catch the young lord still at the hearth. Shadows played across his face, dancing over the high, hollow angles of his cheeks. His gold earrings caught the light again—mocking flashes like smirks in the dark. Everyone else talked. Mykhol stayed still. Watching the fire. Listening to his own thoughts.
Lord Charles went on.
"With Sir Pendwick becoming King Alexander's attendant, and that proximity, we must assume he's going to try to set up a match. A marriage. Something binding."
He exhaled, pushing his glasses higher on his flat nose. The firelight glinted off the lenses, briefly making him look owl-like. Cold. Calculating.
"I admit…" he said slowly, like it pained him, "this was an ingenious move. The Empress made it clear she wouldn't entertain marriage—not yet—but now the king can work around that. Keep Pendwick close. Build something. Eventually…"
He trailed off with a soft shake of his head, like a man stuck in a puzzle he couldn't solve.
His small eyes flicked to the hearth. "So what now, son? What's the plan?"
Bruno felt the shift in the room then. Like everything, it held its breath.
Lady Funda pressed forward, her hand still wrapped in her husband's, the other clutched over her chest. Her voice quivered with too much hope.
"Yes, what now?" she repeated, clinging to the question. "What is the next plan?"
Everyone did. Red eyes all watching and waiting. Every breath held tight in throats. The fire crackled—soft, hollow, like a dying thing.
And still, Lord Mykhol didn't move.
Seconds stretched. Became something fragile. Bruno's ears picked up the faint click of wood settling in the beams above them. The scratch of someone's sleeve brushing silk.
Then Lady Funda broke. A loud gulp of air. Too loud. Her mask cracked. Just slightly.
"Son? Did you hear me?" Her hand hovered now, reaching for his shoulder like a cautious mother to a sleeping child. "Son, what are we to—"
Mykhol abruptly rose to his feet like black smoke. The sudden motion made her jump back, startled. Her hand jerked to her chest. He didn't look at her.
"I need to think about this." He answered, his vermilion eyes dark and then bright against the flames. Shifting between two extremes. "I need time."
"Time? But Mykhol, we can't." Lady Funda turned to her husband quickly, seeing him nod with her in agreement before coming back."We need something now or-"
The sound shattered the room. A thunderclap of knuckles meeting stone.
Her words cut off as all eyes snapped to Mykhol. His arm was still raised, blood splattering the wall like some grotesque signature. A gaping crater remained where his fist had struck, stone split open to reveal raw white beneath—almost like bone.
As Mykhol pulled back, a wide, raw crater in the white stone marked where his fist had struck—blood smeared across the surface like rust blooming on ivory. Blood dripped from his hand in heavy, rhythmic beats, falling to the rug beneath him in dull thuds. The red soaked into the fabric, darkening it like rot spreading through fruit. He didn't clutch the wound. Didn't try to stop the bleeding. Just let it spill. The hand hung limp at his side as if boneless, fractured, forgotten.
But no sound of pain came from him. No hiss. No gasp. His back was ramrod straight, unmoving as the hush deepened again.
When he did speak, it was like a door creaking open in an empty house–Soft. Hollow. Lifeless. "I said, I will come up with something." Mykhol kept his back to them. His face bright and then dark in the flames. " Just give me time."
"Oh," Lady Funda forced a breath, nodding in short bursts. "Yes. I see. You... need time." Her voice was paper-thin. She turned to Lord Charles, who only stared, the weight of the scene dragging the words from his throat before they could form.
But Mykhol was finished with them.
"You may go." He motioned with the same bloodied hand, the gesture lazy, almost regal—like he was dismissing courtiers at court. Blood still clung to his fingers, catching the light with a slick shine. The sharp scent of iron bloomed in the room, staining the air with something ancient and metallic. It hung there, thick and sour, as if the room itself had been wounded.
His parents didn't argue. Lady Funda grabbed Lord Charles' arm like a lifeline. "We all shall leave you." Her voice shook, but she masked it with purpose as she turned. Her tunic slapped against her legs as she hurried out—no longer graceful, nearly running.
