chapter 2

“Who are you?” I gasped, voice shaking, sounding smaller than I wanted it to. It echoed, embarrassingly, off the high vaulted ceilings.

Silence.

Then the soft crackle of the torches flaring a little brighter—as if the whole mansion had inhaled, holding its breath.

I turned, searching for him, for anything—but my eyes landed on a painting I swear hadn’t been there a second ago.

It hung by itself at the end of the hall, tall and regal in a twisted black frame, its surface glossy like oil still wet. And the figure within…

Oh God.

He wasn’t just beautiful. He was obscene.

A man, if you could call him that. Towering. Lean but cut, muscles shaped like they were carved in wicked indulgence. His suit was sharp, black with deep blood-red accents, open just enough to expose a chiseled chest that practically glowed against the darkness. But it was his face—his fucking face—that made my knees loosen.

He had the smirk of a man who knew exactly what your fantasies were and could twist them until you cried his name. Lips plush, cruel. Jawline like art. His hair tousled just enough to look accidental. And those eyes—burning embers, red with gold veins, staring straight into mine through the canvas.

I didn’t think.

I just walked forward. Hypnotized. My hand lifted on its own, fingers trembling as they traced the angle of his jaw, then lower, to his mouth.

I swear it twitched. Just a little. Like he felt it.

And then—slice.

"Ah!" I screeched, jerking back in pain.

Something had cut me. My finger bled, bright red against the black frame. It wasn’t a splinter. No—the canvas bit me. Like a lip catching flesh in a kiss that got too hungry. The wound was clean, deep. One perfect line of blood dripping down my knuckle, hitting the floor with a soft—

plip.

Then the painting began to change.

His smile widened. The canvas rippled—I swear it moved, like water being disturbed. His eyes glinted brighter. Hungrier. The mouth opened, just slightly, tongue running over his bottom lip like he was savoring something.

“Mmm… you taste like loss.”

The voice again. Not from around me—but from the painting.

I stumbled back. My heart pounded so loud it sounded like someone else was banging on the walls. The cut on my finger throbbed, like it pulsed in time with his voice.

“Don’t be afraid, Lena.”

“You’ve already given me your blood.”

“You’re halfway mine.”

I should’ve run.

But I didn’t.

Because part of me wanted to know what it meant to be his.

All the way.And that’s when I felt it.

A touch—light, deliberate, cold.

Fingers brushing my shoulder, but not like comfort. Like claiming.

I turned around so fast I nearly fell, my breath slicing out of me in a gasp—

—and there he was.

The man from the painting.

Except now he was real.

And God, he looked exactly the same.

Same suit, tailored like sin. Same eyes, glowing like there were infernos behind them, barely leashed. His hair tousled like he’d just risen from between someone's thighs. That smirk—it hadn’t softened. If anything, it was sharper now, carved with anticipation. More wicked. Alive.

The air around him bent. Thickened. It tasted like burning sugar and forbidden things.

He said something—I don’t know what. The words didn’t land right in my ears. Like they were spoken underwater or in a language older than the world, syllables bending around reality itself. It wasn’t English. It wasn’t human. But my body understood.

It reacted.

My knees buckled. My spine arched involuntarily. My mouth went dry.

Then he moved—so fast, so smooth, like a shadow skipping frames—and I jolted, suddenly flat on the floor, my back cold against the marble. He was above me. One knee between my legs. His hand at my throat, just barely pressing. Holding. Possessing.

“Shhh,” he murmured, low and velvety. “Let me in.”

And then—

Sharp.

A sudden sting—no, bite—on the curve of my neck.

“Ah—!” I screamed, or tried to. It came out broken. Wet.

Pain flared, but it wasn’t just pain. It was heat, too. Like something inside me split open, and all the ache I’d buried—every heartbreak, every night crying alone, every repressed scream—rushed up and out like steam from a cracked pipe.

My hands gripped his shoulders—solid, godlike. My hips lifted against my will. My blood roared louder than my thoughts.

His lips stayed on my neck, suckling the wound like it gave him life. His tongue—hot—traced the edge of it. I felt my pulse weaken, slow, surrender. His voice came again, whispered straight into the vein:

“I’ve waited a long time for you, Lena…”

“Now you’ll never dream alone again.”

And I blacked out.

But not before I came.

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