The rain had stopped, but the sky over Valeblack remained the color of bruised metal. Seraphina's skin still hummed with the memory of him—his voice like silk, his scent like smoke and winter. She hadn't learned his name, but she couldn't stop whispering him in her mind.
The next day passed in a haze. Her fingertips tingled. Her eyes burned in the sunlight. She kept glancing at mirrors, wondering if something about her had changed. Had he marked her somehow? Or had she always felt this strange—restless, warm, hollow in her chest like she was missing something essential?
By nightfall, she found herself standing outside the iron gates of House D'Argent again.
They opened before she touched them.
No guards. No explanation. Just the soft whisper of hinges and the pull of fate.
The mansion was silent this time, the great hall dark. Shadows stretched long and deep across the marble, and the floating candles from the night before were extinguished. Still, she stepped inside.
"Foolish," a voice murmured from the upper balcony.
She turned. He was there—Lucien—no mask this time.
His face was sharply beautiful: high cheekbones, pale lips, and eyes that caught every scrap of light like a predator's. His silver hair fell loose around his shoulders, and he wore a black shirt half unbuttoned, exposing a chest crisscrossed with faint scars.
He descended slowly, like a god surveying a sacrifice.
"You were warned."
"No," she said. "I was invited."
He reached her in two steps. "You don't understand what this place is. What I am."
His closeness was unbearable. Every breath between them was a spark.
"Then explain it to me," she whispered. "Why do you keep looking at me like you want to devour me?"
Lucien's hands clenched at his sides.
"Because I do."
He circled her, voice low and rough. "You walk through a den of monsters with no blade, no fear. Do you know how long it's been since I've tasted real blood? Since I let myself want anything?"
She didn't move. "Then take what you want."
His hands were on her in an instant—gripping her arms, pressing her against a stone pillar. His body caged hers, hard and cold and trembling with restraint. His mouth hovered above hers, lips parted, breath shallow.
"I shouldn't," he growled. "If I start, I won't stop."
She arched closer. "What if I don't want you to?"
Lucien cursed under his breath.
Then, slowly—agonizingly—he brought his lips to her neck.
He didn't bite. He inhaled.
A low sound rumbled from his chest, more beast than man.
"You're not like other mortals," he whispered. "You smell like ancient blood. Like fire and rain and ruin."
His tongue flicked against her skin.
Seraphina gasped.
Every nerve in her body lit up. Her thighs clenched. Her fingers dug into his shirt. And still, he did not bite—only dragged his lips down the column of her throat, kissing slowly, reverently, as if fighting himself every second.
"You're making this… very difficult," he said between kisses.
She tilted her head, exposing more skin. "Then stop pretending you're not a monster."
His fangs slid down.
White. Gleaming. Beautiful.
He groaned as they grazed her skin.
Then—
He tore himself away with a hiss and staggered back, eyes burning silver with fury and shame.
"Leave," he snapped. "Now. Before I forget who you are."
"I don't even know who you are."
His jaw clenched. "My name is Lucien D'Argent. Prince of this House. And if you stay… I will ruin you."
"I think I'm already ruined," she said softly.
He vanished again into the shadows, leaving her breathless, flushed, and hungry for more.