Mama, however, remained still, her wide eyes locked on the blood glistening at Mykhol's side. She blinked, coming back to herself. "But the blood—" she murmured. "I should clean—"
"Shut up and get out, you stupid girl." Lady Funda didn't even glance back as she barked it, yanking her husband along behind her. "Mykhol needs to be alone now."
Bruno rose to his feet. The dragon was gone. The yelling stopped. Safe.
But Mama didn't. She stared too long. She was watching him—not Lord Mykhol, but the blood. Watching it pool at his feet. Something about her expression flickered between concern and… something cold.
"But Lord Mykhol," Mama beseeched softly. "Your hand. At least, let me clean that—"
The young lord shook his head, raising his hand.
"It's better you go, Naska." Mykhol's voice was slightly softer, as if affectionate, barely. But it was only when he turned to gaze over his shoulder that his eyes landed on Bruno, for the first time since entering the room. A flicker passed over his face—something almost like pride. But it wasn't meant for Mama. It wasn't about her at all.
"You did well today." Bruno froze. The words slipped inside him like cold fingers, curling tight around something tender. That tone, that look—he'd never seen it on Mykhol's face before. Not directed at him. It felt wrong. Like mold growing where flowers should be. Was he supposed to feel proud?
He didn't.
"Keep on watching them. Report everything that happens if I'm not there myself."Mykhol ordered, already turning away. His boots padded quietly over the rug, red soaking deeper into the fibers. "You'll be rewarded."
The door to the next room closed behind him. The silence he left behind was worse than before.
Rewarded? Bruno's brow twitched. His stomach clenched. He didn't want anything from that man. He didn't want to know what "rewarded" meant. It sounded like poison wrapped in ribbon.
Bad man.
His fingers slipped into his pocket, finding the small piece of cloth. The embroidered "A" pressed softly into his skin just as his mother shifted. Her senses finally came back from shock after a moment to become cheerful.
"Did you hear that?" she cooed, pulling him close and planting a kiss on his head. Her smile stretched wide across her face.
"Your Daddy said you did a good job." Her eyes glittered with joy. Not for him—for the praise. As if it meant something.
Bruno couldn't share the feeling. Bruno didn't feel joy. He didn't feel proud. She was smiling too widely again, like the words were candy in her mouth. But to him, they tasted bitter. That man's praise meant nothing. Nothing about him matters.
Only Ana mattered.
And I don't like that Sir Pendwick, either. He was a knave. Even if Ana didn't see it, he could. That thin boy looked just like when Mama looked at Lord Mykhol.
It was icky. Bad.
He didn't like it at all.
Bruno gripped the small white cloth as he frowned. Why were there so many bad people around Ana? Why was everyone trying to get at her?
No, he would protect her from him too, just like all of them. Bruno vowed. He would defend Ana. Be her knight. From the boy. From the dragon. From the wizard. And Especially–
"I didn't do it for the bad man."
"What, honey?" Naska blinked, lost in her own coos to hear him just now. "Did you say something?
Bruno shook his head with a wage of his choppy mop of hair. "Can we go now?"
Mama sighed heavily, but nodded with one lingering glance to the door beyond. The one Mykhol left behind.
"Yes, we should go, I suppose. Your Daddy needs time to think." Mama took his hand to lead him out. Before closing the door behind him, Bruno stole one last look. The blood was still wet on the wall, but what had already hit the carpet was starting to dry. Turning a dull, ugly brown.
That color.
He remembered something Ana had read to him in one of their lessons. About how some people were more beautiful on the inside than outside. To never judge someone by their looks.
But Bruno couldn't help but think that maybe, the opposite was true too. Maybe some people were just ugly all the way through. Bruno looked down at the blood. That rotten color.
He tightened his grip on Mama's hand, and they left the room behind.
Ugly like him.
*Mykhol*
It was only when he heard the door shut behind him that Mykhol let himself fall back against it. The hardwood struck his spine —solid, unyielding. It jolted him, anchored him. Something real in a moment when everything else felt like it was collapsing inward. Like the walls were breathing. Pressing, crushing, wrapping around his chest like a vice.
His hand throbbed. Bones shifted and cracked, grinding back into place. Fire flared under his skin, searing pain crawling up his arm until it felt like it might burst. Enough to make him want to cry out.
