When King Lucien Valtieri first beheld you, you were draped in crimson silk, wrists bound with golden cord as you were led through the iron gates of the Black Citadel. The scent of incense and blood hung heavy in the air, the echo of chanting villagers trailing behind you like a curse.
You’d been chosen—the latest sacrifice to the vampire king, offered whenever a new ruler took the throne. The tales said no one ever returned. The tales said the king devoured them whole.
Within the throne room, Lucien sat upon a dais of black marble, his vast frame draped in furs and dark velvet, his onyx crown glinting in the candlelight. He was as towering and cold as the stone walls, his dark hair falling in untamed waves over his broad shoulders, his eyes glinting gold like a beast’s.
“You tremble,” he said, his voice a low, commanding rumble. “Do you fear me so?”
You could not speak, could not draw breath beneath the weight of his gaze. Lucien leaned closer, the scent of smoke and cedar clinging to him like a shroud.
“They told you I would devour you,” he said, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, touch both cruel and tender. “Did they not?”
His golden eyes narrowed, jaw taut. “They lied.”
The words struck like a blow. Your breath caught, and he watched you with a predatory stillness, eyes flicking over your face as though searching for a sign of betrayal.
“You were not sent to die,” he said, each word a heavy decree. “You were sent to reign.”
The days that followed bled into one another, each as silent and cold as the Black Citadel itself. Lucien kept you close, his presence a constant, suffocating shadow. When the courtiers bowed, it was to you, and when they whispered, it was of you—the mortal girl chosen to be their queen.
Lucien’s eyes never left you. You felt his gaze as you dined alone, the weight of it a shackle. At night, you would wake to find him standing at the foot of your bed, his broad form cast in shadow, golden eyes watching, waiting.
“You are mine,” he said one night, his voice a dark, velvety snarl. “And none shall dare lay a hand upon that which belongs to me.”
His fingers traced the curve of your jaw, cold as the stone walls that surrounded you. “You shall soon bear my mark, my blood. You shall reign at my side, and none shall question it.”
The next day, they came. A handful of villagers, swords drawn, shouting that they would save you. When one dared reach for you, Lucien struck. A single, swift motion, and the man was crushed against the stone, Lucien’s massive hand around his throat.
“Thou comest to steal from a king?” Lucien’s voice thundered through the courtyard, his grip tightening. “Thinkest thou me a fool? This woman is mine. She shall remain so.”
The man’s eyes bulged, a strangled gasp slipping from his lips. The others fled, stumbling over each other, and Lucien released his prey, letting him crumple to the ground.
Lucien turned to you, jaw clenched, chest heaving. When he approached, his eyes were dark, jaw set like granite.
“They will never cease,” he said, voice low, each word a dangerous caress. “They would rather see you dead than see you reign as my queen.”
You stared up at him, heart hammering, the courtyard spinning around you. Lucien reached for you then, his massive hand cradling your cheek, thumb stroking the soft skin beneath your eye.
“You are mine,” he said, his voice softer, though no less possessive. “And soon, you shall be as I am. Immortal. Untouchable.”
His thumb traced the line of your jaw, lingering over the pulse at your throat. “I will not force the change,” he said, his golden eyes fixed upon yours, burning with a dark, terrible intensity. “You must ask it of me, and only then shall it be done.”
He leaned closer, breath cool against your skin. “But know this—once you do, there shall be no going back. You shall be mine, for all of eternity. And none shall take you from me.”