It started with the wind.
Not the kind that whispers through trees or cools your skin—but something heavier. Thicker. It slammed against the windows of Ariana Bell's small apartment like fists, making the glass tremble.
She froze where she stood, half-dressed in her bedroom, her hoodie hanging loosely over a tank top. She clutched her phone, the screen still glowing from her last text.
Another gust. The lights flickered once… then died.
Everything went black.
Her chest tightened. This wasn't just a storm. The air felt off—too quiet, too charged. She stepped back from the window, instinct telling her to move, to hide. But she'd only taken two steps when she felt it.
Someone—or something—was behind her.
She spun around.
Nothing.
She reached for her flashlight, fumbling in the drawer. The silence in the room felt deafening. Every shadow suddenly seemed deeper. Watching.
Then, a cold breath touched the side of her neck.
She screamed—but a hand clamped over her mouth. Ice ran through her veins. Another hand snatched her wrist, and then a second, stronger grip wrapped around her waist.
Three figures stepped out of the darkness. Pale. Tall. Inhuman. Their eyes gleamed like molten gold in the dark.
She kicked, thrashed, clawed—but they didn't flinch. Her fists hit solid, unmovable bodies. Like statues. No grunts. No reaction. They didn't need to speak.
She wasn't escaping.
A bag was thrown over her head. Everything went black again, and a deep voice murmured, "Lord Damien is waiting."
She didn't know where they were taking her. Or who that was.
But his name would be seared into her memory by the end of the night.
---
Ten Hours Later
The bag was ripped from her head.
Ariana blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to the sudden, dim lighting. Her wrists were still bound in front of her with something thick and leather-like. Her mouth was dry. Her legs felt weak.
They'd kept her unconscious most of the ride. Drugged, maybe. She had no idea where she was—underground, possibly. The walls were stone, carved with ancient patterns and symbols she couldn't recognize.
And then she saw him.
He was standing at the end of the room, just a few feet from an ornate black throne. He wore a black dress shirt unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled up, revealing strong forearms. Dark hair, tousled like it had been run through too many times. Tall. Broad shoulders. No emotion on his face.
But his eyes…
Burning red. Not like some contact lens. They glowed. Like fire behind glass. They locked on hers.
She couldn't look away.
"You brought her untouched?" His voice was low, like a threat.
"Yes, my lord," one of the servants replied. "She's pure."
He stepped closer.
Ariana tried to step back, but there was nowhere to go. Her knees hit the edge of a velvet bench. He moved like smoke—one second across the room, the next right in front of her. Close enough to touch.
He inhaled sharply.
"Virgin blood," he said, almost to himself. "Rare. Clean. Unsullied."
She snapped out of her daze. "Let me go. You have no right—"
He grabbed her chin, tilting her face up. Not gently.
"I have every right," he said coldly. "You've been mine from the moment I marked you in your sleep."
She stared at him, horror crawling up her spine. "You're insane."
"No," he said, leaning in, voice barely above a whisper. "I'm hungry."
His fangs slid down slowly. Deliberately. White. Sharp. Inhuman.
She didn't scream this time.
She was too terrified to make a sound.