I wake up to the sensation of lying beside a freezer that somehow breathes. My eyes crack open to darkness—no, not darkness, dusk. The sky through the tall windows is that perfect bruised purple between day and night, and the first thing I register is the cold radiating from the body beside me.
Oh wait. That's just my husband.
I shift, rolling onto my back, and immediately those crimson eyes are on me. Not sleepy, not bleary—sharp and aware, like he's been watching the whole time. Talk about a light sleeper. Or maybe he never really sleeps. I yawn, the stretch pulling at my shoulders, and push myself up. My hair falls everywhere—the braid he tied last night has loosened into a cascade of half-curls.
"Good morning. Do you not sleep?" My voice is still rough with sleep.
"I sleep during the day." His tone is flat, but there's something almost soft in the way he says it.
I reach out and press two fingers to his eyelids, closing them. He doesn't flinch. "So you didn't sleep for the whole night?"
When I lift my fingers, he opens his eyes again—half-lidded this time, slower. "No."
"Then what did you do? Watch me sleep?"
He blinks. "Yes."
I tilt my head, letting my hair fall forward like a curtain. The words stick in my throat for a second. "Can I have a kiss?"
"No."
I frown. "Why?"
"Your breath stinks."
I pull back so fast I nearly topple off the bed, slapping my hand over my mouth. He smirks—a slow, cruel, gorgeous smirk that makes me want to throw a pillow at his stupid perfect face.
"Jerk." I grumble it into my palm, then yawn again and stretch my arms over my head. "Fine. I'm getting up anyway."
He stays where he is, lying stiff as a corpse, watching me with those ruby eyes as I swing my legs off the bed. It would be creepy if he wasn't total eye candy and an amazing kisser. Probably going to sleep now. Probably.
I pad across the cool black marble to my wardrobe—a whole new addition to the room, filled with clothes my family sent over. My side of the closet is a riot of color: soft blues, warm yellows, dusty pinks, creams. His side is a wall of black. We're a very aesthetically cohesive couple, clearly.
I pick out a light blue shirt with delicate lace at the collar, white shorts that hit mid-thigh, and a pair of long blue socks. Cute. Comfy. I tie my hair back with a soft cream ribbon, letting the loose waves frame my face, and dab on a bit of pink lipstick.
I look pretty. I like it.
I turn back to the bed. Eryth is still there, still staring. "Won't you have breakfast with me?" I ask, applying the last swipe of color to my bottom lip.
He blinks. For a moment I think he's actually fallen asleep with his eyes open—but then he says, "Breakfast."
"Yes. Breakfast. You know, food. In the morning. Well, dusk for you."
He sighs, a long-suffering sound, and sits up. "Okay."
He swings off the bed and walks toward the bathroom. I watch him go, admiring the way his black shirt falls over his shoulders—but then the bathroom door is still open, and suddenly he's right beside me. I barely have time to inhale before his lips press against mine.
Quick. Light. A peck, really. But it's warm and deliberate, and I catch the faint scent of his cologne before he pulls away and strides into the bathroom.
Jesus.
I stand there, frozen, my lips tingling. I hear the water run, and I think about crawling back into bed just to wait for him. But I don't. I smooth my shirt and head to the dining hall.
The dining hall is empty, the long mahogany table stretching out like a sea of polished wood under the chandelier's glow. All the vampires are asleep in their coffins or whatever they use. Except mine, apparently.
I hear his footsteps before I see him—soft, measured, the sound of someone who's used to moving silently but chooses not to. He appears in the doorway, and I have to stop myself from staring.
He's wearing a black collared shirt, ironed for once, with the top two buttons left open, revealing the pale column of his throat and the edge of a silver chain. Rings glint on his fingers, chains catch the light, and his hair falls in sharp dark layers around his face. He looks like he stepped out of a gothic novel cover.
"You look nice," I say, pulling out a chair.
He doesn't respond, just takes the seat across from me. A servant—human, I think, though I can't be sure—sets a plate of blueberry pancakes in front of me and a glass of deep crimson liquid in front of him. He picks up a knife and begins cutting a sad-looking vegetable on his plate with surgical precision, then sips his crimson drink slowly, bored.
I take a bite of my pancakes. They're perfect—fluffy, sweet, with bursts of blueberry that melt on my tongue. The chandelier above us casts prismatic light across the table. "This chandelier is so pretty. How old is it?"
He glances up. "Seventeenth century. Venetian."
"Huh. Fancy." I take another bite. "So, I thought vampires were allergic to silver."
