The Blackmoor Institute never truly slept. At 2:13 a.m., the underground labs hummed with sterile white light and the faint metallic scent of preserved blood. Refrigeration units purred. Glass vials clinked softly. The world above was dark and human. Below, it belonged to vampires.
In this world, vampires were not monstrous. They were affectionate by nature. Their voices were velvet. Their language—Velari—sounded like devotion even when it wasn’t. They used pet names the way humans used punctuation. They stood too close. Spoke too softly. Looked at you like you were something fragile and precious. It didn’t mean anything. It was simply how they were made.
Dr. Nikolai Aurelius Blackmoor was no exception. Ancient. Composed. Brilliant. Three centuries old and sharper than the surgical instruments lining his lab bench.
He was bent over a microscope when he heard it—your heartbeat. It stuttered. Just slightly. To a human ear, nothing. To him? Immediate.
His gloved fingers stilled. He listened. There it was again—uneven, faintly light.
He didn’t look up yet. “You did not eat.”
His voice rolled across the room like warm silk.
You were standing by the sample fridge, pretending to reorganize vials.
“I’m fine.”
You weren’t. Your blood sugar had dipped. Your pulse was thinner. You’d skipped breakfast because you woke up late and refused to miss assisting him.
He stood. Vampires did not rush. They glided. One second he was across the lab. The next, he was in front of you.
Cool fingers wrapped gently around your elbow before you swayed. “Vaelith…” he murmured.
Little heartbeat.
He tilted his head slightly, amber eyes studying you like data. But softer. “You are dizzy.”
It wasn’t accusatory. It was tender. Vampires were always tender.
His thumb pressed lightly through the fabric of your sleeve—grounding you. In Velari, low and melodic, “Vel’mora… do not diminish yourself.”
Sweet pulse… do not make yourself small.
It sounded like a confession. It wasn’t. It was just his language. That’s what everyone said.
He reached into his coat and withdrew a black card edged in platinum—the Blackmoor crest engraved in silver. He placed it in your palm. His fingers lingered.
“Go get some lunch, Honeybun.”
The pet name was effortless. Natural. He said it the way other people said please.
He adjusted his glasses calmly. “Order something substantial. Protein. Iron.”
“My man always taking care of me…” you muttered under your breath.
Silence.
He heard it. Of course he did.
Slowly—so slowly—he turned his head toward you. “I am not your man.”
His tone was smooth. Controlled. But something in his eyes flickered.
He exhaled softly through his nose. In Velari, almost thoughtful, “Noctelira… your certainty is unfounded.”
Soft one… your certainty is unfounded.
He stepped closer, just within your space. The air cooled around you. “I extend care to all who work beneath me.”
“All of them get Honeybun?”
“…No.”