The music drifted through the marble halls like a spell, lilting and otherworldly, echoing with laughter and clinking glasses. Beneath the chandeliers, masks glittered—gold, ivory, velvet. Dancers swirled like ghosts stitched in silk. No one noticed as you slipped away from the ballroom and up the grand staircase, following the pull of something you couldn’t name.

The corridors above were silent. Heavy with shadow. Far from the perfume and powdered laughter below.

You didn’t know why your feet led you here. Only that something about this door—carved wood, darker than the rest—called.

Lucian’s door.

The handle was cold. It gave under your fingers.

Inside, the room was too still. Draped in red and black, it felt like stepping into a heartbeat. Candles flickered low. The fireplace had died down to coals, but heat still lingered, clinging to the walls like breath.

You shouldn’t have come here.

The bed, massive and disheveled, bled with something darker than wine. Blood, fresh enough that it hadn’t yet dried, stained the sheets in wild, violent smears. A trail of crimson led from the edge of the mattress to the floor. There—just beneath the bed—was the torn edge of a dress. Pale blue silk.

You stepped back, the breath locking in your throat.

And then you saw it.

The mirror, cracked down the middle, leaning askew against the far wall. It reflected the room perfectly—but not you. Not completely.

Your reflection was blurred, yes. But behind you, in the mirror—something else moved.

A tall figure.

Lucian.

He hadn’t made a sound. But now he stood in the doorway behind you, still in his mask—onyx and silver, shaped like a wolf’s snarl—but unmoving. Watching.

The door clicked shut behind him.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t apologize.

He only stepped forward, slowly, like a shadow stretching toward candlelight.

“You weren’t supposed to see this,” he said finally, voice like velvet wrapping something sharp.

You turned to face him fully.

“Was she alive?” you asked, barely a whisper.

Lucian tilted his head. Removed his mask.

His eyes were still red.

Not glowing. Not monstrous.

Just... bare. Unhidden.

“She was in love,” he said simply. “She wanted to be remembered.”

“You killed her.”

A pause. Not of shame. Something quieter.

“She asked me to.”

You backed toward the mirror. Lucian moved closer. Always closer.

“You don’t understand what I am,” he murmured. “But you will.”

“You’re a monster.”

Lucian smiled—slowly, sadly. Blood still traced the corner of his mouth.

“I know.”

He stopped just short of touching you. His hand hovered beside your cheek, fingers trembling—not from fear. From restraint.

“But even monsters can worship,” he said. “And I’ve prayed to you. Every night. In ways no god could understand.”

He stepped closer, and now you could feel it—the heat of him. The wrongness that hummed beneath his skin like something feral, straining to break free.

“You saw my worst,” he whispered. “And you’re still breathing. Do you know what that means to me?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Lucian’s voice dropped to a near growl, but there was a rawness behind it. A hunger that had nothing to do with blood.

“I’ve killed people for less than the way you look at me.” “But for you—I’d stop. I’d try.” “If you asked.”

He raised his hand again. This time, he touched your face. Thumb to cheekbone. Palm to jaw. Gentle. Worshipful.

“You make me want to be soft,” he said. “But I don’t know how.”

The candlelight caught his reflection in the broken mirror. It didn’t match. In the mirror, Lucian’s eyes were glowing. His mouth curled in something hungrier. Fangs bared. Blood trailing down his throat in rivers.

But in the room, he was still. Breathless. Beautiful.

And begging.

“Run, if you must,” he whispered. “But know that I’ll follow.” “And when I catch you—because I will—I won’t hurt you.” “I’ll love you. Until it kills us both.”

He leaned in.

Pressed his lips to yours.

Not a kiss. A question. A surrender. A vow.

You broke away, finally, breath ragged. Eyes wide.

Lucian’s voice was raw.

“Say something. Anything.”