He nods, still cutting. "Most of them are. Not me. That's why I wear it." He looks up, and the corner of his mouth lifts in a smile that's all sharp edges. "It's a good way to weed out the weak ones."
Oh, he's a fucking asshole. I love him.
I hide my grin behind another forkful of pancake. As he lifts his arm to sip from his glass, his sleeve rides up just enough for me to catch a flash of color. Pink. My hair scrunchie—the one he used to tie my braid last night—is wrapped around his wrist, hidden beneath his cuff.
I don't say anything. I just watch him for a moment longer, the way he tries to look disinterested even as his eyes flick to me every few seconds, checking if I'm still there. Still real.
My heart does a stupid little flutter.
"So," I say, setting down my fork. "What are your plans for the day? Sleep until sunset, then brood in a corner?"
He looks at me, raises an eyebrow. "I'll take a nap. Then I have to go somewhere."
I tilt my head. "Go somewhere?"
He cuts his dry vegetables with surgical precision, each slice landing in a neat row. "Friends."
"Can I go—"
"No."
I frown and sulk, stabbing a blueberry with my fork. The juice bursts against the porcelain. Across the table, he keeps cutting, but his movements slow — just a fraction, just enough for me to notice.
He blinks. "Do you want to do something?"
I sigh. "No… It's okay." I mumble it into my pancake, watching the syrup pool at the edges of my plate.
It's almost as if he wants me to tell him to stay. I don't though. We probably need some space. And I wanna unpack the rest of my luggage — my mother sent four crates, and I've barely opened two.
Silence settles between us as we eat. The chandelier casts fractured rainbows across the table. He sips his crimson drink. I chew my pancake. The air feels thin, stretched.
A servant walks by — the same one who served us earlier, dark hair pulled back, face unreadable. She clears a nearby table with practiced efficiency.
"Is she a human?" I ask, pointing.
He glances up. "No. She's a vampire. Some vampires can tone their features to look human. Like her skin. And her hair. Otherwise vampires usually just have black or white hair." He shrugs, bored, and takes another sip.
I lean forward, curiosity sparking. "Can you look human?"
He shakes his head. "I don't have that ability. My father does. And my second mother. And a few siblings."
"Were you born a vampire?"
He nods, cutting another slice of vegetable.
"Can you turn people into vampires?"
He shrugs. "Never done it before."
His eyes fall to the bandage on my neck — the white gauze visible above my collar, the twin punctures still healing beneath. Guilt presses him again. I see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his gaze drops to his plate like he can't bear to look at what he did.
I brush my foot up his leg.
He straightens up so fast his chair creaks. His eyes narrow at me — sharp, suspicious, that predator-watching-prey look he does so well.
I smirk.
The tension breaks. His shoulders relax, just barely. The guilt doesn't disappear, but it recedes, pushed back by the warmth I'm feeding into the space between us.
I ask more questions. What was it like growing up in a house with so many siblings? Did he ever fight in any vampire wars? How long did it take him to learn to control his hunger? My feet find their way between his, toes brushing against his shoes under the table. He answers in short sentences — clipped, reluctant, but answering. His feet don't move away.
The atmosphere warms again.
I learn that he has seventeen half-siblings he's never bothered to count. That the vampire wars ended before he was turned — born, I mean. That controlling hunger took him fifty years and he still isn't sure he's mastered it.
"Fifty years," I repeat, swirling my fork through the remaining syrup. "That's longer than I've been alive."
"You're young."
"I'm twenty-two."
"Young," he repeats, and there's something almost fond in the way he says it. "I've had wine older than you."
I laugh. He doesn't, but his lips twitch — that almost-smile I'm starting to recognize as his version of warmth.
When I finish my pancakes, he's still pushing his vegetables around his plate. The glass of crimson liquid is empty. He sets down his knife and fork with a precise click, aligning them perfectly with the edge of the plate.
"I'll be leaving after my nap." He says it like he's reminding himself. "I'll be back before you wake for dinner."
I nod, not trusting my voice. The idea of this empty house — no, estate — without him feels cavernous. But I don't say that. I have my books. My luggage. My own company.
He stands. For a moment he hovers, like there's something he wants to add. Then he turns and walks toward the doorway.
He stops at the threshold. Doesn't turn around. "There's a library in the east wing. Second floor." His voice is flat, but deliberate. "If you get bored."
Then he's gone. Footsteps fading down the stone corridor. The chandelier's light catches the spot where he stood, and I'm alone in the cavernous dining hall with empty plates and a slowly cooling glass of red.
I press my toes against the spot where his shoes were, still warm, and smile into my syrup-stained plate.