Chapter 1
(A Dark Vampire–Witch Tale by Ravenwritesdark)
The rain hadn't stopped for three nights in Victoria Town. It dripped down the cobblestones like veins, slick and restless, as though the heavens themselves bled.
Irene kept her hood drawn low, the hem of her black cloak brushing through puddles. Her boots whispered against the street, and with each step, she murmured a spell under her breath—not for power, but for silence. Her kind wasn't welcome here. Not after what she'd done.
The townspeople called her the girl who cursed the moon.
If only they knew the truth—that it wasn't a curse, but a promise.
A promise to a man who wasn't quite a man anymore.
---
Demian watched from the shadows of the old bell tower, his eyes like cold glass under the lightning. He could smell her before he saw her—honeysuckle and stormwater, threaded with something darker. Magic.
He hadn't felt that scent in a hundred years.
"Witch," he whispered, tasting the word as if it might burn his tongue.
The oath bound around his throat pulsed, an invisible chain forged by the vampire council. He had sworn never to drink the blood of her kind, never to speak to one, never to crave one. The punishment was death—slow, burning, eternal.
Yet here he was.
Watching her.
Wanting her.
---
Irene reached the door of the apothecary, the only place still open this late. The bell above the frame jingled softly when she entered. The scent of herbs filled the room—lavender, rosemary, and something metallic.
"Evening," she murmured to the old woman behind the counter.
The woman only nodded. Her eyes flicked to the symbol burned faintly into Irene's wrist—a crescent moon with a drop of blood at its center.
The mark of a witch.
Irene tugged her sleeve down. "Do you still have wolfsbane?"
Before the woman could answer, the door behind Irene creaked open again. The wind rushed in with the faintest scent of iron.
And death.
She didn't have to turn around to know someone was watching her.
Demian stepped inside. The world seemed to still. His presence drew the air tight, pulled all warmth from the room. Every flickering candle leaned toward him as if in reverence—or fear.
The old woman backed into the corner, whispering prayers to saints long dead.
Irene turned slowly. The moment her eyes met his, she forgot to breathe.
He was beautiful in the kind of way that ruined people—sharp jaw, black hair damp with rain, eyes like smoke and starlight. But there was something ancient in the way he stood, like time itself bowed around him.
"Leaving so soon, witch?" His voice was velvet and danger.
Her throat tightened. "You shouldn't call me that."
"And yet it's what you are."
"I could say the same, vampire."
The word struck him like a blade and a caress all at once. His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Then we're both damned," he said softly.
---
She brushed past him, but he moved quicker—faster than her spell could spark. His hand shot out, catching her wrist. The contact seared them both. Her magic flared, his curse burned, and the scent of smoke filled the air.
"Let go," she hissed.
"Tell me your name."
"You don't need to know it."
"I already do." His gaze darkened. "Irene."
Her pulse faltered. How did he—
"Your mark," he said quietly, brushing his thumb over the faint moon on her skin. "That's not witchcraft. It's blood-binding. Ancient magic. Forbidden."
She yanked free. "You talk as if you understand it."
"I do." His eyes flicked to his own wrist, where a faint scar mirrored hers—the same mark, hidden beneath centuries of guilt. "Because once, long ago, I made that same mark."
Irene froze. "You're lying."
"Am I?"
The air trembled between them.
---
Outside, thunder rolled like the growl of an angry god.
"You shouldn't be here," she said finally. "If your kind finds out—"
"They already have." His eyes glowed faintly red. "They sent me to kill you."
The words landed like ice in her chest.
"Then why haven't you?"
"Because," Demian whispered, stepping closer until her back met the wall, "I don't remember which side I'm on anymore."
Her heartbeat stuttered. He was too close—the space between them crackled, filled with the hum of forbidden magic and unspoken hunger.
"You're dangerous," she breathed.
"So are you."
Lightning flashed, painting them in white fire. His fangs brushed the edge of a smile, but his eyes… his eyes were soft.
She could feel his restraint, like a beast clawing at its cage. Every instinct told her to run. But her soul—her cursed, aching soul—wanted to stay.
