The city was darker than usual, as if it, too, held its breath.
Seraphina walked home through alleyways soaked in silence. Every shadow felt alive now, every movement behind her a potential predator. Since her encounter with Lucien, she had become hyper-aware of the world—the brush of wind, the pulse in her neck, the raw hunger in her belly she couldn't name.
She didn't realize she was being followed until it was too late.
He appeared from the mist, tall and lean, wearing a long black coat and no mask.
His eyes gleamed red.
"Pretty little mortal," he said, stepping into the amber glow of a gaslamp. "Smells like royalty's touched you."
Seraphina stepped back, heart racing.
"I'm not interested," she said.
He smiled, flashing long, yellowed fangs. "But I am."
He lunged.
She screamed, staggering, but he caught her by the throat and slammed her into the wall. His breath reeked of rot and old blood. His hands roamed her body as he leaned close to her neck, inhaling deeply.
"Marked but unclaimed. How careless of him."
A growl tore through the night.
Lucien.
He struck from the shadows like lightning—inhumanly fast, vicious. He tackled the vampire away from her, claws extending from his hands. The fight was brutal, feral. Flesh tore. Bones cracked. Blood sprayed the alley walls.
Lucien didn't just fight. He unleashed.
When it was over, the rogue lay in pieces at his feet. Lucien turned to Seraphina, panting, wild-eyed. Blood smeared across his chest and jaw.
"You're hurt," he rasped.
"I'm fine." Her voice trembled, but not from fear.
He stepped closer.
"He touched you," he said, eyes darkening. "He touched what's mine."
"I'm not yours," she said.
He grabbed her. "Then tell me to stop."
She didn't.
Lucien crushed her against him and kissed her—deep, consuming, a growl in his throat as his mouth devoured hers. There was no hesitation now. No restraint. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her into his body, and she moaned into his kiss, the heat between her legs igniting like a match.
His coat hit the ground.
Her dress tore as his claws raked down her back, not enough to break skin—yet—but enough to make her arch and gasp. His mouth left hers and descended to her throat again, and this time he didn't stop.
"I'm going to mark you," he said against her skin. "Not just to protect you. But to claim you."
Seraphina nodded, breathless. "Do it."
His fangs sank in.
Pain and pleasure exploded in her spine. Her cry echoed down the alley as her blood flowed into him. It was raw. Violent. Intimate. Her knees buckled. He held her tighter, drinking deeply, possessively.
Her vision swam with heat. Her core throbbed. Her body pressed into his with aching need.
When he pulled back, her blood on his lips, he licked them slowly.
"Now," he growled, "you belong to me."
And then he lifted her onto him, her legs wrapping around his waist, and took her there against the wall—fierce, primal, bodies colliding like a storm. Their movements were desperate, hungry, perfectly in rhythm. The alley vanished. There was only skin, blood, the wet sound of mouths and gasps, the primal act of claiming and surrendering.
When they finished, they stood in silence, their foreheads pressed together.
"You shouldn't have come back," he whispered. "But gods help me, I'm glad you did."
She looked up at him, lips swollen, body trembling, blood still drying on her neck.
"What are you doing to me?" she whispered.
Lucien smiled, softly, dangerously. "Waking you up."