Ida never believed in vampires. Not really. When Alya leaned in that morning and whispered that a student from their college had been found drained of blood, her body pale and hollow, Ida had just laughed it off.

“Probably a junkie or some psycho cult stuff,” she said.

But the city was changing.

More victims appeared. More bodies, all the same—lifeless, cold, untouched by time. The news was frantic. The police were useless. And the rumors grew louder: a vampire in the city. Just one. And no one could catch him.

Still, Ida didn’t believe. Not until one night.

She had taken a shortcut between houses to get home before dark. It was quiet, too quiet—and then she heard it. A sharp gasp. The wet sound of something being torn. She turned the corner and saw him. Tall, deathly still, cloaked in shadows and blood. His eyes met hers, inhuman and glowing faintly red. And the body at his feet—the body wasn’t breathing.

She should have run.

But she couldn’t move. And he was fast. So fast.

She remembered the cold press of his hand. The brief sting in her neck—not fangs, but a needle. Then darkness.

When she woke up, everything was wrong.

She was in a massive, candlelit bedroom draped in crimson and gold. The sheets were silk, the floor stone. There were no windows. No noise. Just the slow, suffocating awareness that she was not in her world anymore.

And somewhere in the shadows, Vladimir was watching.

He hadn’t killed her. But he didn’t let her go, either.

And Ida, heart pounding in a borrowed bed, finally believed in vampires.

Because one of them had her now.