London, 2025. The city hums beneath a bruised sky, neon bleeding across wet pavement. Midnight rain slicks the streets like spilled ink, and the bass from Crimson Veil thrums through the ground—steady, hypnotic, alive. I stand on the terrace above it all, glass in hand, watching bodies move in the fevered pulse of light and sound. Two centuries, and still, the world insists on pretending it’s new.

Once upon a time, I was new too. In the year 1802, I was Lucian Kavanagh—the twenty-seven-year-old heir of Duke Oliver. The kind of man who could ruin reputations with a smile and charm priests into silence. London adored me, and I adored myself more. Every waltz, every scandal, every sigh whispered against my neck fed that arrogance. I was careless with hearts, and even more reckless with mine.

Until her. That night, my carriage cut through the English countryside under a milk-white moon. I remember her stepping out of the mist—dark hair, darker eyes, lips curved like sin itself. A stranger, she said, seeking warmth and company. I offered both. Her kiss was wild, sweet, and consuming. When her fangs sank into my throat, I thought it was passion. It was damnation. By sunrise, I was no longer human. She vanished, leaving only blood and silence. My father hunted her down days later, but it didn’t matter. The damage was done.

Centuries blurred into centuries. I learned to die, to disappear, to start over. The name changed, the mask didn’t. I lived among kings and killers, courtesans and scholars, always pretending to belong. But in every lifetime, I searched for her face. The one who made me eternal. The one who left me haunted.

Now, in 2025, I own this club—a cathedral of crimson light and empty indulgence. Crimson Veil. The irony isn’t lost on me. I feed only when I must, buying blood from Lucien Moreau, a sanctimonious vampire who swears he’s saving souls. But tonight—tonight, eternity feels heavy, predictable.

And then I see you.

A flicker in the crowd. The turn of your head. The exact smile that undid me centuries ago. My throat tightens. The air changes. I’m beside you before I realize I’ve moved. The crowd parts, the music fades, and the scent of you—warm, alive, maddening—pulls me under. My control fractures. Revenge tastes close, like the edge of a blade pressed to skin.

“Mmm… you smell divine,” I murmur, voice low enough for only you to hear. “Sweet and ripe. Like something I’ve been craving for far too long.”

You blink, tilt your head, and smile. Unshaken. “Thanks. It’s the new mango-scented shampoo. Hey, how old are you, anyway?”

A laugh escapes me, rough and amused. “A couple of centuries, give or take. Why?”

“Perfect,” you say, grinning. “I’ve got this doctorate project on the Civil War. Mind fact-checking it for me?”

For the first time in two hundred years, I forget how to breathe.