But if he could, a scream would shatter and fall useless to the floor. He bit it down. He had to.
Screaming was for the weak, and he wasn't weak. He couldn't be. He couldn't afford to be. Not when everything depended on him keeping the threads from unraveling. But they were. Gods, they were.
Pressure thundered in his skull, a storm he couldn't shut out. It blurred his thoughts, made his heart thrash behind his ribs. The very people who depended on him—his parents—were now looking to him. They wanted him to fix it. Of course they did. Who else would?
Because he had insisted on veering off the original plan, he wanted to marry Ana. Keep her. Rule beside her. Not to dispose of her. And now, because of that shift—because he had insisted on a different path–it was his problem to fix. Make it work!
Mykhol cracked his lips to suck air in, filling his lungs to the point of pain, exhaling it all out, doing it again, trying to make up for what was like holding his breath back there. It had been unbearable before; the pressure was burning inside him, but he didn't want to show it.
I have to be looking calm and in control—everyone expected him to be—but that was the furthest from the truth. He was not calm. It felt like everything was slipping through his fingers. AGAIN.
Damn that man! King Alexander going behind my back? And with such a terrible lie as a court assistant?
"Pendwick," Mykhol remembered Lady Katya's party. It was his fault that sparked the whole thing, Mykhol blamed.
If he had just stayed away to begin with, like everyone else, it would not have happened. If he didn't dare sit with Ana. If he hadn't made her laugh and smile like that- He saw it again—her head tilted back, that silver hair catching the light, her laugh spilling out with warmth, sweet and delicate. Like she could be happy without him. To be happy with someone else. Giving that boy the warmth he had fought tooth and nail to earn.
For him. The boy. That fragile, fangless imp that wasn't supposed to happen.
Not when Mykhol had fought so hard. Not when he had bled for her, planned for her, waited for her.
And now Pendwick would be near her. Talking. Sitting close, touching her. Mykhol's throat closed around the thought.
No. He wouldn't allow it. He couldn't.
Ana belonged to him.
Mykhol scrubbed a hand over his face, but Pendwick's face clung to his memory like grease. But no matter how hard he tried, the boy stuck—burrowed deep like a splinter under the nail. Infecting everything. There was no way to relieve the itch.
And now he was going to see him with Ana? Be around her? Talk to her? Touch her?
No. Mykhol's stomach turned. No, he wouldn't have it. He wouldn't allow it. No one else would ever have Ana. She belonged to him. She was meant to.
"But what if it's not enough?" The thought pierced deeper than the pain in his hand. What if all the time, all the sacrifices, all the devotion had never mattered? What if she only saw him as a cousin—someone to lean on, but never choose?
What if she were already choosing someone else?
A distance– he could feel it. Something was splitting them apart. She was starting to change. Refusing him.
Mykhol's mind flashed to the white scarf burning in the fire. Then, she openly chose her father's idea in court.
It was her father. She listened to HIS voice now. She chose His idea to survey instead of attacking the Bulgeons. The great King Alexander had her wrapped around his finger. He was corrupting her. Just like that, the maid had.
Why did they sway her more than he did? It shouldn't be. He was the one who stayed. He had always been here. He was the one who mattered. But he could feel it—his grip loosening. The tether unraveling like silver strands of her hair, slithering from his fingers, glinting just out of reach. Growing father away.
Panic slithered through his ribs. He was losing her.
"No," he hissed through clenched teeth, voice shaking. "I'm not losing her."
He looked down. Dried blood crusted over his knuckles, the scent coppery and sharp. His fangs pulsed. He wiped it away with his tunic, scrubbing harder, as if he could scrape off the panic crawling beneath his skin.
He would fix this. He would get everything back. More.
That damned king couldn't stay forever. When he left, Mykhol would take his rightful place—in her ear, at her side, in her life. Because he was family. That meant something to Ana. It always had.
Pendwick couldn't compare. That fragile, half-fanged nothing. He didn't know her.
But Mykhol did.
He was everything Ana needed. And she trusted him now—finally. That hadn't come easily. He'd earned it. And damned if he was going to let some outsider steal it away.
"Ana would choose me," he whispered. "She has to." Because he deserved her.