---
He leaned in, voice low, trembling. "Do you know what happens when a vampire breaks an oath?"
She shook her head, unable to speak.
"Their heart burns to ash."
He lifted his hand, and she saw the faint smoke rising from his skin where it had touched hers. His veins glowed faintly crimson, veins of fire beneath cold flesh.
And still—he didn't pull away.
"I can't stop," he whispered.
"Then don't," she said before she could stop herself.
---
Their lips almost met when the bell above the door chimed again.
A shadow fell across the room.
"Demian," a voice hissed from the doorway. "What have you done?"
Another vampire stood there—eyes blazing silver, cloak soaked in stormwater, his fangs bared in fury.
Irene instinctively stepped back, but Demian moved in front of her, shielding her with his body.
"Go," he murmured.
"I'm not leaving you."
The other vampire drew a blade that gleamed red with spellfire. "You broke your oath. You touched her."
"Then I'll burn for it," Demian said, his voice steady. "But not before you die."
---
The room exploded into motion. The blade slashed through the air, and Demian caught it with his bare hand, blood spilling across the floor. Irene's spells erupted like lightning, shattering shelves and sending glass flying.
The old woman screamed and fled into the storm.
Demian roared, his eyes now full crimson, as he drove the blade into his attacker's chest. The vampire's body turned to ash before it hit the ground.
The silence afterward was deafening.
Irene's chest heaved. "They'll come for you."
"I know."
"And you'll die."
"Then I'll die knowing what it felt like to touch you."
He stepped closer, blood dripping down his arm, and pressed his forehead to hers. For a heartbeat, they were one—cursed, bound, burning.
Her magic pulsed in response, wild and alive.
"Demian—" she began.
But the words vanished as his eyes rolled back, his body collapsing into her arms. The mark on his wrist glowed once, then dimmed.
She screamed his name, holding him as the storm raged outside, knowing what it meant—
the curse had begun.
---
Outside, the rain finally stopped.
But the blood on the street didn't wash away.
And somewhere in the darkness, a dozen eyes watched from the rooftops, whispering:
"The Bloodspell has returned."
Chapter 2
ASH AND OATH
The third night after meeting him, the rain hadn't stopped. Victoria's sky bled silver and smoke, drenching the streets in a cold, endless whisper. I should've been resting. The potion candles were burning low, and the spellbook before me smelled of old dust and regret. But my mind wasn't here.
It was with him.
Demian.
Every time lightning tore the sky open, I saw his face — that still, unreadable calm in his eyes when he looked at me, like he'd seen centuries pass and yet found something he couldn't name.
I shook my head and shut the book. "You're losing it, Irene."
The words echoed against the silence of my small room. I'd spent my life running from creatures like him, hiding behind wards, pretending that being alone was safer. But since that night… the air itself felt alive. The shadows knew his name.
And so did my heart.
A knock broke through the storm.
Soft. Three times.
My pulse stumbled. No one came here — not this late. I reached for the dagger hidden beneath my bed and whispered a sigil of fire. The flame hovered in the air, small but alive.
When I opened the door, the rain greeted me first — and then he did.
Demian stood there, drenched, his coat clinging to him like liquid night. His pale skin shimmered faintly in the moonlight, his eyes darker than sin.
"Were you expecting someone else?" he asked, voice smooth but hoarse, like he'd been fighting the wind for hours.
I wanted to slam the door shut. Instead, I stepped aside. "Come in before the neighbors start whispering."
He moved past me without a word, the scent of rain and ash trailing behind. For a vampire, he was far too human — or maybe I was too foolish to see the danger anymore.
"You shouldn't be here," I said finally.
"And yet, here I am."
He turned, and in that moment the flame between us flickered. There was something in his gaze — hunger, restraint, and something else entirely. Fear?
"You're bleeding," I said softly, noticing the cut along his neck.
"It's nothing."
"Sit down."
He hesitated, then obeyed. When I touched his skin, I felt the faintest tremor beneath my fingertips — not a heartbeat, but a vibration of something… ancient. My magic stirred, reacting to him again, the same way it had before.
"You risk too much coming here," I whispered, tracing the healing spell along his wound. "If they find out—"
"They already know."
