The rain clattered against the stained glass
windows like a lover desperate to be let in.
Thunder rumbled in the distance echoing
through the forest like a warning.
In the dim candle light of the master bedroom, Aristarkh Mikhailov was at the edge on the bed, sweat glistening on his back, his silver hair clung to his neck, a cigarette in hand, he took a long drag, his breathing heavy — it was not from satisfaction, but irritation and disappointment.
Behind him laid Vivika Dragunova, on the crimson sheets, her red hair fanned over the pillow like blood spilled across snow.
"why didn't you cum" she asked, her voice annoyed and breathless.
Aristarkh stood up slowly, took a long drag and
picked up a red robe, tied it around his waist
and walked to the window, looking at the dawn.
"You faked it," he muttered, taking a long drag of his cigarette.
"I did not!" she snapped, sitting up, her
breast heaving. "You're just insatiable. No one can please you."
He took another drag of his cigarette and
exhaled the smoke towards the high ceiling.
"No," he said coldly. "They just don't lose control."
Vivika sneered. "Maybe you're the one that is broken."
He didn't flinch, just stared at the window, taking a long drag of his cigarette and exhaling it.
He walked up to her.
"You can go"
"Go?" She hissed. "You drag—" before she
could finish her sentence, he wrapped his hand around her neck and slammed her against the wall.
"How dare you question me? How dare you talk back?!" She gasps for air, struggling against his grip.
"I-im sorry." she whispered He took the cigarette and stubbed it on her left breast.
"Ahhh" she screamed.
"Shh, what did I say about apologies, you know that I hate that word."He says coldly and fling the cigarette with his finger across the room. He released her, letting her fall to the floor.
"I didn't cum." the words sliced sharper than any blade.
"Why?" Vivika asked, confused, rubbing her neck in a soothing manner, her hands on her left breast where he stubbed his cigarette
"You didn't squirt" He pulled out another cigarette, lighting it and exhaled smoke towards the ceiling
"Don't tell me you're still obsessed about that thing." She muttered, annoyed.
He took a long drag of his cigarette "I want someone who will fall apart in my arms, who will squirt like a fountain, whose pleasure is real!" he muttered angrily.
"They're rare, very rare," she said jealously.
"I know," he muttered angrily, taking another drag of his cigarette. "I've waited a century, I'm not stopping till I find her."
"What will happen when you find her?" she asked curiously with a slightly jealous tone.
He chuckles darkly."She won't be able to walk again—leave" he muttered, quietly.
"I hope you don't find her."She stood up, picking up her clothes and leaving the room quietly.
Aristarkh walked to the window, took one more drag of his cigarette— then froze. A scent. Not roses. Not blood. Not perfume. Warm milk and rain. Innocence. Need— a virgin. His cigarette fell from his fingers.He pulled open the cotton quickly. A car had just arrived at the gates. Through the window, he saw a girl stepping out, dragging a small bag behind her. She looked— young. Twenty one maybe or even twenty.
Wet long white hair clung to her cheeks. She clutched her arms to her chest. One foot forward into the estate— and his body burned.His pupils dilate, his body reacts. His fangs ache, his claws pulse beneath his skin.
She smells like everything he's been hunting. Innocence. Surrender. Real pleasure. He wants to taste her— no. He wants to ruin her.
"Mine" he whispered.His fangs extended.
Downstairs, in the darkness, Anastasia Mireille stepped through the gates of hell with no idea what beast she had just awakened. The entrance hall looked like the belly of a cathedral, its shadowed walls whispering secrets in languages long dead. Anastasia stood there, water dripping from her coat onto the polished marble floor. Her small fingers trembled around the handle of her small suitcase.
A tall woman approached. Grey hair pulled into a light bun. Cold eyes. "You're late"— she snapped. "The head maid doesn't tolerate tardiness"
Masha kazakova. Her reputation had reached Anastasia even before she entered th estate.
The woman who once slapped a girl for coming one second late to work. "I–I'm sorry," I whispered.
"Sorry won't clean the floors." Masha turned. "Follow me. And don't drag your feet."
I obeyed, my steps echoed through the long hallway. The mansion was cold. Silent. I trembled. It felt less like a home and more like a den. It felt like the chandelier craft was watching me. Like someone was watching me.
We passed maids dressed in black, some stared, others whispered. I caught some whispers from other maids: "new girl," "pity." and something else I didn't understand. Masha stopped in her tracks. "You'll sleep here."The room was small, clean, and freezing.There was a bed, a small bathroom, a small wardrobe, and an exposed window with no bars. I bowed my head.
"Thank you," I said quietly Masha's gaze narrowed. "Your shifts begin at dawn. You're to do as you're told. You never enter the West Wing. And you never speak to Mr. Mikhailov unless spoken to. Understand?" "Y-yes."
The door closed behind me. I let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding. I peeled off my wet coat. Rain was still on my skin. My white hair clung to my back, curling slightly from the damp. I removed my clothes and changed into soft silk wear. I walked to the small mirror on the wall.
"It's just a job," I whispered to myself. "Three months, just three months. Just enough to pay for Anya's treatment." Lightning cracked outside. I jumped. It's
one of the things I'm scared of.
From the third floor, a shadow moved. Aristarkh leaned against the wall, his eyes glowing red. His fangs extended.He had felt her the moment she crossed the threshold. Her scent was still in the air. It disturbed him, it made him mad, curling around
him like a forbidden melody. He gritted his teeth, his claws ached to grab her soul. His fangs craved her blood.
"Control yourself," he muttered. But the beasts inside him growled with hunger. She had no idea what she was walking into and he had no intention of letting her walk out.