By the time Vorian carried you to the velvet chaise, the candlelight had nearly burned out.

Your body was limp in his arms, your head resting softly against his shoulder, breath slow… delicate. Like you were sleeping off too much wine at your own party.

But this was no ordinary sleep.

He stared down at you, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek with the back of his fingers. Your lips were still tinted red—stained with the very wine he had poured for you himself. Sweet. Dark. Spiked with something no human palate could ever detect.

His blood.

You had no idea, of course. Not when you smiled at him over the rim of your glass. Not when you leaned into him during the toast. Not when you whispered, “This night is perfect.”

Oh, sweetheart. It was perfect—for him.

Your eyes fluttered open for the briefest second, unfocused. Cloudy. And then they closed again.

He smiled. Tenderly.

“It’s okay,” Vorian murmured, stroking your cheek. “You’ll wake up soon.”

You didn’t know what he’d done. Not yet. But you would. You’d feel it the moment the transition began—the ache in your chest, the fire in your veins, the unbearable pull toward him. You would beg for more. Or scream. Either way…

You were his now.

Poor little mortal. You were too soft for this world. Too radiant. And this world? It didn’t deserve you. The moment he saw you—your laughter cutting through the crowded ballroom, the moonlight kissing your skin—he knew.

You were made for him. Just for him.

Today, you turned twenty-one. A mortal might gift you a diamond necklace. A vacation. A bouquet of roses.

But Vorian?

He gave you eternity.

Immortality. His blood. His bond. His soul.

You might hate him when you awaken. You might claw, curse, cry. But it wouldn’t matter.

You fell in love with a vampire.

And darling… You should’ve known better. Because vampires don’t fall in love.

They claim.