How long had I slept?

  It was a question I could answer without too much trouble. If things were still the same—if the sun hadn’t shifted its patterns or the world hadn’t ended while I lay unconscious—then I had merely slept through the day, as I always did. The ceiling above me, etched in gilded vines and bathed in cold silver moonlight, confirmed it. Night had returned.

  Good.

  What wasn’t good, however, was everything else.

  I exhaled softly and looked around. The bed beneath me was far too comfortable. Soft sheets, thicker than any blanket I’d used in centuries, cradled my frame like I was something precious. I couldn’t deny that I had slept—truly slept—for the first time in what felt like forever. Not a single interruption, no fitful tosses or icy awakenings in the middle of the day.

  And then I heard it.

  A breath.

  Slow, deep, human.

  I turned my head mechanically to the left, my face blank as stone. There he was—Markus. Slumped in a chair beside my bed like a sentry who’d died on duty, his chest rising and falling in measured rhythm.

  “Creepy,” I muttered to no one.

  I slid out of bed like a shadow, the movement silent. Only then did I notice the nightgown—soft white linen, utterly unfamiliar. My dress was gone, probably discarded. I touched the fabric at my hip. They had changed me.

  No permission. No witnesses. Just a passed-out vampire handled like a doll.

  My jaw tightened.

  There was no telling what else they had done. And more importantly—no telling who had watched. I would have to find some way to secure my sleeping hours in the future. Anything less would be an open invitation for someone’s dagger to kiss my throat.

  But first, someone needed to pay.

  I stepped lightly beside the chair. Markus was still fast asleep, completely at ease.

  Unwise.

  I lifted my foot and drove it, heel first, into the leg of the chair.

  The crash was glorious. He tumbled to the floor in a heap, his skull connecting with the marble tiles with a sound that could’ve woken the dead—if they hadn’t already been me.

  “Ohh,” I said, voice sweet as poison. “I’m so sorry. I wanted to catch you, really. But I was just… too slow.” I smiled down at him, watching with delight as he clutched his skull, pain twisting his face into something delightfully human.

  He snarled up at me. “For fuck’s sake, what was that for?!”

  Ah, there it was—emotion. Finally. He looked like a man again instead of the corpse puppet he’d been yesterday.

  I perched my foot on the chair’s arm and tilted my head smugly. “You looked a little too peaceful in your sleep, considering you nearly cooked me alive in sunlight and then decided to keep a creepy bedside vigil. What exactly were you watching for, Markus? Did you think I’d rise from bed and go on a midnight massacre?”

  …Okay, maybe I would have, but the point stood.

  His glare sharpened. “Innocent? You think you’re innocent?” His voice dripped with disdain. “Your kind was a plague. You should be dead—would be dead—if the Lord hadn’t taken an interest in your worthless existence.”

  The venom in his tone surprised me, though perhaps it shouldn’t have. He'd butchered a man yesterday with all the emotion of brushing dust off his coat. I’d mistaken his coldness for control. But it wasn’t. It was loathing, and it ran deep.

  So deep, he’d watch me die without blinking—again—if someone didn’t tell him not to.

  “Ah,” I said coolly, folding my arms. “So you do feel things. Congratulations. That’s almost charming, in a weird kind of way.”

  He straightened, towering, his frame stiff with barely-suppressed fury. “Don’t mistake my silence for consent. I didn’t kill for you. I killed because I was ordered to. There’s a difference.”

  “Of course there is,” I replied, my tone dipped in mock sympathy. “One’s murder with conviction. The other’s just cowardice dressed as loyalty.” Smiling haughtily, I put my foot on the chair between us.

  His eyes narrowed, and for a heartbeat, the room pulsed with tension.

  Good. Let him seethe. I’d rather that than the dead calm from before. Anything but that unbearable, lifeless detachment.

  I turned and wandered toward the window, moonlight pouring over the polished floor like liquid frost.

  “So tell me,” I said over my shoulder, “what does your precious Lord want with a pitiful vampire like me?”

  “That’s for my lord to tell you … even if I think it is a mistake to even consider dealing with you.” He mumbled quietly.

  “How wonderful! You can think for yourself. Honestly, I’m a little impressed—you’re not just a well-trained mutt, you’re a mutt with thoughts.”

  I grinned, delighted by the twitch in his jaw.

  Markus was an interesting creature. On mission, he was cold, composed, precise. But once you pulled him out of that rigid role—gave him menial tasks or space to think—he became easy. Easy to poke. Easy to unravel.

  What I hadn’t realized was how violently he’d snap when unraveled.

  The punch came faster than expected. But I wasn’t entirely unprepared. My foot hadn’t been resting on the chair for style—it was strategy.

  As his fist drew back, the chair shot forward. Its edge slammed into his knees before he could react. He stumbled forward, weight shifted, guard open.

  Perfect.

  …Well, almost perfect.

  His fist still landed—right across my face. My head snapped sideways, and I felt the crack in my nose, followed by the hot rush of blood. For a moment, everything pulsed in tandem with the pain.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  That caught me off guard.

  He hit me. Not just landed a blow, but hit me well. The first person I’d spoken to in ages, and he’d managed to draw blood in a fight. I should’ve been furious. Instead—I laughed, short and breathless.

  It was exhilarating.

  I didn’t let it end there. I grabbed his arm mid-stagger and yanked him forward. Off-balance and unable to stop his fall, he tipped over the chair—straight into my rising knee.

  Crack.

