Caralee had scarcely begun to grow accustomed to the velvet hush of her new chambers when a knock fell on the heavy door like the tolling of a distant bell. Her maids, fluttering about her like anxious doves arranging linens and adjusting drapes, paused and looked toward it. The eldest among them hurried to answer.
It was Jacobo.
The man was ever an imposing presence—not in stature, for he was slight of build, but in manner. His voice, cool and clipped, carried a gravity that commanded obedience. He waited in the hall, eyes cast downward in a performative gesture of deference.
"The King requests your presence at dinner this evening," he said once the maids had curtsied and slipped quietly from the room. "Until then, you are to remain within your chambers."
Caralee stepped into the threshold, but before she could question him, the door was closed firmly behind her. A sound clicked from the outside—a lock.
She was a prisoner.
The silence that followed was oppressive. The chamber, grand though it was, felt suddenly smaller. She turned slowly, the satin hem of her borrowed gown whispering against the polished stone floor. Her heart, or what was left of it, seemed to shrink into itself. She drifted toward the high-arched window and leaned against the cold sill, the faintest sliver of the moon visible between the drawn velvet drapes.
Why was she here? Why her?
Tears welled in her eyes as that question turned inward, hollowing her from within. She was no one. A servant girl. A forgotten child of a dead revolution. Whatever grandeur surrounded her now felt like a cruel jest. Her shoulders trembled as the first sob escaped her lips, raw and uncertain. She pressed her hand to her mouth and folded in on herself. Guilt, heavy and sticky, crept over her skin like frostbite.
Donovan.
His name echoed in her mind like a ghost. She had betrayed him. Allowed herself to be taken. Touched. Turned. The memory of Merrick's kiss—his hands, his fire, the unearthly thrill of the blood—sent fresh waves of confusion crashing over her. And though she had been swept into it, somewhere inside, a piece of her still clung to Donovan. Still loved him.
Hours passed in a haze of dread before the door clicked open again. Jacobo stood framed in the light beyond.
"It is time."
The maids returned, their voices hushed, their movements swift and deliberate. They combed her red hair until it gleamed, and laced her into a gown that shimmered like spilled ink beneath candlelight. A delicate dusting of rouge brought color back to her cheeks, and her lips were stained a soft crimson to match the blood-red silk of her bodice. When they were done, Jacobo returned to escort her.
The journey through the corridors was winding, like a descent through time itself. Yet she noticed something odd—they never walked the main halls. Every path was dimly lit, every turn avoiding the grand staircases and ballrooms. And though Merrick called himself king, she saw no subjects. No courtiers. No nobles whispering behind gloved hands.
Where were they all?
Finally, they arrived at an immense set of doors carved with ornate filigree and ancient symbols. When the heavy panels groaned open, her breath caught.
The dining room was cathedral-like in scale, its high ceiling gilded and domed, painted with scenes of night skies, stars, and strange beasts. A long table stretched down the center, but only two places had been set—one at each end.
She was led to her chair. Her fingers trembled as they brushed the cool flatware.
And then he entered.
Merrick strode in with the casual grace of a panther, cloaked in black and shadow, his dark hair falling in loose waves. Caralee rose immediately and dipped into a deep curtsy, bowing her head with practiced humility.
"My Lord," she murmured.
He bowed in return—a subtle nod, noble and controlled.
Then he dismissed the servants with a single wave.
The echo of the closing door was deafening.
As soon as they were alone, he moved. Swift and decisive, he crossed the space and swept her into his arms, his lips claiming hers in a kiss full of restrained fire.
"I have thought of nothing but you all day," he whispered against her lips. "Your absence has tormented me."
She was stiff in his embrace.
They sat.
Her brows furrowed as she glanced down at the elaborate feast before them. Roasted pheasant, fresh greens, thick slices of honeyed bread—food. Real food.
"I didn't know vampires could eat," she said softly, uncertainly. "I thought... I thought I was dead. My heart doesn't beat. I feel confused. I don't understand what I am."
Merrick laughed, a low sound like wine being poured.
She blushed and looked down.
"So you truly know nothing," he said, amused. But when he saw the hurt in her eyes, the amusement faded.
"I'm sorry," she said, her voice cracking. "Everyone keeps acting surprised by what I don't know, but how could I know? I was human just two days ago. I didn't even know vampires existed."
Tears rolled down her cheeks. She shook her head. "I don't know what's happening. I don't know why I'm here. I'm not special. I'm nothing."
Merrick stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor.
He moved to her and gently took her wrist, pulling her to her feet.
"Come with me."
Through another series of passages they walked, until at last they entered a study—massive, candlelit, walls lined with ancient tomes and scrolls. Dust hovered like breath in the air.
He moved with purpose, selecting a few heavy books from a shelf and laying them on a long oak table, then retrieving rolled parchments from a cabinet.
Caralee wandered to the shelves, scanning titles. Some were in languages she didn't recognize. Others glimmered oddly under the flickering candlelight.
"Sit," he said.
She obeyed.
"Tell me," he said, his voice gentler now, "what do you know of your parents?"
She blinked. "Nothing, really. My adoptive mother only told me that my mother was her friend. My father... didn't even know I existed."
Merrick smiled, wry and knowing.
"Then she lied to protect you. Your father knew. He knew well enough to negotiate a marriage contract for you—with me."
She stared, mouth slightly open. "What?"
"You were promised to me as an infant. A pact between two great lines."
Her voice shook. "But why? I was just a peasant. Just... human."
He chuckled again, indulgent.
"Blood, Caralee. Blood decides all."
He opened one of the books and turned to an elaborate illustration of four regal figures.
"There are four ruling vampire houses: De Meara, Vaomir, Ennok, and Rügl. Our territories are not marked by land but by lineage. Our domains intermingle. We rule over bloodlines, not borders. And blood—blood is everything."
He spoke of traditions, of alliances sealed through marriage, of children gifted with rare traits passed down through blood. Of power inherited, bartered, and traded.
"Your blood is ancient," he said. "It carries potential. And through you, an alliance was forged."
Caralee slumped back in her chair, her eyes wide.
"This is all too much," she whispered. "It's too complicated."
Merrick gave her a small smile.
"Yes," he said. "But it is the way of our world."