Because he loved her.
Every woman wanted him. Every nobleman respected him. He was Lord Mykhol—the perfect heir, the future of Nochten. He was everything Ana was meant to choose. Even if her father tried to parade another man in front of her, she wouldn't fall for it. She wouldn't.
She couldn't. Mykhol was confident.
But then why was his chest still aching? Why did her distance feel like a cliff edge under his heels?
Mykhol exhaled hard, hands trembling, gripping the edges of his tunic until the seams strained. He needed something—something warm. Something real. Silver-haired and sandalwood-scented. Wide-eyed and soft-voiced.
Ana.
But she was still just out of reach.
Not yet, he told himself.
"Fine," he muttered, eyes dark. "Play your games, King Alexander."
I'll win.
Because Pendwick was a stranger, and Mykhol was home. Ana would see that.
He pressed his hand to his chest. It still hurt. A slow, dull throb, like something had broken inside. But it was proof. Of how deep this ran. Of how much he deserved her.
"I deserve her," he breathed.
"Little Ana..." His voice dropped to a murmur, soft and possessive. His lips brushed the memory of that kiss, right before her coronation. He'd stolen it. It was quick, but enough. That was twice now. Two kisses. And each time, she didn't push away.
Not that time. No, something had shifted in her expression.
Her scarlet-colored eyes had lifted to his, wide with surprise, softened by something else. Something uncertain. Her full lower lip had parted, trembling as if a word might fall from it but never did.
She didn't even realize what she was doing. But he did. He knew exactly what that expression meant.
Mykhol's breath caught, still and sharp. The memory hung in his mind, suspended like dust in golden light. A fragile thing. Precious. Dangerous.
That moment hadn't been confusing. It was—
He blinked.
It was awakening. A flicker of something unconscious finally coming to life.
It hadn't been in her words—Ana rarely gave him those. But in her stillness, in that little breath between her parted lips, he had felt it.
His pulse slowed—just for a second. Time contracted, like the world was holding its breath with him.
She's starting to see me.
His precious little cousin. His quiet little bookworm who used to hide in corners with parchment and ink, who never seemed to notice anything that wasn't direct, wasn't logical—she was finally starting to open her eyes.
Not just as a cousin. Not as family. She was starting to see him as a man.
The thought rooted deep in his chest, so quiet it almost felt like peace. Almost.
And then— It caught fire.
A sharp breath clawed out of him, sudden and feral. Hope surged hot and unchecked, tearing through his ribs with a fury he could barely contain.
It was working.
She might not understand it yet—not with her mind. But her body, her eyes, her lips—he saw it. Felt it.
And if it was there, he would bring it out. Drag it to the surface. Make her see it. Make her say it.
Because if she was starting to respond, even just a little—he had to push harder. Be bolder. Take more.
No more waiting. No more silent offerings, no more subtle glances. He had waited long enough.
He would sear himself into her mind.
Not that half-fanged reject she laughed with back then. Not her cursed father, whispering promises of freedom and future. Not even him. That half-brother who looked at her with those ugly sapphire eyes too long, who dared to steal her away, steal her from HIM.
He would tear them all out of her mind. Rip them from her heart until there was only him. He would leave her nowhere else to look.
He would be the only thing she saw when she closed her eyes. The only voice she heard when she dreamed. The only presence in every breath she took.
After all these years, she was beginning to feel it.
Beginning to feel him.
His spine pressed against the wood as he leaned back, unblinking. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven waves.
Then, slowly, he looked down at his hand. The one he had smashed through the stone with. Losing control. Couldn't stop himself.
Faded blood still crusted the knuckles. The worst of the gashes had sealed, but bruises bloomed dark and deep, shadows of black and purple painting the bone beneath his skin.
It still throbbed. But he didn't care.
He brought it up. Curled the fingers into a fist. And squeezed. Harder.
Bone grated bone. Something cracked—once, twice—until a sharp pop echoed through the still room.
He didn't flinch. Didn't feel it.
A soft, breathy laugh escaped his lips. It was shaky, almost giddy. His eyes blazed, wide and bright.
"Mine," he said again, louder this time.
MINE.