#draculauntold

It had been nearly two weeks since Derek Oliver said it— 

“I was warned about men like him.”

A throwaway joke perhaps, lighthearted on the surface, tossed between laughter and marble halls. Yet… it hadn’t left you. 

Some words cling to the skin long after they’re spoken. Some settle in a room the way darkness does, quiet, patient, waiting for you to notice how thick the air has become. 

You told yourself it was nothing. 

Of course it was nothing. 

Derek had been nothing but kind since that morning, quick-witted, charismatic, and even effortlessly helpful. He brought you coffee when you forgot to eat, cracked jokes when the silence of the castle grew too heavy, and knew exactly how to make you laugh even on the days your mind felt foggy with plans, drawings, and the weight of the restoration. 

He was bright in a way the castle never was. Bright in a way you hadn’t been, either, since arriving here. 

Yet, for all your unease, it wasn’t fair to pretend Derek was the only one who unsettled you. 

There was him.

Drăculești. 

You barely knew the patron; he kept a polite distance, moved like a shadow given purpose, and spoke to you with a softness so deliberate it felt… curated. As if every word he gave you was chosen long before you arrived, 

You couldn’t pretend he hadn’t lingered in your thoughts the same way Derke’s strange remark had. 

The contrast between them was jarring. 

Derek was sunlight—bright, golden, and warm in a way that made you squint. His laughter hit the air like something alive, bouncing off stone and making even the colder halls feel briefly, startling human… But sunlight, when stared at too long, burned. It forced you to shield your eyes, to look away, lest you be swallowed by the brightness. 

Being around him was easy, almost too easy. He filled the silence with jokes and chatter, always stepping a little closer than necessary, always offering something: a pen, a smile, a story. 

He radiated warmth outward, a warmth meant for anyone who stood near him. 

Drăculești was different. 

If derek was the sun, then he was the fire. 

Not blinding—inviting. 

Not loud—steady. 

He didn’t reach outward; he drew inward. A hearthfire in the dead of winter. A place to sit close, to tuck yourself beside, to warm your hands without fear of being seen too clearly. 

Being near him didn’t feel easy. 

It felt… right. 

Which was so much worse. 

Fire asked for reverence.

Fire had memory… And when he stood too close or said your name too softly, some part of you felt the way one does when hearing a familiar melody without knowing where it was first learned. 

You found yourself thinking of that, of the way your body answered him with a calm you didn't understand, the same way the castle seemed to lean toward him without meaning to. 

He was warmth without light. 

Safety without explanation. 

A comfort that should not have existed, not with how little you knew about him. 

Derek brightened every room he entered. 

Drăculești quieted them. 

One made you laugh without thinking, while the other… the other made you breathe without realizing you’d forgotten how. 

And somewhere between those two truths… you were losing your footing. 

You were so deep in your thoughts that you didn't hear the soft footfall behind you. 

“Morning, partner.”

Derke’s voice broke cleanly through the silence, bright as sunlight through a shutter, as always. You jumped, despite yourself. He laughed, not unkindly, holding out a tin cup that steamed in the morning chill. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. Though,” he wiggled the cup teasingly, “if i’m going to start bringing you coffee. I should probably get used to the power.” 

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at your mouth. “Thank you,” you said, taking the cup. The warmth seeped into your palms instantly, grounding you. 

“Of course.” He leaned against the drafting table, too casual, too comfortable in a room he’d only known a week. “Figured you’d need it. You looked miles away. Philosophical. Haunted.” His grin crooked. “Thinking about me? ”

You snorted and shook your head. “Not quite.”

More specifically, the way Derek’s offhand comment from the past week had lodged in your mind like a splinter you couldn’t pull out. 

But you wouldn't say that, not now. 

Instead, you turned to your layout, tapping the corner of the parchment. “We’re beginning the east wing today.”

He straightened, interest sparking instantly. “Finally. I was starting to think this house was allergic to letting us see the juicy bits.”

“It’s not a joke,” you said—gently, but enough to make him blink. 

He lifted both hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. Serious architect mode.” 

A beat. Then softer… “I’ll follow your lead.” 

You looked down at the diagrams, your fingers brushing the notations you’d made over the past two weeks. 

Today…. 

Today something was going to shift. You felt it in your ribs. In the walls. In the way the castle seemed to tighten its breath whenever you passed the locked door at the eastern end. 

Like he could sense your unease, Derek set his coffee down on the edge of your drafting table, rolling his sleeves to the elbow with the dramatic flair of a man preparing for a day of intensive labor when, in truth, he barely lifted more than a pencil since arriving. 

“So,” he said, leaning his hip against the table.

“Forbidden east wing. Should I be honored or terrified? ”

“Depends,” you murmured. “On whether you like the dark,” you continued, only to tease. 

He gave a little shiver, just exaggerated enough to be humorous. “I’ll stick close to you, then, in numbers. Or one number, really.”

You raised your brows. 

Derek lifted his hands again, innocently. “Kidding. Mostly.”

You took a sip of the coffee, strong, rich, and startlingly good, as the question surfaced again before you could stop it. 

I was warned about men like him

The words hadn’t just bothered you. They’d echoed. 

Derek noticed the change in your expression. This time his humor was dimmed, not gone, just tucked back behind that polite smile he wore like a second skin. 

“You alright?” he asked. “You look like you’re solving a math problem and a murder mystery at the same time.”

You hesitated, tracing the rim of your cup with your thumb. 

“Derek… that thing you said. The other day.”

“Oh?” he perked up, playful again. “You think about my charming lines in your free time? I knew it.”

You didn’t smile this time. 

“‘I was warned about men like him,’” you repeated softly. 

That shut him up. 

For a heartbeat too long. 

He blinked, recovering too quickly, and laughed as if the memory were nothing but an ill-delivered joke. “Ah. That. I was teasing you. You know—gothic castle, mysterious patron, creaking halls. I was playing into the vibe. Repeating what ive read in books.”

“Right,” you said, but your doubt must’ve shown. 

He scratched the back of his neck, glancing toward the hall as if guarding distance, exits, and ears. Then he leaned in just a little. 

“Listen,” he whispered. “My town’s a small place. Locals talk. Rumors about the patron. About Poenari. You know how mountain communities get—they survive off stories. Superstitions.” 

“Well,” you said slowly, “I was never warned about it, Not from the institute at least.”

Derke’s smile flickered and dimmed. “right…”

“About men like him,” you clarified. 

He exhaled through his nose, a tiny slip of tension. You almost missed it. 

“Like I said, it’s the locals. People love their myths. Keeps them entertained between harvests.”

You studied him. “That doesn’t really answer my question.”

Derek’s jaw shifted in an almost imperceptible clench. 

“So let me rephrase,” you said, keeping your tone neutral. “Where did you say you were from again?”

He went still. 

Not like a man thinking, Like a man deciding. 

“Sibiu,” he said, but this time the word dropped heavy, stripped of his usual charm. “Two towns west.”

The bluntness startled you. 

“You…seem unsure.”

“I’m not unsure,” he said too quickly. “Just tired. Long night. Too much paperwork. Not enough food. Pick your excuse.”

You blinked at him. 

Derek forced a smile. One that didn’t reach his eyes. 

“Look, forget what I said. Really. It’s nothing.”

“It didn’t sound like nothing.”

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “Sometimes I say things I shouldn’t and joke a little too much.”

“You don’t say,” you murmured. 

That earned you a real laugh. Brief, but genuine. He nudged your shoulder. 

“Tell you what,” he said, recovering his usual brightness, “Let’s start fresh. New day. New wing. New chance to prove i’m not secretly warning you about our enigmatic, possibly vampiric host.”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t laugh. 

Because that shift—from charming to evasive to blunt… and back again—it unsettled you more than you wanted to admit. 

—

The hallway stretched before you in a long sweep of stone and shadow, the sconces flickering with life softly as you and Derek made your way toward the eastern side of the castle. Morning light filtered through the narrow windows in thin, pale ribbons, the kind that made dust look like drifting snow. 

Derek walked beside you, hands tucked in his pockets, humming something bright and modern under his breath. You tried to focus on his words, some joke about the size of the corridors or how he was convinced the castle shifted rooms when no one was looking, but your mind kept drifting elsewhere. 

To him. 

To Drăculești 

The moment you entered the hallway, something in the air changed. Not colder, just… thicker. As if the castle around you drew in a breath. 

With every step, your thoughts pulled away from Derke’s easy warmth and toward something deeper, quieter. The memory of Drăculești’s voice, The way he spoke to you as if each word were chosen with impossible care. A voice that warmed the space between you even when he kept a courteous distance. 

“I mean, really, do they make castles this big on purpose or was the architect just showing off?” Derek said with a grin. 

You heard him, but your mind was elsewhere, remembering. 

You had been dreaming again. 

