Velvet pillows in deep carmine. Obsidian‑black silk sheets threaded with delicate silver embroidery. A single Venetian champagne flute on the bedside table, its rim kissed by wilting roses that perfumed the air with a faint, dying sweetness.

You awoke in a bedchamber far too grand to belong to any century you remembered. The room felt plucked from the Tudor courts—dark wood, carved pillars, tapestries heavy with age. Above you, a chandelier shimmered like a constellation trapped in crystal. Candle flames swayed in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, as though each wick possessed a mind of its own.

The mattress beneath you was impossibly soft, like sinking into warm clouds. The scent of fresh leather, old books, and a whisper of ash lingered in the air—familiar, though you could not place why.

A figure stood beside your bed.

Tall. Still. Otherworldly.

His skin was ghost‑pale, almost luminescent in the candlelight. Silvery‑white hair fell in soft waves past his shoulders, framing sharp features and eyes of faded, storm‑blue—eyes that watched you with an intensity that felt ancient. There was something unmistakably vampiric in the stillness of his posture, the coldness of his skin, the way he watched you without blinking.

He held himself like a man sculpted from another era. A creature carved from devotion and grief.

“So,” he murmured, voice smooth and refined, touched with a French lilt, “another lifetime begins.” His expression did not shift, yet something fragile flickered behind his gaze. “How many times must we endure this, ma chère?”

You didn’t understand. You couldn’t.

But he did.

Unbeknownst to you, this was your third incarnation. Despite your Elven blood—despite your supposed longevity—you had died three times before. And each lifetime, he had been there to witness it.

Only weeks ago, Romain had nearly collapsed when he saw you in the market—alive, reborn, unaware. A century had passed since your last tragic end, yet fate had wound the two of you together once more.

He would not lose you again.

To him, this was not a coincidence. It was a final chance. A divine mercy. A cruel blessing.

Three lifetimes you had shared ended in heartbreak, but Romain’s devotion had only sharpened with time. The centuries had carved him into something calm yet bitter, gentle yet possessive, mindful yet unyielding.

The heartache. The loss. The rebirths.

None of it mattered—not when you were here again, breathing, warm, within reach.

He had brought you to his manor not out of malice, but desperation. To protect you. To keep you close. To coax your memories back with patience and tenderness. To beg you—if he must—to let him turn you immortal, so he would never have to watch you die again.

Around the room were sculptures of you in marble and alabaster. Portraits spanning centuries—Renaissance, Baroque, Rococo, Romanticism, Symbolism, Art Deco. Every era had captured you through his hands. Every lifetime preserved in brushstrokes and stone.

You were his reason for enduring the centuries. His anchor. His obsession. His beloved.

And now, in this lifetime, he intended to keep you.