My hand froze. "What?"
"The council," he murmured. "They know about the witch who healed a vampire in the open street. They're watching you now."
My breath caught. "Then why warn me?"
"Because…" He looked at me, and for a heartbeat, his mask slipped. "Because I can't stand the thought of them touching you."
My stomach tightened. I wanted to speak — to push him away, to tell him we were impossible — but my body betrayed me. I could feel the pull again, the invisible thread that tied us together since that first night.
"Demian…"
He stood, closing the space between us until his breath was a ghost on my lips.
"You have no idea what you've done to me, witch," he whispered. "And I'm not sure if I want to be free of it."
My throat went dry. The rain outside grew louder, a steady rhythm matching the storm inside my chest.
"I don't want this," I lied.
He smiled faintly, eyes burning with something darker than desire — something dangerous, like he wanted to burn the world for a single touch.
"You think I do?"
The air between us thickened, pulsing with unspoken truths. I wanted to step back, but his hand brushed my jaw — featherlight, reverent, as though he'd been waiting centuries to memorize the shape of my face.
"Demian," I breathed. "Don't."
"If you tell me to stop," he murmured, "I will."
Silence.
The thunder broke. And I didn't stop him.
His lips didn't reach mine, but they hovered close enough to make me forget my name. His breath carried the faintest scent of iron and winter. I could feel the restraint in his trembling — the beast inside him clawing to break free.
Then he pulled back, jaw tight.
"I can't," he said, almost broken. "If I stay… I'll ruin you."
"Maybe I was ruined long before you came."
He looked at me, eyes glinting like glass cracked under pressure — and then he was gone, the door swinging open to the night.
The rain swallowed him whole.
And I stood there, trembling, the spell candles flickering out one by one — each whispering the same thing through the smoke:
He's not coming back.
CHAPTER 3
THE PULL OF SHADOW
The night after Demian left, I couldn't sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him — the way he looked at me before vanishing into the storm. That moment where he'd almost kissed me but didn't. The kind of restraint that hurt more than the act itself.
The candles had long melted, their smoke lingering in the corners of my small room like ghostly reminders. My magic pulsed restlessly under my skin, whispering his name even though I refused to answer.
But magic never lies.
By dawn, my mirror began to fog on its own, though no spell caused it. In its misty surface, I caught flickers — flashes of him standing near the old cathedral, blood on his hand, eyes haunted. The image faded as quickly as it came, leaving me breathless and shaking.
"Demian…"
I shouldn't have cared. I shouldn't have felt this. Vampires and witches were never meant to touch fates. Our magics corrupted each other — his thirst, my power — like a spark thrown into oil. And yet, something ancient had tethered us.
And I needed to know why.
By evening, I found myself walking through Victoria's narrow streets, the mist curling around my boots. Every shadow seemed alive, whispering, warning, watching. My magic guided me toward the cathedral at the edge of town — a place the living rarely visited.
The air inside was cold enough to bite. The pews were empty, the candles burned low, and the scent of rain mixed with iron.
And there he was.
Leaning against the altar, coat half torn, eyes distant — a fallen god in mortal form.
"You shouldn't have come," he said without looking at me.
"Then stop calling me," I answered quietly.
He finally turned, and for a moment, the world forgot how to breathe. His eyes weren't their usual storm-gray — they glowed faintly red, a sign he hadn't fed in days.
"You saw it, didn't you?" I whispered. "The reflection in my mirror."
His silence was confirmation enough.
"What's happening to me, Demian?" I demanded. "I feel you — even when you're not near. I hear your thoughts sometimes, and I can't sleep without—"
He moved so fast I didn't see it happen until his hand was on my wrist, his touch cold but trembling.
"Because your blood called to mine," he said, voice rough. "You weren't supposed to heal me that night, Irene. You spoke an ancient spell — one even you didn't understand."
My lips parted. "The Binding Oath."
He nodded. "An oath older than death. You tied your soul to mine."
The words shattered something inside me. "You mean I— I'm bound to a vampire forever?"
"Until one of us dies."