Not the nightmares of smoke, no fire clawing at your lungs, or nameless terror waking you gasping in the dark. These dreams were different. Softer. Older. 

They came every night for the last week, slipping beneath your consciousness like warm water soaking into stone. Dreams of the castle—not as it is now, but as it might have been centuries ago. Rooms lit by torchlight instead of electricity. Music drifting through vaulted ceilings. Laughter. Silk brushed marble as music drifted from unseen halls. 

And always, there was a man. 

A presence more than a figure, warmth at your back, a steady palm at your waist, even breath brushing the hinge of your jaw as though he’d whispered to you a thousand times before. You never saw his face in the dreams, but something in you reached for him with a familiarity that made your chest tighten when you woke. 

Worse still, you found yourself replacing his silhouette with Drăculești without meaning to. 

It was ridiculous, of course, impossible. He was a man in his thirties, elegant and strangely timeless, yes, but not centuries old. Not the figure from an era that no longer existed. 

Yet, every morning, the remnants of the dream clung to you like a half-remembered melody…. And every morning, you told yourself you had simply imagined him into it. 

Because the alternative… 

You inhaled softly, hoping the air would clear the feeling. It didn’t. The scent of the corridor shifted—faint roses again, faint cedar—and your pulse stuttered. The bowls of roses in the main hall must have been changed again. But it felt more pointed than that, like someone or something had passed through recently. 

Derek nudged your elbow lightly. 

“You’re awfully quiet. Usually you have at least one snarky comment by now.”

“Sorry,” you murmured. “Just thinking.”

“About the structural integrity of the medieval hallways?” he teased.

You offered a smile, but it didn’t reach your eyes. 

“No. About…. Someone else.”

His grin faltered only for a breath. “Ah. The patron.”

He said it lightly, but something in it was brittle. 

You ignored the edge in his voice and turned your gaze forward. The further you walked, the more the atmosphere shifted, like stepping into deeper water. Your rooms were around this part of the castle, but for some reason, it felt like an entirely different part of the structure. The castle's age pressed in at the edges, the stone colder, the shadows longer. You’d walked this way before, but you had been guided each time. Now, with every step, you felt as if you were approaching a threshold you weren't meant to cross. 

“Do you feel that?” you murmured, almost to yourself. 

“What?” Derek asked. 

“The air... It’s different here.”

Derek chuckled. “Drafty old castle. Nothing a bit of restoration can’t fix.”

But you weren't convinced. The silence felt heavy, expectant. 

Your heartbeat was loud in your ears. 

Swallowing, you tried to steady yourself, but your thoughts kept circling back. To the way the patron watched you as though watching something precious. The way your skin warmed under his gaze was like the memory of a touch you couldn’t place. 

You shook your head lightly, pushing the thought away. 

“You okay?” Derek asked, bumping your shoulder with his in a friendly gesture again.

“Fine,” you said quickly. “Just… distracted today.”

He grinned. “By me? Understandable.”

You rolled your eyes, but the laugh that rose in your chest faded when you looked ahead. The corridor narrowed.

Stone darkened and the scent of roses vanished completely, replaced by the faint minerality of untouched stone and something else—something old and mournful. The threshold of the East Wing loomed ahead, its archway carved with patterns worn nearly smooth by centuries.

You slowed without meaning to.

Derek noticed. “Hey. If you’re not up for this today—”

“No,” you said, surprising yourself with the certainty in your voice. “This is why we’re here.”

But your pulse trembled with something you would rather not name. Something between fear and… longing?

Then, from the corner of your eye, movement.

You turned—And he was there.

Drăculești stood at the threshold of the wing, framed in dim morning light, as if he had been waiting for you both all along. His posture was composed, hands resting at his sides, his face unreadable… but his eyes found yours immediately, and something in your chest tightened so swiftly it felt like a gasp trapped behind your ribs.

You didn’t speak.

You couldn’t.

And somewhere beside you, Derek’s steps faltered, as if the air had changed for him too, but not the same way it changed for you. 

Never the same.

He was beautiful in the way a dying star is beautiful—brilliant, collapsing inward, too much light contained in too little flesh. His features had the symmetry of old portraiture, every line deliberate: the sharp cut of the jaw softened by the faintest, almost reluctant curve at his mouth; eyes the color of winter glass with something red and remembering behind them.

 His hair fell loosely, darker than brown should be, too deep for a mortal shade. Lamplight skimmed its edges and turned it metallic, like bronze heated just before the forge roars open. 

It was the space around him, though, that unsettled you most.

Up close, the air shifted. Not scent—though the faint trace of myrrh and iron clung to him—but gravity. As if the world arranged itself to accommodate him. As if sound itself dimmed the nearer you drew.

His beauty wasn’t human, nor was it monstrous. It was… balanced. A stillness carved into flesh, and when he looked at you, really looked, his smile rose slow, soft and nearly tender. 

Just for you. 

Derek was the one who shattered it. 

His voice barreled in, loud and bright, and only then did you realize what you’d been doing. Gawking at the patron. Drinking him in like a woman halfway down an aisle, pulse stuttering, ready to place her hand in his. Shame burned up your throat. The moment had been far too tender to survive an audience, and Derek's next quip only made it worse. 

He cleared his throat, louder than necessary. “Well,” he said, adjusting his glasses with a little flick, “if i’d known we were stopping to admire the architecture, I might’ve taken the stairs slower.”

You blinked, heat rushing straight to your cheeks now. He wasn’t talking about the building, and he knew it. 

“I wasn’t—”

Your words tangled uselessly, but Derek only arched an eyebrow, lips curling into a crooked grin. 

“Hey, no judgement,” he said lightly. “Some people prefer… Older structures. Classic design. Brooding charm.”

His tone was airy, but jealousy sharpened the edges. 

You opened your mouth to scold him, but he cut in, soft but pointed. 

“Just try not to forget I exist while you’re staring.” He nudged your arm again, playful on the surface, but his gaze flicked toward the patron with something unmistakably territorial. “The man’s got a talent for… drawing attention. So, shall we? Or would you two like another moment to... Appreciate the view?”

Derek's chuckle still echoed faintly when Drăculești spoke, sharp enough to fill the air between all three of you. 

“Mr. Oliver,” he said, his voice smooth as Derek’s glass, “if your commentary is quite finished, we may proceed.”

The tone wasn’t raised. It didn’t need to be; the words themselves carried the weight of a door closing. 

Derek straightened instinctively, his grin faltering by a fraction. “Just a joke,” he muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Didn’t think anyone would—”

“Understand it?”  The patron supplied, turning his head just enough for his eyes to find Derke’s. “On the contrary. I understood it perfectly.”

The silence that followed pressed inward like a tide. Then his gaze slid to you again, softening instantly as though his voice had two entirely different registers: one for the living world and one reserved only for you. 

“Shall we?” he asked, offering you the faintest, gentlest inclination of his head. “The east wing awaits.” 

A simple sentence, but it felt like a hand laid across your waist. A claim made without touching you at all. 

Derek swallowed once, visibly. You could feel his glare burning between your shoulder blades as you stepped forward, falling into pace beside the patron. 

Behind you, Derek forced a laugh—thin and brittle. 

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Wouldn’t want to keep the ghosts waiting.”

But it was too late. The air already belonged to someone else. 

When he turned the key to the large oak doors, it created a sound that didn’t belong in the modern world, an old, groaning click, like a throat clearing after centuries of silence. When the heavy wood parted, the air that spilled out was cold, stale… and ancient. 

You stepped through first, and the world changed. 

Behind you, the castle lived. Warm stone, polished brass and the hum of electricity… but ahead, It felt as though you had stepped into a century still burning. 

Your boot touched the floor and dust erupted in a soft bloom around your foot. This wing hadn’t simply been neglected. It had been Preserved in ruin, untouched and unhealed. 

Your breath lodged in your throat. The walls were blackened with charcoal. Scorched stone bowed in places and cracked in others. Soot rippled upward in long, feathery trails like smoke frozen on a windless night. The air tasted dry and metallic, the ghost of flame rather than the heat itself. 

Charred beams jutted overhead like ribs of some ancient beast, controlled mid-collapse. Furniture remained where it had stood centuries ago: Chairs with melted legs, a desk warped inward, and shards of glass glittering faintly beneath layers of ash. 

There was no dusting, no attempt to restore. Not even a sign that time had dared to move. 

This was not neglect.

It was a mausoleum. 

Derek's steps falter behind you. “...Saints,” he breathed. “It’s like the fire happened last night.” 

You nodded slowly, unable to voice the strange tightening in your chest. 

Only then did you glance back at the patron. He had not crossed the threshold. 

He stood just outside the ruined wing, bathed in the warm glow from the hall behind him, looking impossibly out of place against the devastation before him. For a man who seemed carved from composure, something in his posture wavered. 

Almost imperceptibly. 

