Anwen Valdemar.
That was the name Dorian had given her.
It was strange to have a name. A real one. Not "girl." Not "you." Not "vessel." When the doctor or the maids said it out loud, she almost didn't answer because she forgot it belonged to her.
She had been in his house for a whole week now. A week of warm food, clean blankets, and voices that weren't shouting at her.
The mornings always began with Laia. A sixteen years old vampire, with freckles on her nose and a braid that swung when she walked. Laia was her maid, though Anwen didn't know what that truly meant. She only knew Laia was kind.
"Lift your arms," Laia said gently, holding out a dress.
Anwen obeyed. The fabric was soft, not scratchy. It smelled of lavender. The sleeves puffed at the shoulders, trimmed with lace. When Laia tied the ribbon at the back, Anwen glanced at herself in the tall mirror by the wall. She hardly knew the girl staring back.
She kept tugging at the sleeves, afraid she would tear them just by moving. The fabric slid against her skin like water.
"Hold still," Laia scolded gently, pinning a ribbon into place. The older girl's hands were quick and practiced, but not rough. "You'll wrinkle it if you keep fidgeting."
Anwen wrinkled her nose. "It's itchy."
Laia laughed. "That's because you've never worn silk before."
Silk. She didn't know what that was, only that it was too nice for her. Dresses, shoes, ribbons, warm baths—everything had been too nice since she woke up in this house. She kept waiting for someone to take it away.
Laia tied the last ribbon, then crouched down so their faces were level. "There. All done. Now you look like the Duke's daughter."
Anwen blinked. Her chest fluttered strangely at the words. "The Duke's…daughter?"
"Yes," Laia said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You have a name now. Anwen. It means 'fair and blessed.'" She smiled. "The master chose it himself. Don't you like it?"
"I do," Anwen said in a heartbeat.
Laia smiled and tugged her braid. "Well, it suits you."
Breakfast always came next, on trays that were too heavy for her to lift. Fluffy bread. Jams the color of jewels. Steaming tea with honey. There was always too much.
At first, she nibbled slowly, afraid it might be snatched away. But Laia would only shake her head and say, "Eat. There's more where that came from."
More. That word still felt like magic.
The rest of the days blurred together—resting, learning where the halls led, staring at the painted ceilings and whispering her name to herself.
Anwen. Anwen. Anwen.
But there were nightmares too. Memories of the Duke before Dorian. Roarke. His hands. His eyes when she couldn't cleanse him anymore. His voice saying she was his, always his.
She told Dorian she had been Roarke's prisoner, but no more. Not about being a Fae. Not about the things she could do. If he knew…if anyone knew… would they use her again?
Her chest tightened at the thought.
It was on the eighth day, while exploring, that she met him. The Young Master.
Dorian was away, so her days were quiet. Laia told her she should rest, but rest was boring. So Anwen started walking the halls. The house was huge, filled with windows and carpets and paintings whose eyes seemed to follow her. She tiptoed past guards and servants, clutching her skirt whenever she thought she was lost.
She had turned a corner too quickly and slammed into something solid. Not a wall. But a person.
He caught her shoulders to steady her, then let go immediately as if she burned. Crimson eyes glared down at her. His hair was flame-red and his gaze was too sharp for his age.
"You," he said flatly, as if she were dirt on his boot.
Anwen froze. Her mouth opened but nothing came out.
His gaze swept over her dress, her shoes, her hair ribbon. Then his jaw tightened. "So you're the stray Father dragged in."
Her heart dropped into her stomach as she gripped her sleeves, fear creeping back slowly.
He didn't move closer. Only tilted his head, studying her like something unwanted. Then his lip curled. "Stay out of my way."
He strode off, boots echoing on the marble floor.
Anwen stood there, shaking. She wanted to cry, but no tears came. She only whispered to herself—her name—like a secret charm.
Anwen. Anwen. Anwen.
As if the name alone could keep her safe.
Laia searched through the halls of the estate, her slippers brushing softly against the polished floor. She checked the library, the music room, even the kitchens—but Anwen was nowhere to be found. With a frown, she hurried out to the gardens, calling out softly.
"Lady Anwen? Where are you?"
She spotted a small figure sitting among the roses, knees tucked to her chest. Anwen's pale hair gleamed faintly in the sunlight, and she looked very small against the wide spread of flowers.
Laia sighed in relief and walked over. "There you are. I've been looking all over."
Anwen glanced up with clouded eyes. "I saw him," she whispered.
"Who?" Laia crouched in front of her.
"The young master. Aimes." Anwen's fingers twisted in her lap. "He…doesn't want me here."
Laia's face softened. "That's just how he is. Don't let it trouble you too much."
"But he's the duke's real child," Anwen said quietly. "And I'm only…" She trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
Laia reached out and brushed a strand of hair behind Anwen's ear. "Master Aimes is cold to everyone. Even me, and I've served here for years."
Anwen blinked at her, as though unsure whether to believe her or not.
"Come on," Laia said, standing. "The physician is waiting. It's been two weeks now, remember? He has to check how you're doing."
Reluctantly, Anwen rose and followed her through the halls.
The physician, a blond haired man with gentle hands, greeted them in her room. He had a leather book open on the desk where he kept notes.
"Let's see…" he muttered, flipping a page. "Two weeks ago, your body was weak. Your pulse faint, your blood pressure too low. You barely had the strength to sit up." He adjusted his glasses and looked at Anwen. "And now?"
He checked her wrist, his fingers cool on her skin. He nodded slowly. "Much steadier. You've gained weight, and your breathing is no longer shallow. Quite the improvement."
Anwen's lips curved in a shy, uncertain smile. It was the first one all morning.
"See?" Laia nudged her gently. "You're getting stronger. Don't let Master Aimes take that smile away."