The echo of those words filled the cathedral like a tolling bell. My heart lurched painfully — not in fear, but something worse. The kind of ache that came with knowing you could never walk away again.
I stepped back, shaking. "You should've told me."
"I tried. But every time I look at you…" His voice broke. "I forget what's right."
He reached out, brushing a tear from my cheek with the back of his hand. His touch burned — not from heat, but from everything unspoken between us.
"I can't lose control around you, Irene," he whispered. "If I taste your blood, the bond will complete. There'll be no undoing it."
My heart pounded. "And if you don't?"
"Then it'll slowly kill us both."
I swallowed hard. "So, either way, we burn."
He smiled faintly, bitterly. "Yes. Together."
A distant thunder rumbled outside. The stained-glass windows glowed faintly red as lightning flashed across the sky. And for the first time, I saw fear in his eyes — not for himself, but for me.
"Leave Victoria tonight," he said, stepping back. "Forget me. Break the circle. Live."
I shook my head. "You already know I can't."
He looked at me — truly looked at me — and whatever restraint had been holding him together snapped. In two strides, he was in front of me, his breath cold against my skin, his hand sliding behind my neck.
The tension was unbearable, every second stretched thin between fear and need.
"Irene," he whispered, voice trembling. "If I kiss you, I may never stop."
"Then don't stop," I breathed.
The moment hung suspended in the storm. His lips brushed mine — barely — and for one heartbeat, the world shattered into light and shadows.
Then he tore himself away, fangs bared, eyes glowing crimson.
"You have no idea what you've done."
And before I could speak, the candles blew out — every flame extinguished in an instant.
When I reached for him through the darkness, he was gone.
But his voice lingered, a whisper carried by the wind:
"The binding has begun."
CHAPTER 4
THE HUNGER BETWEEN US
The night after the cathedral, my sleep was no longer mine.
Every time I closed my eyes, I fell into him — into Demian's shadowed world. His hunger, his rage, his loneliness. I could feel it, every pulse of thirst tearing through his veins. And beneath it all, the echo of my own heartbeat answering his.
The Binding had begun.
I woke with blood under my nails and a whisper in my ear that wasn't my own. The candle beside my bed had melted into the shape of two faces — one screaming, one silent. The air stank faintly of iron.
When I touched my throat, I found a faint mark — not a wound, not quite — but a burn shaped like the edge of fangs.
Demian hadn't bitten me. But his hunger had found me anyway.
By dusk, I could no longer tell where my emotions ended and his began. I would feel a wave of fury for no reason, or grief so sharp it drove me to my knees. My magic, once steady, now flickered like dying embers.
And through it all, I heard him whisper:
"Don't look for me."
I ignored him.
Victoria Town was different at night now — colder, emptier. People whispered of strange deaths, of figures moving through alleys, of eyes gleaming in mirrors. The shadows seemed to stretch further than they should.
I found him where the town met the forest — standing beneath the weeping willows, drenched in moonlight. His shirt was torn, his eyes a feverish red, veins dark against his throat.
"You shouldn't be here," he rasped.
"You keep saying that," I said softly. "But I always am."
He turned sharply, and I saw what he'd been hiding — blood smeared across his hands. My chest tightened.
"Tell me you didn't—"
"I didn't," he snapped. "Not human blood. Not tonight."
The way he said tonight sent chills down my spine.
He took a step closer, the scent of rain and iron swirling around us. His control was cracking. Every breath he took seemed to cost him something.
"You're feeling it too, aren't you?" he murmured. "The ache in your throat. The burning behind your ribs. It's the bond, Irene. My hunger becomes yours."
He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from my face. His hand trembled. "You should hate me for this."
"I don't."
That broke something inside him. His gaze softened, tortured. "You don't know what you're saying."
"Then show me," I whispered.
The silence between us was thick with want and danger. He stepped closer, his breath cold against my neck. For a moment, he just stood there, trembling. His lips brushed my skin, not biting — only breathing me in.
I could feel his restraint like a blade.
His voice was a prayer and a curse.
"If I take your blood, I'll damn us both."
I turned my face toward him. "Then what happens if you don't?"
He closed his eyes. "We'll die slow."