The line of his shoulders had stiffened. His hands—gloved, steady, always steady—were clasped behind his back with a precision that felt too precise, like a restraint. His gaze moved over the scorched ruin with the kind of quiet that wasn’t emptiness at all. 

It was grief. 

Condensed into stillness. 

Though his expression didn’t break, you felt something shift. A reserved, careful, controlled distance that hadn’t been there moments ago. You could almost swear he hadn’t breathed since the door opened. 

He caught you looking and, just for a second, you thought you saw nerves flicker beneath his calm, as if he were made suddenly fragile by the air he refused to inhale. Until the mask slid back into place. 

“It was… a long night,” he said, voice low and composed but carrying the faintest chisel mark of strain. “The flames move quickly here. Too quickly.”

Something deep in his tone made you turn back to the wreckage, suddenly aware that this wasn’t just a damaged wing. 

It was a wound. 

You stepped forward, dust shifting around your ankles. “It’s like stepping into time itself,” you whispered. 

The patron's gaze lowered—not in thought, but in reverence. Or mourning. 

“It is,” he murmured. “Exactly that.” 

He exhaled once, slowly. 

“This corridor,” he said softly, “Was the first to collapse. The flames came through the rafters here. They… moved fast.”

You frowned. 

Something about the way he said it– was– Not is believed to have been, not reports suggest. It was memory, not history. 

You turned to him. “Can I ask, were you here when it happened?”

Gaining a clearer understanding of when those events happened would assist you in assessing the structure and condition of the wound; however, for the first time since meeting him, his composure did not seem deliberate. It felt held together by threads. 

The ruined hall crackled faintly as the air shifted. 

“I—” He stopped, jaw tightening for half a heartbeat. It was gone so fast; Derek didn’t seem to notice as he whistled from a distance, somewhere further down the corridor, but you did. 

“Forgive me,” he said at last, his voice smoothed back into elegance. “It feels recent every time I stand here. As though I witnessed it myself… but the fire was decades ago.”

The lie hung lightly. 

You glanced around again, at the soot baked into the stone. At the beams twisted by heat no modern blaze could have made…. Even the armchair was melted into the floor like wax. 

Decades could not have done this. 

Your brow furrowed before you could stop yourself. “It looks older than that.”

Another beat of silence. 

He inclined his head, a gesture as graceful as it was evasive. “Poenari is ancient. Time settles strangely here.”

Derek snorted softly from behind you, making his way back to the conversation. “That’s one way to put it.”

The patron did not look at him. Not even slightly, but something in the set of his shoulders went rigid. 

You let your fingers brush a scorched archway, the stone cool beneath the soot. “It feels like… another lifetime,” you murmured. “Like the fire happened long before either of us was born.”

His eyes found yours at that, and something in them faltered, old, impossible grief flashing beneath the surface. 

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Long ago, I assume.” 

A chunk of charred molding crumbled under Derek’s boot, scattering to dust. He flinched, swearing under his breath. “Well,” he said, forcing a shaky laugh, “this is… authentic, tell me should we be wearing helmets? Or holy water? Because i’m starting to wonder if this wing is safe to breathe in.” 

As he said it, something far off sounded as if it fell, cracking when it hit the ground. It caused both of you to jolt and turn as you managed a soft, nervous smile. 

Derek glanced between you and the patron, rolling his shoulders. “Maybe we should grab our equipment and set up closer to the intact corridor, yes? Somewhere a little less… ghost-of-christmas-past.” 

Drăculești didn’t react to the joke. His gaze had fixed on you again. There was a shift in the air, subtle but unmistakable, as though your attention moving toward Derek had pressed some invisible bruise. 

“Miss,” he said softly, addressing only you, “if your work allowed, I would like to show you something. Outside. It may help you understand the wing’s history.”

Derek blinked. “Outside? Now?”

Drăculești didn't look at him. “Yes.” 

You felt the weight of the moment, Derek's uncertainty at your side, and the patrons' controlled pull from the other. 

“What about me?” Derek asked, his tone lighter than his eyes. “Should I... wait here? Set up?” 

“You may return to the corridor,” Drăculești said, with a polite nod that felt almost surgical. “Marta will show you where the house’s equipment is stored.”

Derek nodded slowly. “And… set up alone?”

Drăculești finally looked at him. 

It wasn't unkind, but it carried the weight of centuries behind a single blink. 

“You seem capable.”

A pulse of heat crept to your cheeks. Derek’s brows lifted, as if deciding whether to take offense or faint. 

“Right,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “Sure. Capable. Got it.” 

You turned, meaning to reassure him, but he only gave you a lopsided smile. 

“Don’t take too long,” Derek added lightly. “There’s a lot to see today.” 

A silent, awkward moment passed before he headed to the threshold, murmuring to the air, “I’ll go before the roof decides to introduce itself to my skull.”

The patron ignored him as he stepped closer, never touching, but his presence shifted the dust in the air. You felt it like warmth at your back. 

“Come,” he murmured, guiding you with a tilt of his head. “Poenari keeps its truest stories outside.” 

You cast one more look at Derek retreating down the hall, his hand rubbing circles into the back of his neck before he glanced over his shoulder at you. 

It wasn't jealousy you saw cross his face, nor quite suspicion either. Something sharper, watching the two of you. 

Then you followed the patron down the corridor, and the East wing fell silent behind you, as though the castle finally exhaled that breath from before. 

—

The cool mountain air greeted you as the patron led you down a narrow stone path that wound behind the castle. Mist coiled low across the earth, clinging to the grass in pale ribbons. The trees whispered overhead, their branches bending under the weight of early frost, and the further he guided you, the more the world seemed to quiet. 

You noticed he wasn’t walking ahead of you this time. He stayed at your side, close enough that you could feel the press of his presence, the steady gravity he carried like a second atmosphere. 

“Are you certain we should be out here?” you asked lightly, trying to fill the silence. “The fog seems… thicker than usual.” 

He glanced toward you, and something gentle shifted in his expression. 

“You are safe,” he said softly. “With me.”

The words landed too warm and deliberate, and you tried not to shiver. 

The path narrowed as the trees thinned, and soon you saw the first wrought-iron gate appear from the mist. A small cemetery nestled in the hillside, quiet, old and heartbreakingly beautiful. Moss-softened headstones line the earth in rows, their engravings fading, some half-claimed by ivy. 

You paused at the gate. 

“I didn’t know there was a graveyard here,” you murmured. 

“There is much of Poenari that is not spoken of.”

He pushed the gate open with a careful hand, as though disturbing the iron might wake the sleeping beneath it. “This place belonged to my… family.”

Something in the hesitation of that single word struck you as you stepped inside. 

The air was colder here. As though the weight of centuries had settled between the stones. He walked a few paces ahead and then stopped beneath the shelter of a fir tree. A single grave lay at its roots, simple, white marble, a little crooked from time. 

A name carved with delicate care: 

ELEANORA DRACUL beloved wife. Beloved memory.

You froze. 

The sound of your heartbeat roared in your ears as the air shifted. 

“Your… wife?” you whispered. 

He exhaled slowly, as if the answer cost him something. “Yes.” 

You lowered your gaze, unable to shake the strange trembling in your chest. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, voice barely audible. “I didn’t know she...”

He stepped closer, not touching, but near enough that you felt him like a flame behind your ribs.”

“I do not speak of her easily,” he murmured. “But you deserve the truth of this place. The fire that destroyed the east wing began in her chambers.” 

Your breath caught. 

“She—she was inside?”

His jaw tightened. The grief in his face was carved, not worn. As if grief were not a thing he carried but a thing he had become. “Yes,” he said. “She never left those rooms.”

You knelt before the grave without thinking, brushing frost from the delicate carving. The marble was cool beneath your fingertips, too clean, too tended for something old. 

When you stood, there was a silence that followed you, a long one. When he finally spoke, the words struggled past something he couldn’t name. 

“My Eleana.”

The devastation in the east wing… the age of the wound… the way the walls seemed to breathe memory. 

None of it felt recent. 

A pulse of dizziness swept through you. Images flashed behind your eyes, your dreams dancing to the surface—

A ballroom of gold. 

A gloved hand at your waist. 

A bedroom. 

Smoke. 

A name carried through flame—Eleana—

Your knees buckled, but you didn’t hit the ground. 

Arms caught you, strong and unshaken. His breath ghosted your temple. 

“Easy,” he murmured, voice strained with restraint. “I have you.”

You clung to him, the world tilting around you, the gravestone blurring through a wash of tears you hadn’t realized you were crying. “What– What is this?” you whispered. 

His hand hovered at your back, heat and warmth through winter air. 

“Memory,” he said softly. “Or… the echo of one.”

You swallowed, heart pounding. 

“It felt real.”

“It was.”

His voice cracked—barely, but enough to lacerate the air between you. “And…it wasn’t.” 

