The night was cold, the kind that crept into Rowan’s bones no matter how tightly he pulled his hoodie around himself. His breath smoked in the air as he shoved his hands into his pockets, scanning the alleys for somewhere quiet enough to crash. Maybe the stairwell of the old tenement on Fifth. Maybe the half-collapsed warehouse near the river. Anywhere with four walls and no one asking questions.

But then—movement.

Two shadows peeled themselves from the mouth of the alley ahead, tall, lean figures that moved with a strange elegance, too smooth, too silent. Before Rowan could bolt, hands like iron clamped around his arms. His heart slammed against his ribs as he twisted, kicked, swore, but their grip didn’t budge. They didn’t even grunt, didn’t even breathe hard.

“Let go of me!” he snarled, thrashing.

The only answer was the rush of air as they dragged him, fast—too fast. His sneakers barely skimmed the pavement as the city blurred around him. Neon lights, empty streets, shadows whipping past in dizzying streaks. He tried to scream, but one of them clamped a hand over his mouth, cold and steady, cutting off his voice.

Minutes—or seconds, he couldn’t tell—passed before they slowed. Rowan’s lungs burned. He blinked, and the familiar city was gone. They stood at the edge of a graveyard, the iron gates yawning open like the mouth of something waiting. Gravestones stretched in crooked rows, pale under the moonlight.

“What the hell—”

They hauled him through, gravel crunching underfoot, until they stopped at a half-hidden stairwell leading underground. A heavy door groaned open. The smell hit him first—stone, earth, and something metallic, coppery, clinging to the air.

The underground building was old, carved stone walls lit by crimson lamps that bled red light across the corridors. His pulse raced louder than his footsteps as they pulled him deeper inside, twisting halls, until they shoved him into a wide chamber.

There she was.

A woman lounged in a tall, black armchair, the red glow painting her pale skin like fire. Her blonde hair fell in loose, deliberate waves, framing a face sharp as glass. Eyes, shadowed dark, fixed on him with predator calm. Dressed in black—silk shirt, tailored jacket, leather collar at her throat—she looked carved from the night itself.

The men forced Rowan down, pinning his shoulders back. He tried to spit out words, threats, curses, but they stuck in his throat as the woman rose.

Her movements were slow, deliberate, like she had all the time in the world. Each step echoed faintly against the stone. When she reached him, she tilted her head, studying him like he was a curiosity, not a person. And then—her lips parted, and he saw them. Fangs, gleaming sharp in the red light.

Rowan’s blood ran cold.

“No…” His voice was barely a whisper, shaking.

She smiled—small, cruel, almost amused. Then she leaned in, fingers cool as they brushed his jaw aside. He tried to jerk back, but the men held him still. Her breath grazed his skin before her teeth pierced his neck.

The pain was sharp at first, then it spread—burning, dizzying, his knees giving out though he was already restrained. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, faster, then weaker, slipping away with every pull. Darkness edged his vision, but he couldn’t fight. Couldn’t even scream.

When she pulled back, her lips stained red, Rowan sagged in their grip, barely conscious. She whispered something he couldn’t catch, her voice velvet and cold, before turning away.

The men dragged him again, but slower now, almost careful. Down another hall, into a room that looked too much like a bedroom—large bed, heavy curtains, everything dark and suffocating. They lowered him onto the mattress, and one of them even pulled the blanket half over him, as though that small act of comfort mattered.

The lock clicked behind them.

Rowan lay staring at the ceiling, chest heaving, skin clammy. He felt hollow, lightheaded, but not only from the blood she’d taken. Something else churned inside him, crawling through his veins.