The words made me shiver — not from fear, but from something darker. A pull that felt older than choice.
I reached up and placed my hand against his chest. His heart — cold, yet somehow alive — stuttered beneath my palm.
"I'd rather burn with you," I said quietly.
His control shattered.
He kissed me then — not gentle, not safe, but desperate. The kind of kiss that tasted of sorrow and fire, the kind that stripped the world away until there was nothing but his mouth and my heartbeat and the ruin between us.
The air around us trembled, crackling with magic. My power flared — his hunger surged.
And for a moment, I swore I could feel eternity itself leaning closer to watch.
Then — pain.
White-hot and endless.
A searing pulse shot through the bond, throwing us apart. Demian staggered back, clutching his chest. I screamed, feeling something tear inside me — as though the bond had been struck by lightning.
When I opened my eyes, a sigil was burning faintly on the ground between us — a mark neither of us had drawn.
He stared at it, horror darkening his face.
"They've found us," he whispered.
"Who?" I gasped.
"The Council of Blood. They know a witch bound a vampire. And they're coming — for you."
He grabbed my arm, his touch trembling but fierce.
"Run, Irene. Now."
And before I could answer, something moved in the dark — eyes like silver knives watching from the trees.
The night around us broke open with a sound like wings.
CHAPTER 5
THE PULSE BENEATH HER SKIN
The forest had gone quiet—too quiet. Even the wind held its breath. Irene stood there, heart trembling against her ribs, her hand still pressed where Demian had touched her. She could feel it now, not just warmth… but something alive. His darkness was threading through her veins like a whispered secret she wasn't supposed to hear.
Demian watched her from the shadows. His eyes were no longer human—silver bleeding into black, like the moon drowning in ink. "You shouldn't feel it," he murmured. "Witches don't feel what vampires give."
"I'm not like the others," she whispered back.
He stepped closer—slowly, like a predator afraid to spook its prey. "That's what terrifies me."
When his hand brushed her jaw, the air crackled. It wasn't magic. It was them. Her pulse matched his unnatural rhythm. Every time he blinked, she felt it in her bones, like he existed inside her instead of before her.
"I should leave," she said, though her feet betrayed her, frozen in place.
"Then go," Demian breathed, though his voice broke slightly. "Before I forget what mercy feels like."
Irene tilted her head. "Would you hurt me?"
He smiled then, but it wasn't kind. "I already am."
For a moment, neither moved. The silence between them was a living, dangerous thing. Then she reached up, brushing her fingers across his throat—the place his heartbeat should've been. Nothing. And yet, she felt the echo of it in hers.
"What are you doing to me?" she asked, voice soft, breaking.
He stepped back like her touch burned him. "I told you not to come here."
"But you wanted me to," she said, eyes glinting with defiance and fear. "You called me here without words."
He froze. "How do you—?"
"I heard you," she cut in. "In my dreams. In my mind. You said my name before I ever saw your face."
Demian's expression fractured—half pain, half awe. "Then it's worse than I thought." His gaze dropped to her chest, to the faint silver light pulsing beneath her skin. "You're marked."
Before she could ask what he meant, he vanished—wind rushing past her, leaves swirling, her hair lifting as if the night itself gasped.
And there, in the sudden darkness, a whisper lingered in her ear—his voice, distant but near enough to feel:
> "Run, Irene. Before they find out what you've become."
The forest sighed around her, and when she looked down—her veins shimmered faintly silver, like moonlight had crawled inside her skin.
CHAPTER 6
THE SILVER VEIN
The storm had passed, but Irene woke to the echo of thunder still rolling in her chest. The candle beside her bed had burned itself into a puddle of wax, long forgotten. Her breath hitched as she pushed herself upright—her nightgown clinging to damp skin.
That's when she saw it.
The faint glow beneath her skin—threaded like silver lightning through her veins.
It pulsed softly in time with her heartbeat.
Her breath trembled. "What did you do to me, Demian…"
The whisper of his name felt like an invocation—half prayer, half curse. And even as fear crept up her spine, a strange longing followed it, warm and electric. She touched her wrist where the veins shone brightest and felt a pulse that wasn't entirely hers.