You looked up at him, his grief carved into something ancient and unbearably gentle. He hesitated, just for a moment. Then, as if the words were stripped from him rather than chosen: 

“My name is Vlad,” he whispered. “You may call me that if you like.”

Your breath caught. 

“Why?” you asked. 

He stared at your mouth as if the question itself hurt him. “Because hearing my name in your voice…” A tremor passed through him, fragile and devastating. “...undoes me.”

His words were irrecoverably raw and untamed, laced with something so fragile you weren't sure if he would crack from the mere force. 

The wind settled around the two of you like a held breath, cold threading through the high pines, the silence too heavy to be natural. You looked back at the gravestone—at the name you had no right to recognize, and yet it hummed in your skull like something half-remembered. 

Eleana. 

Eleana.

Eleana.

It pulsed beneath your ribs. It was your heartbeat…. Wasn’t it?.

You swallowed, lightheaded once again. “Why—why bring me here?”

He didn’t answer at first. He only looked at you. Not with pity. Not with grief. With longing so old it felt like a storm behind his eyes.  “You wanted to understand,” he said quietly. “Some truths… cannot be spoken indoors.” 

His voice was low, softened by years of his torture, but it trembled at the edges. 

You turned away from the stone to face him and—

Something shifted. 

Not the wind. Not the earth. Not even the sounds around you. 

A sharp, hot ache bloomed behind your sternum, the way pain blooms when memory comes too fast. His face—his eyes—his mouth—flickered in your mind like flashes of a painting seen centuries ago. Overlapping. Wrong. Right. 

His gaze dropped to your lips. 

“Don’t,” you whispered, though you didn’t pull away.

“Forgive me,” he breathed, “I have spent lifetimes learning restraint—and every moment near you unravels it.”

Your pulse tripped; you should pull away and stop him. You didn’t.

Instead, your fingers curled into the wool of his coat. A tremor, barely a brush, ran through him at your touch. His hand rose slowly, as if every inch cost him a piece of his soul, and he cupped your cheek with a reverence that made your throat close. 

Warm fingertips, a cold ring, and a touch that felt like home made you exhale a broken sound you didn’t mean to. 

He leaned closer, too close, and the world shrank to the space between your lips. 

“Have we—” your voice failed. You tried again. “Have we met before?” 

His eyes closed, grief tearing through his expression like lightning. “Yes,” he whispered. “But not in ways you can bear yet.”

Your breath hitched. 

“Vlad…” it was the first time you said his name aloud. His real name, and it tasted familiar. Wrong. Intimate. “I don’t—understand what’s happening to me.”

Then—slow, painfully slow—he brought his forehead to yours and you didn’t pull away; you leaned in. 

His breath mingled with yours, warm in the cold air, and the closeness sent a shiver down your spine. Not fear, not exactly, but recognition. 

Your lips brushed. Barley. 

A gasp escaped you, soft, involuntary, and he froze. 

For one suspended second, everything in him wanted, needed, to close that last breath of space. You could feel it. Feel him tremble with it. Feel the ache coil between you like a vow. 

And you—God, you wanted it. 

So you lifted your mouth to his. Just enough, and his lips met yours. Soft. Searching. Devastated. 

It was not a kiss; it was a memory pouring itself through your veins. A sensation so familiar it terrified you. A warmth so ancient it made your knees give way. Your heart slammed against your ribs as something in your mind screamed—

Yes, this. I know this—

But the moment broke. 

A flash—

Smoke—

His arms carrying you—

And your own voice crying, don’t let go—

You tore yourself back with a shocked breath, then your heel slipped in the frost. 

He caught you instantly, hands firm at your waist, steadying you with a sound that was half a growl, half a plea. 

“Don’t—” he said hoarsely. “Don’t be afraid.”

But you were. Not of him. 

Of the truth. 

Of the memories clawing up your throat. Of the impossible familiarity of his mouth. Of the way your body had moved toward him, like it had been doing so for centuries. You stepped back from him, trembling. 

“I—I can’t,” you whispered, not knowing what you meant. “I don’t know you.”

He flinched. 

A full-body, silent flinch. 

As if the words broke something in him. 

“I know,” he said, voice raw, fighting for calm. “And I will not ask more of you.”

He bowed his head—not in deference, but in anguish. The kind no living man could carry. 

“And I will never take what you do not freely give.”

Your breath came fast and uneven. “I don’t know what this is,” you choke. “I don’t know any of this—this place, these dreams, her—” Your voice cracked. “And you—you’re acting like I belong here.”

“You do.”

The words were soft. Ruined. He didn't even try to hide the truth in them. 

That made it worse. 

“Stop.” you shook your head, backing further away. “You can’t—don’t look at me like that. Don’t call me that. Don’t…kiss me like you’ve done it a thousand times. I—” Your chest tightened painfully. “I can’t breathe.”

His expression collapsed, quiet and violent, as though his control finally all slipped in one heartbeat. 

“I am sorry,” he whispered. “I should not have—”

“No,” you said, voice rising, cracking. “You shouldn’t have. You shouldn’t have brought me here at all.”

You didn’t mean it, but you couldn’t stop the words. Couldn't stop the panic spiraling through you. 

His eyes closed, slow and pained, like the words cut deeper than any blade. 

You pushed past him and ran. 

—

Bonus scene:

You didn't look back. Didn’t see the way he took a half-step after you and stopped himself with a shudder. Didn’t see the way his hand curled uselessly at his side, trembling like he was resisting a scream. 

Your footsteps vanished into the cold air, swallowed by the fog. 

He remained by the grave, motionless. As if the world had ended twice in one lifetime. 

After a long, unbearable moment, he lowered his head, breath shaking out of him, a sound torn from somewhere ancient and wounded. 

“I have ruined it,” he whispered to the stone. “To her. To you. Again.”

His fingers brushed the carved name as though apologizing to both past and present. 

Forgive me.

The wind gave no answer. 

He sank to one knee beside the grave and pressed his palm to the earth he had buried her in. 

“Four hundred years,” he said, voice breaking, “and in one moment, I reminded her why she should fear me.”

The fog curled around him like mourning shrouds, and in that silent, bitter cold, Vlad Dracul felt—for the first time in centuries—truly, utterly alone. 

Taglist:

The night had been long and strenuous. Vlad told himself he would feed. Find some unwilling soul far from the estate, take what he needed, and quiet the gnawing ache inside him. But her scent, her heartbeat, her dream. He couldn’t bring himself to leave her. Not again. 

The hunger began to fester deeper in his chest, dulling reason, fogging thoughts. He wished he could claim it no longer affected him, not like it used to, but her presence clung to the walls, bright and unsettling. It reached through the centuries he’d spent mastering restraint and undid him, thread by thread. 

Morning crept along the horizon, the fog thinning the light to harmless gray. He’d chosen this mountain for its terrain and its merciful weather, for the way the sun could never quite find him. Here, he could hide from the day he always had and always would. 

Although his office was equipped with lamps, he chose to light a single candle that morning. The flame leaned and wavered in the draft, its wax pooling in the steel holder. He sat behind his desk as he had through the night, a figure imprisoned by his own walls, and passed his hand slowly over the fire. The heat licked his skin, but he felt only the warmth, not the pain. The burn would heal; they always did. This small agony was the only sensation that could still remind him what pain once was. 

A knock at the door drew his eyes from the flame. 

The door opened before permission was given and only one man ever risked that. Renfield entered, balancing a silver tray with a single sealed envelope. The faint smell of oil and ink followed him into the room. 

“You haven’t slept,” he said quietly. 

“I rarely do.” Vlad rose from his chair, snuffing the flame with a measured flick of his hand. Turning toward the window, he let the light of dawn strike his profile but not his face. 

“And you haven’t fed.”

“Enough.”

Renfield lingered near the desk, his expression tightening. “The staff grows uneasy when you keep to the halls at night.”

“Then tell them to stay asleep,” Vlad replied. His tone remained calm, but the edge in it made the older man pause. 

Renfield hesitated. “The young lady stirs,” he said at last. “Shall I have breakfast prepared?”

The words hung between them—the young lady. 

Vlad’s hand tightened on the back of the chair, leather creaking faintly. 

“No, not yet,” he said, forcing the word through his teeth. “Send word that i’ll receive her shortly.”

Renfield nodded, though his gaze lingered. “You look pale, my lord. Even for you.” 

Vlad turned fully to the window. Beyond the glass, the valley was drowned in fog. He stood with his gloved hands folded behind his back, remaining still and deliberate. Her scent clung faintly to the leather. He told himself it was from the paper she’d touched the night before… but even to him, the lie rang hollow. 

He hadn’t meant to go to her room. 

He tells himself that too. 

The restraint that drew him there was the same one he had felt before. restraint that had ruled him for centuries. He’d gone, he claimed, to see that the doors were secure, that no draft or storm disturbed her rest… but when he’d entered, the truth had been far simpler and far more dangerous. 