  This time, it was his nose. The angle of his head jerked sharply as my knee collided with his face. He howled, the sound a raw, animalistic thing as he crumpled over the wooden frame, blood now pouring from his face.

  Sweetness filled the room instantly, thick and coppery. My fangs ached at the scent, my instincts clawing to the surface—but I held back. Barely.

  Not yet.

  I stared at him sprawled like a broken toy, both of us bleeding now. My nose throbbed, slower to heal than it should’ve been. Maybe my recovery was still sluggish from the hunger—or maybe I was just enjoying this too much.

  Only then did I finally glance around the room. Rich tapestries. Gilded carvings. Bright, opulent colors everywhere. The kind of luxury that screamed of excess. It felt… wrong. Obnoxious. But I had already improved it slightly with a few red stains here and there. I was thoughtful like that.

  I moved to a drawer, idly pulling it open, wondering if they had hidden weapons, documents—or at least a snack.

  And then the door opened.

  She looked every bit the stereotype—tight white apron, modest black dress, dust cloth in hand. A maid. Human, from the pulse I could feel even at this distance.

  I smiled, baring blood-streaked teeth. How lovely—company.

  She stared.

  Her eyes locked on a blood-covered, red-eyed child with fangs and a shattered nose, standing beside a grown man who was moaning over a chair and bleeding like a stuck pig.

  She screamed.

  And then she ran—fast, loud, her shrieks echoing down the corridor.

  I blinked, watching her go.

  “…Okay, rude.”

  “What’s up with her?” I turned back to Markus, who had finally managed to sit upright in the chair. He still clutched his face like a war widow, but otherwise, he seemed mostly intact. No screaming, at least—which probably explained why the maid hadn’t noticed him slumped in the corner like a corpse at a masquerade.

  “There’s nothing wrong with her,” he muttered, voice strained. “This mess is your fault.”

  I blinked. “My fault?” I honestly didn’t see how. I mean, yes, maybe I’d kicked him. Maybe there was some blood involved. But cause and effect?

  “You hit me,” I reminded him, gesturing to my nose—which, granted, had already healed, but that wasn’t the point.

  “And you kicked me.” His glare was sharp, voice edged with suppressed fury.

  “Yes, after you tried to punch me! This all started because you didn’t catch me yesterday. You let me fall. Head-first! That was the first offense.” I crossed my arms, righteous indignation flaring.

  Markus scoffed, wiping more blood from his face. “You’re a damn monster. Look at yourself—your nose is already healed, and you’re crying about bumping your head.”

  “Because it hurts, you idiot!” I shouted back. “And more importantly, I am not a monster. Don’t lump me in with those filthy animals just because I drink a little blood and have better bone density!”

  Fuming, I turned back toward the drawer, opening it sharply. Inside was a complete disaster: crumpled papers, broken quills, a few rusty knives—and, buried beneath the mess, two glass bottles.

  My eyes lit up.

  Wine.

  I yanked them out with glee, popping both corks out with my teeth and skipping back to the bed. Settling cross-legged atop it, I held out one bottle toward Markus. He took it slowly, his eyes narrowing as he stared at me like I was a puzzle that didn’t quite fit.

  “You’re not a normal vampire, are you?” he said, half to himself, half to me.

  “Not even close.” I smirked, and with that, pressed the bottle to my lips. Half of it vanished in one long gulp. Some of it trickled down my chin, further staining my already bloodied dress. I didn’t care. It was good—cheap, overly sweet, but it settled the fire in my chest.

  Markus sipped his more carefully. For a brief moment, the tension between us evaporated, replaced with the lazy warmth only alcohol could offer. Then the door slammed open.

  A cluster of guards burst into the room, weapons drawn—only to freeze at the sight of us: a man and a red-eyed child, both bloodstained and sipping wine like they’d wandered in from a dinner party gone horribly wrong.

  The room fell into a stunned silence.

  I turned toward Markus casually, raising my bottle. “Who the hell keeps wine in a drawer?”

  “Some bastard was a lord’s guest a few days ago. The maids didn’t have time to clean it properly.” Markus downed the last gulp of wine and peered into the bottle like it had betrayed him by being empty.

  I shrugged and followed suit, tipping the rest of mine down my throat. The wine wasn’t great, but it was doing wonders for my sour mood.

  Naturally, that was when the worst possible person walked into the room.

  The door opened without a knock, and there he was: the lord of the mansion himself. Mid-twenties, black hair neat enough to reflect the oppressive seriousness he carried, dressed in expensive, elegant black. His timing was nothing short of immaculate—stepping into a room scattered with broken furniture, blood-smeared walls, and two half-drunk idiots lounging in the aftermath of what might’ve been a brawl, a feast, or both.

  And me?

  Well, I just finished chugging the last drop of wine as we locked eyes. Not the best first impression. Then again, that screaming maid probably set the bar fairly low.

  In such a situation, I knew what I shouldn’t say.

  But, of course, I said it anyways to lower his opinion of me as much as possible.

  “Yo. Whazzup?”

  Markus closed his eyes like he was physically in pain. The lord blinked once, slowly, then gave me a long look—somewhere between disappointment and why is this my life—before speaking.

  “Make sure she sobers up,” he said, voice clipped, “and bring her to my study.”

  And then he turned on his heel and left.

  No further explanation. No threats. No shouting.

  Just that tone—the kind that said someone would pay for this, but not yet.

  Which left me, three stiff-looking guards, and Markus, who looked about five seconds away from inventing a way to strangle me with his thoughts alone.