His POV

The castle doesn’t sleep. It only waits.

That’s the first thing I learn after moving in.

At 5:47 a.m., the halls are still awake—lamps dimmed low, shadows pooled neatly in corners like they belong there. The air smells faintly of iron and old roses. Not unpleasant. Just… alert. As if the walls themselves are watching to see what kind of man I am.

I arrive with two suitcases and a laptop bag.

That’s it. No entourage. No expectations beyond the contract.

Marriage, alliance, residence.

Her family gains legitimacy in daylight. Mine gains power in the dark.

And she gains a husband.

I don’t know what I gain yet.

The room they assign me—our room, technically—is enormous. High ceilings, velvet curtains drawn tight against the sunrise. A four-poster bed I have no intention of using. A desk positioned perfectly for work, already wired, already ready.

That part tells me more about her than any briefing ever did.

She planned for my habits.

I shower, dress, sit down, and start working before the sun fully rises. Calls, reports, approvals. Familiar territory. As long as the numbers are clean and the results speak for themselves, I don’t care where I am.

Castle. Office. Coffin. Same thing.

It’s nearly noon when I feel it.

Not footsteps. Not sound.

Presence.

I look up—and there she is.

Leaning against the doorway like she’s always belonged there. Black dress, high collar, long sleeves that hide her wrists. Her hair is loose tonight—night for her, anyway—falling like ink down her back. Her skin catches the low light, flawless and untouched by time.

Her eyes meet mine.

Red. Deep. Calm.

“You haven’t slept,” she says.

It’s not an accusation. Just an observation.

“I work better early,” I reply. “You don’t.”

A pause.

“I don’t work,” she corrects. “I oversee.”

Fair.

She steps inside without asking. The room feels smaller immediately, like it’s bending around her. I notice then that she smells faintly of wine and something colder—stone after rain, maybe.

“You’re comfortable here,” she says.

“I adapt.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“You are not curious,” she adds.

I lean back in my chair, finally giving her my full attention. “Should I be?”

Most men would be staring at her throat. Or her mouth. Or the fact that she’s a vampire noble who could probably tear them apart without wrinkling her dress.

I’m staring at her hands.

Still. Controlled. Not a tremor.

She studies me like I’m an anomaly. “Most husbands ask questions.”

“I’m not most husbands.”

That earns me the smallest smile. Not warm. Not cruel. Just… intrigued.

“You wake with the sun,” she says. “You fill the castle with noise and screens and light. You don’t fear what lives here.”

“I married into it,” I shrug. “Seems inefficient to be scared now.”

Silence settles between us, thick but not hostile. She circles the room slowly, fingertips brushing the edge of my desk. I don’t stop her.

“Do you know,” she asks softly, “how many men have lived in this castle and begged to leave?”

“Do you know,” I reply, “how many deadlines I’ve missed worrying about things that don’t affect performance?”

She stops.

Turns.

Looks at me like she’s finally found something unfamiliar.

“You are strange,” she says.

“I’ve been told.”

Night deepens outside the windows. Somewhere in the castle, something moves—old, distant, obedient. She straightens, composure sliding back into place like a crown.

“We will coexist,” she says. “For now.”

“That’s usually how partnerships start,” I reply.

She pauses at the door. Doesn’t look back.

“Get used to it, then.”

The door closes.

I stare at the screen again—but the numbers blur.

Because for the first time since signing that contract, it hits me:

I’m not living in her world.

She’s letting me stay in it.

And vampires, I suspect, are very patient creatures.