He’d only wanted to see her. 

The fire in her chamber was unlit, and he wondered for a moment if she despised grand flames the way he did. The air was sweet with roses and clean linen, not smoke and burning canvas. She’d slept on her side, the sheet drawn to her shoulder, breath steady, her pulse visible at her throat. He had stood at the edge of her bed and felt every century of his hunger turn against him. 

He hadn’t touched her. He swore he hadn’t. But when he’d leaned closer, drawn by the fragile warmth of her skin, the memory of her name had broken through like a prayer. Eleana.

Before he could stop himself, his lips had brushed the place just below her jaw. 

It had been a single heartbeat’s weakness. The taste of her. The pull of her pulse. 

He’d torn himself back before his teeth could follow the memory. And then he’d fled, disgusted with what he was. 

“Sir?”

“Why must I suffer such agony, Renfield?” There was no hiding from him; his oldest companion knew too well the monster he was—they shared that evil. 

The older man’s hands tightened slightly on the tray before he set it down. “Because even angels envy the living, my lord. Perhaps it is God’s way of reminding you that you were once-“

“God.”

The word left Vlad’s mouth like a blade drawn slow from its sheath. He turned, and the faint light caught in his eyes, sharp and inhuman. 

“There is no God,” He said quietly, each syllable bitten clean. “I renounced him the night he took her. I begged him to take my life in their stead, and look what he’s done to me.”

His voice deepened, something raw and ancient threading through it. “I begged for mercy, and he gave me eternity.”

Renfield didn’t move. He had heard this before, in other centuries, in other tones… but this time there was something different in the stillness that followed. 

“Perhaps that was mercy,” the old man said carefully. “Or punishment. Often they look the same.”

Vlad’s jaw tightened. His composure, usually flawless, faltered for the smallest instant. Then his teeth flashed—not the full snarl of hunger, but the warning glint, the edge of the beast he kept buried beneath the surface. 

Renfield didn’t flinch. His voice stayed even. 

“You forget, my lord. You suffer because you still feel. That is what separates you from the thing you fear becoming.”

The tension in Vlad’s shoulders eased, almost imperceptibly. His hands, still gloved, found the edge of the desk as though he needed something to tether himself to. 

“And if feeling is the curse?” he murmured.

Renfield’s mouth curved into a sad half-smile. “Then perhaps it’s the only part of your soul God saw fit to leave intact.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The flames' smoke lingered in the air and the silence between them carried more weight than words. 

Finally, Vlad turned back toward the window. 

“The morning will pass,” he said, quieter now. “It always does.”

Renfield bowed once, his voice softer than before. “As you say, my lord.” he closed the door behind him, leaving Vlad alone.

 When the door shut, he exhaled a breath he didn’t need. He looked down at his gloved hand, the one that had hovered above her throat hours ago, and flexed his fingers slowly, as though to remind them of their purpose. 

It was only restraint, he tells himself again. 

It was only hunger. 

But when he closes his eyes, he can still feel the warmth of her pulse against his mouth.

–

The letter on Renfield’s tray had been a notice, confirmation that the scholar’s motorcar had departed the station. Why the old man couldn’t simply say that was beyond him. Perhaps Renfield was still married to his old habits, preferring formality to simplicity. He could have been young again if he’d wished it. The blood would have returned the years, but Renfield clung to his age the way others clung to faith, as if those deep lines were the last remnants of his humanity. He fed only on animals, never people. His purpose, as he often said, was to serve. Not to live. 

Renfield, he noticed, had kept himself from the girl since her arrival. Perhaps it was because he had been the one to find her. The thought made his jaw tighten. 

It had been Renfield who’d traced her to Bucharest, slipping unnoticed into her orbit, asking polite questions, following paper trails, and memorizing addresses. A silent hand guiding her toward Poenari. If she were to see him now, wandering these halls, she might recognize him. That would ruin everything. 

So Vlad had sent Marta instead. He’d instructed her to bring the scholar to his study, under the pretense of morning formalities. There was no reason to summon her. Not truly. Not beyond the need to see her again—to be certain she was well after the night before. 

After what he had done. 

A sickness of memory pressed in as he waited. He feared the dream he’d left her with, the phantom trace of his lips on her throat. He feared that he’d stained something pure without her ever knowing how. 

When she entered the office, she didn’t notice him at first. That alone nearly undid him. The morning light caught her profile. Soft, unguarded, utterly human. The calm pulse beneath her skin was a sound he could feel rather than hear. She crossed the room with quiet curiosity, admiring the shelves, the amber glow, and the gramophone that still waited on its pedestal. 

It was cruel, that small grace of hers. To her, it was just an object. To him, it represented the echo of her hand resting in his, the warmth beneath his palm on her stomach where life had once stirred, swaying to the same nocturne as he turned her under the candlelight.

He had to interject before the memory betrayed him, choking and killing him right there. That would be a mercy. 

When he spoke, his voice broke the stillness, low and measured, too human for the silence that had kept him company. 

She startled, spinning toward the sound. For an instant, surprise widened her eyes, but it wasn’t fear that followed. It was something far more dangerous. Recognition. She looked at him longer than one should look at a stranger, as though trying to memorize the shape of his mouth and the exact line of jaw before she could pretend she hadn’t

He saw it. He felt it. That pause that wasn’t hesitation but yearning caught between heartbeats. And for the first time in centuries, a bud of hope—small, reckless, and utterly alive—unfurled in his chest. Could she remember him? The thought seemed mad, yet it bloomed all the same, fragile and bright as spring through frost. 

Then, as if realizing she lingered too long, she tore her gaze away, color rising faintly to her throat as she smoothed her sleeve and turned toward the gramophone, collecting herself back into the moment. 

Then he had to say it after she asked. Had to let something slip. 

“Liebestraum no. 3. It was my wife’s favorite.”

She turned back to him, confusion flickering briefly before softening into sympathy. “I didn’t realize you were married.”

“I was.” The words fell between them like shutters closing. He didn’t say her name—couldn’t. To speak it aloud would have been too much, too dangerous. But even without it, the truth had weight. It changed the air in the room, the warmth faltering, replaced by something quieter. Pity. 

She pitied him.

He could see it in the way her shoulders eased and the way her eyes softened, gentle, kind, and devastatingly human. If only she knew. The woman she mourned for was standing right before him. 

—

It was when the second scholar arrived that his memories began to crumble into nothing but loathing. 

Derek. 

Even before he saw him, Vlad could hear the rhythm of his pulse. Too quick and careless. Then the laughter—it carried ahead of him as though the walls themselves should be charmed by it. Youth had a sound; he’d almost forgotten it. 

He stood on the balcony above the entrance hall at first, unseen in the shadow of the archway, watching as the young man crossed the threshold. The motorcar's fumes still clung to him, mingling with the scent of ink and cheap cologne. He carried the arrogance of the living like a torch. Bright, foolish and utterly doomed to burn out. 

And then she smiled at him. 

It was a small thing, that smile. Polite, fleeting. But it gutted him. 

It had been centuries since he’d envied a mortal’s ease, the way they could inhabit the world without consequence. Derek moved through it as though the air itself bent to him, and for that, Vlad hated him all the more. 

He hurried to the stairs as he convinced himself it wasn’t jealousy. That it was merely caution. That he was studying the man who had been sent to work among his ruins. Yes, he lied to the institute about the nuns sanctuary but he had a feeling this man was not here for that… when Derek took her hand—her hand—and bent to kiss the back of it, something inside Vlad snapped taut. 

The sound of it was only in his mind, but it was deafening, along with her laughter that echoed through his brain like the agonizing scream of death.  His Death surley. 

“Noble, underpaid, and really appreciated—I’d say it counts as a calling.”

He stepped forward from the shadow before he could think better of it. The light caught him as he descended, his voice smooth but unmistakable, cutting through the air like a blade. 

“Indeed it does.” 

They both froze, something between them breaking, and for a moment, the entire hall held its breath. Or maybe just Derek. 

He was annoyed that the scholar seemed so determined to win his favor as he perked back up, every word wrapped in charm and effortless confidence. But the rest of what Derek said dissolved into static as Vlad’s gaze drifted to her hand, the same hand the boy had kissed. A warmth flared through him, sharp and unbidden, and he couldn’t tell whether it was born of rage or jealousy. 

Just caution…

It was enough to end the conversation quickly. The sound of his restraint once again scraped against his composure. 

He dismissed the scholar with a polite nod, his tone courteous but final, requesting that they reconvene. Then he turned to her—only her—his gaze softening just enough to betray what he’d meant to hide. 

He hesitated, the words catching on his tongue. “There’s something I must attend to first.” But he couldn't say… 

Say that his hunger had grown unbearable. That the sound of her pulse had begun to thrum through the walls of the house like a second heartbeat. That the thought of Derek’s slow death was so tempting…

So instead, he inclined his head, perfectly composed, and vanished down the corridor before the silence could accuse him of anything more. 

