Chapter 3

The Dream

It’s always the same.

The air is thick—so thick it clings to her lungs, heavy with the scent of iron and smoke. The ruined chapel stands before her, its stained glass fractured, casting splinters of crimson light across the altar. Her bare feet press against cold stone, yet her skin burns.

He is there. He’s always there.

The demon steps from the shadows like the night itself is folding away to reveal him. Horns catch the bleeding moonlight, eyes molten amber that never blink, never soften. His mouth curves—not in warmth, but in the satisfaction of a predator who knows the prey has stopped running.

“Seraphine…” Her name is a caress and a command in one.

She cannot move, but she doesn’t want to. He reaches her, slow, deliberate, talons curling around her jaw as if testing the fragility of bone. His other hand slides into her hair, tipping her head back until her throat arches, pulse fluttering like a trapped bird.

She waits for his lips, but they never come to hers. They never do. Instead, his mouth drags to the hollow of her neck, breath hot and smelling faintly of fire. The moment his teeth break her skin, the world explodes.

It’s pain, yes—but it’s exquisite, a blaze that races through every nerve. Her fingers clutch his shoulders, not to push away, but to pull him deeper. Heat pools in her belly, knees trembling. The sound he makes—low, pleased—rumbles against her flesh.

Her vision fades at the edges, a dark tide pulling her under. Every pulse of her heart feeds him, yet somehow feeds her too. When he finally withdraws, his tongue sweeps over the wound, sealing it in the dream but leaving it raw in her waking body.

“Mine,” he murmurs, and the word brands itself into her soul.

She wakes with a gasp, sweat slick on her skin, her hand flying to her neck where the skin is tender, bruised, and aching for the next bite.

The Waking Signs

It started subtle—her reflection holding its gaze a little too long in the mirror, eyes gleaming faintly when she was angry or afraid. She could hear whispers in empty rooms, like the echo of words from a tongue she shouldn’t understand, yet did.

Once, when cornered by a man on a dark street, she didn’t scream. She growled—a sound too deep for her throat—and the man fled as if chased by something bigger.

Another time, she touched a dying bird and felt the flutter of its life surge for a heartbeat before it stilled, leaving her hand trembling with stolen warmth.

She knew it was the blood—her father’s hunter instincts sharpening her senses, her mother’s demonic essence curling through her veins like smoke. But more and more, she suspected it was him.

That each dream-bite wasn’t just a mark of possession—it was feeding something inside her, coaxing her toward the kind of creature she was never meant to be.