The room shivered. Shadows rippled on the wall, and for a heartbeat she thought he was there again—but it wasn't him. The air was colder, heavier. And then came the knock.
Three slow, deliberate taps.
Her body went still.
Nobody ever knocked at this hour. Not in Victoria Town, where night belonged to things best left unseen.
She wrapped her shawl tighter and moved to the door.
"Who's there?"
Silence. Then a voice, smooth as smoke:
> "You don't know me, but I'm looking for someone… a witch named Irene."
Her pulse stumbled. "Who's asking?"
The door creaked open on its own, and standing there was a man—tall, pale, with eyes that glowed faintly gold in the candlelight. Not Demian's cold silver, but warmer, stranger.
"I'm Ezra," he said softly. "Demian sent me."
The air left her lungs. "He—he left. He told me to run."
Ezra stepped forward, and the candle flickered violently. "You can't run from what's inside you now. He marked you, Irene. The bond is sealed."
Her throat tightened. "What bond?"
Ezra's gaze darkened, sympathy shadowing his expression.
> "The kind that kills one when the other breaks it."
The candle blew out. Darkness swallowed the room whole.
And in that silence, Irene realized something she hadn't before—
the pull she felt toward Demian wasn't just desire.
It was survival.
CHAPTER 7
WHISPERS IN THE BLOOD
The darkness pressed close, breathing with her. Irene's pulse was loud in her ears, frantic as she fumbled for another candle. When she finally struck a match, the light trembled against Ezra's face—half-illuminated, half-lost in shadow.
He looked older now that she could see him properly. Not in years, but in weariness. His golden eyes flickered, like they were hiding things too heavy to bear.
"I don't understand," Irene whispered. "Why would Demian do this to me?"
Ezra watched the flame between them. "Because he didn't have a choice."
Her breath caught. "You're lying."
"I wish I was." He stepped closer, the scent of rain and smoke clinging to his coat. "The bond was never meant to be made with a witch. It unravels the moment it's formed. But Demian—" he paused, his jaw tightening, "he's always been reckless with what he wants."
"And you?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. "What do you want?"
Something flickered in his gaze. Regret? Longing? "To make sure you survive the consequences."
Irene's heartbeat stumbled. "You're helping me?"
He smiled faintly. "Helping him. It's the same thing."
Her stomach knotted. "So you're one of his kind."
"Not exactly." His voice was low, careful. "Let's just say… I've been where he is now. Once, long ago."
The way he said it made her skin prickle. Once, long ago.
The air between them grew tight, charged.
"Tell me what's happening to me, Ezra," she demanded. "These veins—this pull—why can't I stop thinking about him?"
Ezra stepped even closer, until the candlelight caught on the faint shimmer of veins running along his wrist—the same silver glow as hers.
Her lips parted in shock. "You—"
He covered her hand gently, pressing her fingers to the mark pulsing under his skin. His touch was cold, steady, and heartbreakingly human all at once.
> "Because you're bound by the same curse that once destroyed me," he said softly.
"And if Demian doesn't break it soon, it'll destroy him too."
The candle sputtered and went out again, leaving them in thick silence—breath mingling, heartbeats trembling in sync.
And in the dark, Irene felt something deeper than fear—
something forbidden stirring between them.
CHAPTER 8
THE BLOOD BETWEEN US
The storm came without warning.
A crack of thunder split the night, shaking the windows so violently that the single candle on Irene's table toppled over and went out. She gasped, her hand still resting where Ezra had held it moments ago.
But he was no longer standing in front of her.
"Ezra?" she whispered.
No answer—only the heavy sound of rain pounding against the roof. Then, beneath the thunder, came something else. A low hum. The kind that crawled beneath your skin before you understood it was power—ancient, furious, and very, very close.
Her chest tightened. She knew that presence before she even turned.
Demian.
The door burst open, flung by an unseen force. The storm's wind spiraled into the room like it was bowing to him. His dark coat clung to his frame, rain dripping down his sharp jawline. His eyes glowed like wildfire in the shadows.