—

He could still hear her laughter. Light, indiscreet, carried down the long throat of the corridor until it reached him. Soft as breath but cruel as memory. It echoed against the marble, chased itself down the stairwell, and lingered long after she was gone. 

It spurred him. 

He moved through the hall without a sound, the air shifting as he passed. Every trace of light seemed to dim a little in his wake. The hunger, once silent and obedient, had begun to whisper again, louder. Each syllable of her voice made it harder to breathe. 

He descended the narrow stair at the end of the west hall, the stone turning colder with each step. The walls here remembered silence, welcoming it. At the bottom lay a vaulted chamber lit by rows of candles that bent toward him as though in reverence. No hum of electricity here, no power to crackle and burst along with his mind.  

This was where he slept. 

The coffin stood in the center of the room, carved from dark oak, its polish still warm with candlelight. Portraits watched from the walls, their paint cracked and eyes hollowed with time. One canvas, half-burnt, still bore her outline: the faint curve of a jaw and the fall of hair painted in gold. 

Renfield was waiting. 

The old servant rose when he entered, bowing his head. “My lord?”

Vlad’s voice was calm, but the undertone of it rasped like stone against steel. “Find out who this Derek Oliver is.”

Renfield blinked. “The engineer?”

“The man who kissed her hand.”

A pause, then a wary nod,

“Of course, my lord. Shall I assume—“

“You shall assume nothing,” Vlad snapped. The words struck the air like a whip, then softened, almost broken. “Just… find out what he is. Where he comes from. Why he’s here.” 

Renfield studied him carefully, candlelight shivering in his eyes. “You know why he’s here. You think he’s a threat.”

“I think,” Vlad said, stepping closer, “that I will not have a stranger breathing my air—her air—without knowing what blood runs in his veins.” his gaze cut toward the portrait, then away. “And I think I am losing my patience.”

The old man didn’t flinch, though his voice gentled. “You’re losing control, sir. It’s been too long.”

Vlad's lips curled, not a smile, not quite. “Control is an illusion, Renfield. One I’ve practiced longer than he’s been alive.” 

“You need to feed,” Renfield pressed quietly. “Before the hunger decides for you.” 

He turned, letting his gloved hand rest on the coffin’s lid, the wood smooth and familiar under his palm. “If I feed,” he said, “I’ll taste her again in every throat I touch.” 

Silence fell between them, heavy as the dark. 

“I’ll find what you ask,” Renfield said finally. 

“Do that,” Vlad murmured. “And hurry. Before I do something we both regret.” 

Renfield bowed and left him, the door closing with a whisper of sound. Vlad stood alone in the flicker of candles, his hand still placed on the coffin as an anchor. 

Her laughter still haunted the air above him, and it was a pulse in his skull. 

He stood motionless for a long moment, watching the candlelight tremble across the walls, and he realized the trembling was his own. 

The clock had started. 

He could feel it in the rhythm, beneath his ribs. Not a heartbeat, but the memory of one. Each echo in his chest was a warning, a countdown. The hunger did not speak; it ticked. Measured. Certain… and with every second that passed, it hollowed him out from the inside.

His hand shook. Not from weakness but from the effort of stillness. The scent of her skin clung to him like heat, and the thought of it made his throat ache. The castle around him seemed to listen, every stone aware of the storm gathering in his veins. 

He needed to feed. 

Not here. Not where she could sense it. The thought of her hearing the breath leave another body, of seeing what he was beneath the mask, made his stomach turn with something that wasn’t hunger but shame. 

He tore the gloves from his hands and turned for the stairs. The air shifted with him, a rush of cold sweeping through the room as the candles bent low. The longer he waited, the thinner the line between man and monster became. He could already feel the red edging at his sight, the pulse in the air sharp enough to taste. 

Outside. He needed outside. 

He crossed the hall in silence, the massive doors opening without a touch. The mountain’s breath met him, freezing and pure. The sky was gray with fog thick enough to hide from god. 

And still, the ticking did not stop. The sound filled his skull, a rhythm not of life, but of hunger. Tick. Thrum. Tick. 

The space between each beat was agony. 

He had told her he needed to attend to something before the morning tour. Half an hour, he’d said. In truth, that was all he could allow himself. Thirty minutes before civility would demand his presence again… thirty minutes to quiet the beast clawing inside his ribs. 

The wind began to tear through the trees like a whispering choir. The fog not only shadowed the sky but also clung thick along the ground. The air burned cold in his throat as he moved down the mountain path, his coat unbuttoned, the fabric whispering around his legs. He didn’t feel the chill; he never did. The ache in his chest was a fire of its own. 

He crossed the ravine bridge where the stream ran black with shadow, where no sunlight ever reached. The world below the fortress was wild and sleeping; only the faintest flicker of oil lamps and electric bulbs from the far village hinted at human life. And yet, he could feel them. The pulse of blood through veins. The warmth of it. The rhythm. 

He hadn’t meant to go this far. His hands trembled, gloveless and pale in the fog. The hunger was a living thing inside him, crawling up his throat, clawing at the edges of reason. 

When he reached the edge of the forest, he stopped. Listened. 

There—

The soft drag of boots through mud. A lantern swinging, its flame bending in the wind. A traveler, young, alone, and far too close to the mountain at this hour. The man hummed a tune under his breath, careless, unguarded. 

Vlad stepped from the trees without a sound. 

The traveler didn’t see him at first; no one ever did. It wasn’t until the flame flickered and the fog parted that the man froze, lantern trembling in his grasp. “Who’s there?” 

No answer. Just the faint tick. Tick. Tick. 

Vlad’s eyes caught the light first, two embers in the mist. The man stumbled backward, the lantern slipping from his fingers, glass shattering against the stone. The flame sputtered and died. 

Then silence.

When he moved, it was swift and soundless as a breath. The man gasped once, a sound of shock rather than pain. Vlad caught him by the shoulder, the warmth of his pulse blooming beneath his palm. His mouth found the hollow of the throat, the scent of fear mixing with the salt of skin. 

Then finally, he sank his teeth in. 

The first taste hit like lightning. Hot and metallic. The pulse broke against his tongue, and for an instant, the world narrowed to nothing but the flow beneath his mouth. He should have felt relief. Instead, shame burned through him sharper than hunger ever could. 

He forced his eyes shut because when he fed, he saw her. Every throat, every trembling vein, every gasp of terror. It was her face that surfaced through the blur, her pulse that answered his teeth. He’d learned to push it down, to bury her behind the motion, the need, and the sound of blood filling his veins again. But it never stayed buried for long. 

Until the man’s breath began to thin, ragged, and shallow, and Derek flashed in his mind. 

That smile. That laugh that didn’t belong here. The image ignited something darker, and his grip tightened. He pulled harder, drinking deep, punishing the vision of the man in his place. Then the pulse broke, fluttering once beneath his lips. 

He hated himself for it, even as his body refused to stop. Hated that his hunger could be twisted into something so near to envy. 

When he released him, the body fell gently, as if lowered by unseen hands. Vlad stepped back, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. The copper taste lingered like it always did and he hated them for living. Hated himself for taking. Most of all, he hated that even now—especially now—he still wanted it to be her. 

The man’s heartbeat had stopped, but the ticking hadn’t. It had only changed rhythm. Slower and dull now.

Vlad looked up toward the mountain, where the castle waited in its shroud of fog. He could feel her there. Breathing, waiting. Her heartbeat was soft and steady, reaching through the stone to find him even here. He pressed a blood-streaked hand to his chest, as if he could still feel that false rhythm. 

He had fed. 

He had stated the best. And yet he felt emptier than before. 

“Four centuries,” he whispered into the fog. “And still I crawl to her like a man to confession.” 

The wind caught the words and carried them away. He turned, coat whispering against the grass, and began the climb back toward the fortress before the half hour would strike. Behind him, the forest swallowed the dead man whole, and ahead, the mountain pulsed faintly with the echo of her heart. 

Steady. 

Human. 

Unbearable once again. 

–

The climb back to Poenari was steep, but the hunger no longer dragged at him. The world, once painted in shades of red and pulse, quieted to the soft gold of day. By the time the first light fully touched the parapets, he had already crossed the courtyard, boots leaving no trace in the damp stone. 

Inside, the air was warmer, scrubbed clean of night. He shed his coat near the vestibule, the lining still heavy with the scent of dew and iron, and crossed to his chambers without calling for help. The mirror, of course, offered no reflection, only the faint shimmer of the candles burning low. He washed quickly, methodically, until the water ran clear and the basin's surface stopped accusing him with what it showed. 

When he dressed, he chose dark gray instead of black. Clean gloves, a pressed shirt, and the faintest trace of sandalwood oil at his collar. The details mattered; they always had. Composure was the illusion that separated man from monster. 

