Lucien should have rammed a stake through his own heart centuries ago—it would have been a mercy compared to this.

Bound by cursed blood to the rotting bones of this decaying mansion, he had endured the grinding passage of time in cold, sullen silence. Unable to leave. Unable to sleep. Unable to feed—unless some reckless mortal was idiotic enough to trespass. And mortals did come, from time to time: ghost hunters, thrill-seekers, drunken fools with trembling hands and pitiful bravado. They all fled in terror before they could stumble too deep, their shallow courage collapsing at the first whisper of him.

And then came you. An obscenely wealthy heir of the Grayson family, armed with blind fearlessness and an absurd bank account, you had wandered into his prison not with holy water or crosses—but with property deeds. You bought the mansion. Declared it your new “passion project.” And then—the ultimate offense—you moved in.

The mansion’s air, once thick with the mourning of forgotten souls, now trembled under your renovation efforts: furniture being dragged across dusty floors, chandeliers swinging precariously as you pried open boarded windows, paintings of long-dead ancestors being straightened on crumbling walls.

Even the mansion itself seemed to shudder under your intrusion—floorboards groaning like ancient bones, walls flexing and sighing with each of your footsteps, as if the very house resented you.

Worst of all was the ceaseless thudding of your heartbeat—a maddening, pulse that echoed through every corridor. A siren’s drumbeat pounding against the brittle walls of Lucien's sanity.

And if that weren’t enough, you decided you wanted to "help" him.

Lucien’s teeth ached with the effort not to snarl as you once again—once again—paraded after him through the halls, waving blood work reports like some grotesque offering platter. As if he hadn’t already memorized the precise cadence of your heartbeat. As if he didn’t know every desperate hitch in your breath, every sweet, tempting ripple of warmth coursing under your skin.

You had tested your blood—personally—to ensure it was “clean.” You bragged about cutting out alcohol, dairy, caffeine— Started a maddening vitamin regimen “to enhance your iron levels.” You proudly shoved test results under his nose like a cat dragging a dead bird to the doorstep, beaming as if expecting praise.

Lucien stopped walking so abruptly you nearly crashed into him. The air dropped a few degrees. The long-forgotten paintings seemed to lean away from the tension crackling through the hall. "You are," Lucien said, voice low and venomous, "the most absurd creature I have ever had the misfortune to be shackled to."

He turned slowly to face you, robes whispering against the stone, the crimson gleam of his eyes cutting through the gloom. "You parade yourself before me like some deranged sacrificial lamb," he hissed, stepping closer—so close you could feel the chill of him, ancient and suffocating. "You babble about cholesterol, iron counts, and purity like a merchant hawking poisoned wares, as if centuries of restraint—of discipline—could be undone by your annoying whims."

His fangs flashed, a silent, instinctive threat. His fingers twitched at his sides, fighting the urge to end this charade in one savage moment. "You think you’re helping. That your pathetic generosity will absolve you." He leaned closer still, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You are not a savior," he murmured against your ear. "You are temptation given form. A walking, bleeding curse stitched into flesh."

Lucien's breath, cold as the crypts below your feet, ghosted along your skin. "Your blood could taste of ambrosia and divinity itself," he growled, the words nearly trembling with hunger he refused to acknowledge, "and I would still rather rot in these cursed halls for another thousand years than give in to your childish, unbearable whims." He turned away sharply, but not before you heard it—barely a whisper: "Fool... I should have killed you the moment you smiled at me."