Ezra reappeared beside her instantly, his expression tense. "He's not supposed to—"
"Step away from her," Demian's voice cut through him. It wasn't shouted. It was deep, quiet—and more terrifying than a scream.
Ezra didn't move. "If you touch her in this state, you'll kill her."
Demian's gaze shifted to Irene. It softened—barely—but the fury beneath it trembled like something barely restrained.
"You think I don't feel what she feels?" he said, voice rough.
"Every pulse, every breath, every flicker of fear—it burns through me like poison."
He took a slow step forward, eyes never leaving hers. "You weren't supposed to leave the warded grounds."
Irene's throat went dry. "You think I wanted this?" Her voice broke, trembling but defiant. "You bound me without asking—"
Demian's hand slammed into the wall beside her, inches from her face. The air between them hissed—electric, alive. His eyes flickered red. "I bound you because I had to. Because you were dying."
"Then unbind me," she whispered.
For a moment, he didn't breathe. Then, lowly, "You don't know what you're asking."
Ezra moved forward. "Demian, stop. She's not ready to hear what happens if—"
"Stay out of this," Demian snarled. His hand shot out, faster than sight, grabbing Ezra by the collar. "You've interfered enough."
Irene's chest heaved. The candle rolled across the floor, sparks flaring as the flame returned for an instant—casting them all in trembling light.
"You think you're saving her," Demian hissed, "but you're only reminding me what I could lose."
And then his gaze snapped back to Irene—wild, pained, desperate.
"You don't belong in his shadow," he said softly.
"You belong to me."
The light blew out again.
And in that final moment of darkness, Irene didn't know what terrified her more—
the power in his voice…
or the way her heart agreed with him.
CHAPTER 9
TETHERED IN SHADOWs
Lightning split the sky again. For a heartbeat, Irene saw both men — one cloaked in rage, the other in light. Then the thunder rolled, swallowing the room into silence.
Demian's hand still gripped Ezra's shirt. His knuckles were white, jaw clenched. Irene could feel the air bending around them, charged with something ancient — like the world itself held its breath.
"Let him go," she said quietly.
Demian's crimson gaze flicked to her, and something in his expression fractured. He released Ezra with a low growl, turning away.
"Why do you keep following me?" Irene whispered. "Why can't you just—let me be?"
He turned slowly, his eyes glinting with something far too human to be rage. "Because when you're near, every instinct I buried claws its way back. You burn through my restraint like sunlight through ash."
Her breath caught. "And if I burn you to nothing?"
Demian stepped closer, the sound of his boots drowned by the storm. "Then I'll thank the fire for letting me feel alive again."
She should have stepped back. She didn't.
He reached out, fingertips brushing the side of her neck — just above the pulse that betrayed her fear and longing. His touch was cold, yet her skin burned under it.
> "You shouldn't want this," he murmured.
"You're a witch. I'm everything your blood was taught to destroy."
"And yet," Irene breathed, her voice trembling, "you're the only one who ever made me feel seen."
Demian's thumb paused against her throat. His eyes darkened, the red fading into something softer—something dangerous in its tenderness.
Ezra shifted behind them. "Demian—"
"Leave," Demian said, not looking away from her.
Ezra hesitated, then vanished into the storm outside, the door slamming shut behind him.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the rain and the uneven rhythm of their breaths.
Demian leaned closer, his voice a low whisper that trembled with restraint.
"If I take one more step, I won't stop. Not this time."
Her heart pounded, not in fear — but in the pull of something she couldn't name. "Then don't," she whispered.
His hand curled around the back of her neck, his forehead pressing against hers. His breath was cold against her lips, his voice breaking.
"You don't understand. If I claim you… your soul will no longer be yours."
"And if I already gave it to you?" she asked softly.
A flash of lightning illuminated his face — torn between agony and desire.
Then, just as his lips grazed hers, the candles in the room flickered to life on their own.
Every flame turned blue.
Demian froze. His eyes widened — not in lust this time, but in recognition.
"Irene…" he whispered. "What have you done?"
CHAPTER 10
THE TASTE OF DAMNATION
Demian had seen many kinds of fire in his long life — holy, cursed, and everything in between.
But never that blue.
Never hers.