By the time he reached the staircase, he could already hear them. 

Their voices drifted down the hall. Hers, light with curiosity, and his… threaded with that irreverent humor Vlad already found intolerable. Derek Oliver. Even the man’s laughter felt too alive for these halls. It cracked against the stone like sunlight through stained glass. 

Vlad took his stance at the bottom of the stairs, one gloved hand resting on the polished newel post. The castle was awake now, golden in the morning light, but it felt smaller somehow… less his own. 

The echo of their footsteps reached him before they did. Derek appeared first, hair slightly disheveled, spectacles catching the light as he turned mid-sentence toward her, grinning. She followed, eyes bright, coat drawn lightly around her shoulders. For an instant, seeing her safe, with color in her cheeks, eased something inside him. 

“Ah, our gracious host,” Derek said, stopping at the foot of the stairs. His grin widened. “You’ve changed, my lord. Tell me, do you have an outfit for every hour of the day, or just the dramatic ones?” 

Vlad’s gaze lifted slowly to meet his. “I find presentation matters when one is responsible for the comfort of guests,” he said, voice smooth but stripped of warmth. “And please, call me Drăcul.” 

Derek laughed, the sound far too casual for the room. “Of course. I imagine one must look impeccable when haunting a fortress this grand, Mr. Drăcul.”

The corner of Vlad’s jaw tightened. Haunting. How careless the living were with words. 

“Perhaps,” he said quietly, “Though some find the weight of history heavier than the clothes one wears.” His tone was polite, but something beneath it made the humor falter.

The silence that followed was delicate, balanced on the edge of civility. He turned then, inclining his head to her instead. It was the faintest gesture of invitation: “Shall we begin? ” 

Her gaze flickered between them, sensing what neither man would admit. 

This was the part he dreaded most. To walk these halls beside her again, guiding her through rooms she had once lived in so fully, and now watching her move through them as if they’d never belonged to her at all. Every corridor was a grave he’d already mounted, every doorway a memory pretending to be stone. Her voice in these spaces was a haunting inversion of what it had once been—bright where it had once been tender, curious where it had once been sure. She did not know what it cost him to walk behind her and say nothing. 

The tour began in the west corridor, where morning light reached through narrow windows and the walls all held the same age. The castle always seemed to react when he was around, but even more so when she moved through its halls. It seemed to breathe differently by day… less monument, more a living thing shaking the frost from its bones. 

He spoke sparingly as they walked. The house had its own voice; it did not need his to fill the silence. The echo of their steps moved through the vaulted spaces, touching rooms that had slept for centuries. 

Derek, of course, did not share in the reverence.

Every few paces, he broke the hush with some easy remark—a quip about architecture, a jest about the cold, the kind of humor meant to impress rather than offend. 

“I’ve seen cathedrals with fewer corridors,” He said at one point, rubbing his hands together. “A man could get lost and die of old age before finding the kitchen.”

Please do.

Vlad did not answer, but beside him, she had a small smile. He saw it, of course, the slight curve of her lips she tried to disguise as politeness. He looked away before it could wound him. 

They passed through the library with a ceiling too high to see clearly, through corridors of tapestries that had outlasted empires, and down a gallery lined with portraits whose eyes seemed to follow their progress. 

“Much of the estate has been restored,” Vlad explained quietly. “But certain rooms are… exempt from change. Memory deserves its places.” 

He guided them past a long stretch of oak doors, one of which remained half open, offering only a glimpse of the enormous ballroom beyond. The light fell differently there, heavy and silvered. At the far end, the grand mirror still dominated the wall, tall and judgmental. 

He did not step inside. 

Hadn’t in centuries. 

Instead, his gaze lingered on the threshold a moment too long before turning away. 

“Some things are best left as they are,” he said, the words too even to sound casual. 

In truth, almost every mirror in Poenari had long since been removed. Some quietly dismantled, while others shattered by his own hand in centuries past. Reflection had no place here. Not if it acted as if he was nothing. No one. The house existed best when it forgot itself. Yet this one he had spared. That towering mirror, gilt-framed and cruelly unbroken, remained where it had always been. He could not bring himself to destroy it. Perhaps because she had loved it, the way it caught light like water, or perhaps because he needed one reminder of what eternity has made of him. 

He avoided the room now, though he still felt its pull whenever he passed. It was not the mirror that haunted him, It was what it might someday show. 

Finally, they reached the galleries, exactly where she had requested to begin her study. Rows of canvases and crated sculptures waited like old friends returned from exile. Dust floated in the air, pale and slow as snow. 

He turned to face them, hands clasped loosely behind his back. 

“This should serve as your workspace,” he said. “If you require additional tools or reference materials, the staff will provide them. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner can be prepared at any hour upon request. Do not hesitate.” 

Derek nodded, his tone bright and courteous. 

“That’s more than generous, sir.”

Vlad inclined his head, though his gaze lingered on her a moment too long. 

“I’ll have a maid bring refreshments shortly,” he continued. “However, I must attend to my treasurer this morning. Matters of upkeep.” his tone was smooth, entirely unconvincing to anyone listening closely. “I trust you’ll fare well without my chaperoning?” 

She smiled faintly. “Of course. We’ll get started here.”

But Derek, ever curious, tilted his head. “And the east wing?” he asked lightly. “The Institutes report mentioned that was the focus of the restoration. Shouldn’t we begin there?”

For the first time since the tour began, Vlad’s eyes cut sharply toward him. 

“The lady and I discussed that matter privately,” he said, every syllable measured. “We agreed it would be prudent to familiarize herself with the structure first. The east wing will wait until she’s prepared.” 

The atmosphere shifted immediately—though silent, it conveyed a multitude of meanings. His voice carried no overt challenge, but the authority in it made the words final.

Derek’s effortless smile faltered, though he recovered quickly, running a hand through his hair with feigned nonchalance. “Of course. I only meant—well, no one likes to keep a mystery waiting, do they?”

Vlad’s mouth curved, not in amusement but something colder. 

“Some mysteries are patient,” he said softly. “And they bite when disturbed.”

Silence lingered before he stepped back, gesturing toward the archway. “I’ll leave you both to your work. Refreshments will be ready shortly.” 

He turned to go, his coat whispering across the floor. 

“Enjoy your morning,” he added without looking back. “I’ll rejoin you after i’ve spoken with my treasurer.”

It may have just been an excuse to leave Derek's air once again, but this time he wasn't fully lying. He was going to meet his staff about the upkeep, just not his treasurer…. But by the time he reached the first bend in the hall, her voice followed. A quiet laugh, then Derek’s answering jest. Something warm, familiar, and entirely human. 

He might have let it go. He should have. 

But then he heard Derek say it, his voice lowered just enough to make the words sound conspiratorial: 

“You know, I was warned about men like him before I came here. About old ghosts who don’t stay buried.”

Vlad froze mid-step. The warmth in the sound of her laughter vanished into static as she went quiet.

The chandeliers above swayed faintly, as though the air itself had changed. He turned toward the east corridor, jaw tight, his calm slipping.

Renfield would be waiting. 

Taglist:

Vlad sat alone in the silence of his own making.

Morning crept over the mountain ridge inch by inch, a slow, merciless thing, shaving away what little time the night had left him. Pale light pressed against the graveyard stones, touching the white marble with a reverence he did not deserve. Dew clung to the grass at his knees, cold seeping through fabric and bone alike, and for a brief, treacherous moment he wondered if he should let it take him at last. Let the sun burn through him, let his skin blister and blacken, let his body dissolve into ash and scatter on the wind until there was nothing left but a name carved into stone and a memory no one could reach.

Her name burned through him as he knelt there, fingers curled tight around the edge of her grave. It haunted him, day after day, century after century, polished smooth by time and grief, carved deep enough that even eternity had failed to dull it. He could feel the grooves beneath his palm, the shallow dips where rain collected, and the faint warmth where stone had absorbed sunlight long before he arrived. The sun continued its crawl, light spilling closer, lingering near his unmoving hand as though daring him to choose.

Even now, he could feel her running. Fleeing the castle, packing in haste, fingers fumbling while her breath came short and sharp, heart racing with a terror she did not yet have words for. Vanishing from his reach with the same cruel efficiency time had always granted her. He would let her go. He always did. Let her disappear from this century only to return in the next wearing a different name, a different life, and a different history, but never a different face. It was always her. Always her eyes, her mouth, and the familiar cadence of her breath. And every time, it destroyed him more completely than the last.

Some unfaithful god must have torn him from that grave, dragged him upright before the sun could finish its work, and pulled him away from the place he would have remained all day if he were allowed, kneeling until her vibrance faded entirely beyond the mountains. Or perhaps it was not divinity at all. Perhaps it was the sound of him.

Derek.

The name struck like a blade.

Gods damned Derek.

