Title: Blood of the Forgotten
Genre: Dark Paranormal Romance
Setting: Gothic City, Present Day
Chapter One: The Stranger at Dusk
The rain began just as the sun dipped behind the cathedral spires of Greystone City. The streets were nearly empty, save for a few hurried souls ducking into alleyways and under awnings, their faces turned away from the wind. Elena Voss didn't notice the storm; her eyes were locked on the rusted gate ahead.
The Virelli Estate stood like a wounded beast on the edge of the city, abandoned for decades, its windows boarded, its gardens overtaken by creeping vines and thorns. It had belonged to a noble family long since vanished—people whispered that madness and death had claimed them one by one.
But Elena was no longer afraid of ghost stories.
She pushed open the gate. It groaned like a dying man.
You don't have to do this, a voice in her mind whispered.
But she did.
Elena's brother, Thomas, had gone missing two weeks ago. The police had found nothing. But she had found his last photo, timestamped at the edge of the estate, his face pale, eyes wide, lips parted like he had just seen a nightmare.
And now, she had come for answers.
Inside the estate, the air was thick with mildew and memory. The grand hall stretched ahead of her, its chandeliers long since fallen, shattered on the marble floor. A staircase, carved from dark wood and lined with a crimson runner faded to rust, curved up into shadows.
Then she saw him.
Standing at the top of the stairs, like a statue carved from night, was a man.
He didn't move.
He didn't breathe.
"Elena Voss," he said softly.
She froze. "How do you know my name?"
The man descended the stairs slowly, like each step marked time itself. He wore black from head to toe—an old-fashioned coat with silver buttons, his boots soundless against the wood. His skin was pale, like polished moonstone, and his eyes—God, his eyes—were the color of old wine. Blood-dark. Sad.
"Your brother came to me," he said. "He was dying."
"You're lying."
"I never lie."
Elena's heart pounded. "Where is he?"
The man stopped just feet away. He didn't smell like dust or decay. He smelled like something wild and ancient. "He made a choice. One he cannot undo."
She backed up. "What choice?"
The man didn't answer. Instead, he knelt before her like a knight before a queen, eyes lowering. "My name is Lucien D'Aragon. I was once Lord of this house. And now…I am the last of its cursed blood."
Then his eyes lifted to meet hers, and his fangs slid slowly into view.