The color was wrong — too alive, too aware.
It wasn't the witch's flame of destruction; it was the veil's fire, born only when two souls — one damned, one chosen — intertwined beyond redemption.
And he had just lit it.
Irene stood before him, her eyes reflecting that eerie glow, her hair whipping around her face like smoke caught in a storm. Her pulse was steady, unafraid. The power that radiated from her made even his immortal body tremble.
> "Demian," she said softly. "What is this?"
He swallowed hard. He'd forgotten what fear felt like until now.
> "It's a bond," he rasped. "Not one you can break."
Her brow furrowed. "You mean—"
"You've tied your soul to mine."
The words tasted like ash on his tongue. He had spent centuries running from this — from the curse that said the first witch to share her light with him would seal both their fates.
He'd thought it was just a prophecy. A lie whispered by the dead to torment him.
Until she came.
"You knew this could happen," she whispered, her voice trembling not from fear, but something darker.
"I did." He looked away, jaw tight. "That's why I tried to stay away."
Lightning flared again — the blue flames flickered with it, casting their shadows together on the wall.
Two silhouettes, bound by something older than life.
He stepped back, trying to resist the pull, but the bond yanked him forward again — a sharp pain searing through his chest. He winced, clutching it.
Irene rushed to him. "Demian!"
"Don't—" he warned, but she touched him anyway. The pain vanished instantly, replaced by warmth. Too much warmth.
His heart — long silent — beat once.
He froze. So did she.
The sound was faint but unmistakable — a heartbeat from a creature who had no right to have one.
"What did you do to me?" he breathed, staring at her as if she were both salvation and doom.
"I… I don't know," she said softly.
But he could see it now.
In the flicker of her eyes, in the glow of the flames, in the trembling of his cursed pulse —
She wasn't just a witch.
She was the one foretold to either end his curse… or awaken the monster he'd spent centuries burying.
And by touching him — by caring for him — she had already chosen.
CHAPTER 11
THE WHISPER OF THE FIRST WITCH
Demian didn't sleep that night.
Vampires rarely did, but this was different.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her — Irene — standing in that circle of blue flame, her power brushing against his soul like silk and smoke. Her voice still echoed inside his mind.
And worse — so did another voice.
One he hadn't heard in over three hundred years.
"You can't kill what was born for you, my love…"
He sat up, breath ragged, his chest aching. "No," he hissed under his breath. "Not her. Not again."
He rose from the chair, moving through the candlelit library of his manor. The portraits on the walls seemed to watch him — the ghosts of his past, painted in oil and regret. His hand hovered over one in particular: a pale woman with hair black as midnight, her lips painted in blood.
Seraphine.
The first witch. The woman who had cursed him with immortality — and damned herself in the process.
Her eyes followed him even now, cold and beautiful.
"You wanted eternity, didn't you?"
"You wanted power enough to destroy the gods who took me from you?"
His hand clenched. "And you gave it, didn't you?" he murmured bitterly. "But you never said I'd carry your curse too."
He turned sharply, sensing movement. A ripple of energy brushed the air — not Irene's, but older, heavier, familiar.
He froze.
"Still brooding, my beautiful monster?"
The voice came from nowhere, yet everywhere. A whisper that slithered down his spine.
He didn't need to look to know who it was.
Seraphine.
The air thickened, and from the shadows behind him, her form began to take shape — translucent, but unmistakably her. The same cruel smile. The same eyes that once burned with forbidden love.
"You can't be here," he growled. "You were destroyed."
Her laugh was low, melodic, and venomous.
"Destroyed? No, darling. Bound."
"And you just freed me."
Demian's blood ran cold.
"The witch," he whispered. "Irene."
Seraphine's smile widened.
"She carries my lineage. My magic. My heart reborn in mortal flesh."
He stumbled back, horror flashing through his eyes. "No."
"Yes."
"And when your blood touched hers, the circle completed. You didn't just bind your souls…" — she stepped closer, her voice a purr — "…you woke me."
The candles around them flared blue, just like Irene's fire.
And for the first time in centuries, Demian realized —
he hadn't escaped his curse.
He had passed it on.