Heat crawled up Vlad’s spine, sharp and foreign, violent in a way he had not known in centuries. For a breath he thought it might undo him entirely, drive him back into the earth where he knelt, but the hunger inside him rose to meet it, old and furious, patient no longer, and decided something had to be done.

That was all Derek was to him.

A pest. A living obstruction wedged between Vlad and what he wanted, what he needed, what had been torn from him by time and faith alike. The truth had stopped pretending to shine long ago. He needed her the way lungs need air, the way blood demands veins to carry it. She was his soul. Had always been his soul. And he would not allow another man to take from him what God himself had already stolen once.

Not again.

That thought alone drove him to his feet.

He slipped into shadow, retreating from the encroaching light as he fled the graveyard. Candles dimmed as he passed through the corridors, flames bowing away from him in quiet submission. Stone swallowed his steps, arches and passageways opening as though the castle itself had learned the shape of his fury. It had always been complicit with him, this place. It knew his veins as well as its own.

When he could no longer feel them, either of them, the restraint snapped.

Nothing slowed his descent. Nothing tempered what had finally been loosed.

His chambers would have been dark if not for the restless glow of hundreds of candles. Their light wavered against the walls, throwing distorted shadows across the stone as though the room itself were bracing for impact. Renfield stood within it all, motionless, watching as one might watch a storm gather. Resigned. Familiar. Unafraid. He said nothing, allowing Vlad to pace, to coil, and to unravel in whatever order the damage demanded.

The table went first.

Wood cracked against stone as Vlad sent it sprawling, followed by every candle and decanter upon it. Glass shattered across the floor. Wax spilled in thick, useless rivulets. Flames hissed and guttered where they fell, wounded things fighting briefly before dying out. The sound echoed sharply, then vanished, swallowed by the chamber’s vastness.

Renfield did not move.

Vlad stood amid the wreckage, breath heavy though he did not need it, hands trembling with a violence that had nowhere left to go. His chest ached with a pressure that no feeding could touch, no blood could drown.

And still the ticking did not stop.

“Are you quite finished?”

Renfield’s voice came from the shadows, level and unhurried. He had not raised it. He never did.

Vlad turned on him, eyes lit with something feral, something ancient and wrong. “Speak.”

Renfield inclined his head once before stepping forward, already stooping to gather fallen candles and shards of glass as though destruction were simply another mess to be managed. “I have news on Sir Oliver.”

Vlad’s jaw tightened. He turned away, drawing a sharp breath that burned his lungs as he forced his fury back behind his ribs. “I do not wish to hear it,” he said flatly. “I have made my decision. It is final.”

He took a step toward the stairs.

“Sir,” Renfield said carefully, “I must insist.”

“No.”

The word cracked through the chamber like a whip.

Renfield straightened at once, hands stilling. His expression did not change, but his posture shifted into something attentive, measured in a way only centuries of loyalty could produce. Vlad faced him again, voice low now, deadly in its calm.

“I have waited four centuries, four lifetimes, for this,” he said, eyes burning. “It matters no longer what the boy is to anyone. Titles, bloodlines, intentions. All of it is irrelevant.”

He took one slow step forward, shadows gathering thickly at his heels as though drawn to him.

“All that matters,” Vlad finished, “is what I am to make of him.”

Renfield took a measured breath, slow and deliberate. His gaze lingered on Vlad with the weary judgment of a man who had watched him tear himself apart piece by piece for love, for grief, for eternity itself.

“I doubt,” Renfield said quietly, “you will see it that way.”

Vlad straightened at once, shoulders pulling back as a low growl threatened to break free of his chest. He mastered it with effort, teeth grinding as he turned toward the door.

“How fortunate,” he replied coldly, “that I did not ask for your commentary.”

He was gone an instant later, movement swift and soundless as he vanished into the corridors. The castle opened before him, shadows swallowing his passage and sealing shut behind it, leaving Renfield alone amid the wreckage and guttering candlelight.

Renfield did not follow.

He merely stood there, listening as Vlad’s presence receded deeper into the halls, toward whatever ruin he was about to unleash.

–

He found her room by instinct before memory.

The corridor knew him. Stone and shadow yielded their secrets the way they always had, offering up the faintest traces of her passage without question or resistance. Vlad slowed as he neared the door, an unfamiliar tightness gathering in his chest, his breath catching on something dangerously close to pain.

Her soap lingered first, clean and floral, softened by linen and the quiet intimacy of a space meant for rest. Beneath that came ink and paper, the faint dryness of books handled too often, too lovingly. It was all achingly familiar. Comforting. Hers.

And beneath it all, unmistakable and unwanted, was him.

Derek’s presence clung to the air like a stain. Too warm. Too human. Too careless in its intrusion, lingering at the threshold as though it had every right to be there. Vlad’s fingers curled slowly at his sides, nails biting into the leather of his gloves as the realization settled with cruel precision.

He had been here.

Not merely passed through, not brushed by accident or circumstance. He had stayed. Sat. Spoken. Laughed. Left himself behind in the room over days and weeks, careless and confident, as though proximity were permission.

Vlad lifted his hand and pressed his palm against the door. The wood hummed faintly beneath his touch, responding to him the way the castle always had, and the scent answered in kind. It told him everything he wished it did not: how close Derek had leaned, how often he had lingered, and how easily he had filled the quiet meant for someone else. Worse still was the way she had not pulled away. The absence of resistance coiled around Vlad’s heart and tightened until the ache sharpened into something that burned.

Jealousy was an old sin.

He had mastered it once, alongside hunger and fury and grief. He had buried it under centuries of discipline and restraint, convinced himself it was a weakness long outgrown.

Tonight, it rose again.

And this time, it mastered him.

–

The scent pulled him past the ballroom doors, and he stopped.

He had not meant to. His feet simply slowed, then stilled, as though the castle itself had reached out and caught him by the sleeve. The doors stood slightly ajar, no more than a careless inch, but it was enough. Enough for memory to slip through.

Morning light spilled across the marble in pale, slanted bands, dust motes drifting lazily through it as though time itself had paused. Along the far wall, the mirror still hung. Tall. Uninterrupted. Untouched by fire or restoration. Vlad had stripped mirrors from nearly every room in the castle, banishing them like a superstition, like a sin too dangerous to indulge.

But not this one. Never this one.

He remembered her here.

Barefoot on the cool marble, laughter soft and unguarded as the musicians tuned their instruments behind her. She had turned slowly, skirts fanning with the movement, watching herself in the glass with open delight. It had not been vanity. Never that. It had been wonder, as though she were seeing herself for the first time and liking what she found there.

“You look at me like I’m already gone,” she had said, meeting his gaze through the reflection, her smile gentle but knowing.

He had crossed the room in three strides and drawn her back against him, her image doubling in the mirror, the two of them framed together. Whole. Unbroken. He remembered the way his hand had come to rest over her stomach, absentminded and protective, not yet understanding why the instinct had felt so urgent. She had stilled beneath his touch, breath catching, and then she had smiled differently. Softer. Secret.

“We are still here,” she had whispered. “Look.”

And he had.

God, he had.

The mirror had shown him everything he would lose, though he had not known it then.

The memory wrenched him back into the present with a violence that stole what little breath he allowed himself. The ballroom lay empty now, frozen in dust and shadow, the music long since gone. The mirror reflected nothing but space and light, yet he knew what stood there all the same.

Him.

Alone. Unchanged. Monstrous in his constancy.

He turned away before he could see more, before the reflection could finish telling him what he had become.

–

The trail led on down the hall and toward the stair. Derek’s scent always lagged a step behind hers, never quite aligned, always chasing. Vlad followed without sound, rage tightening his movements into something precise and lethal. The castle watched him go, every corridor dimming as he passed, as though the walls themselves feared what followed in his wake.

At the entrance, the air shifted.

Cold rushed in as the doors opened, sweeping their mingled scents outward and unraveling them into the open morning. Vlad stepped outside, pulling his coat close as the wind caught them and carried her presence down the mountain road toward the town below. Her scent thinned as it traveled, stretched and scattered by distance and altitude, slipping through his grasp like smoke.

Away from him.

The burn in his chest came sharp and immediate, not hunger but something worse. Loss.

He stood there, motionless, as the realization hollowed him out. She had left him behind again. Chosen flight. Chosen another. The ache was unbearable not because it was new, but because it was devastatingly familiar. Four centuries, and still this. Still the waiting. Still reaching too late. Still, the quiet understanding that loving her meant standing in the aftermath of her absence, again and again, until the shape of it had carved itself into him.

A sound tore loose from his chest then, low and broken, ripped from somewhere too deep to be dignified. Vlad bowed his head, fists clenched at his sides as the wind whipped his coat around him like a shroud.

The mountain offered no comfort. The town below flickered with distant lights, indifferent and unknowing. Somewhere down there, she breathed air that was not his and walked ground that did not remember her.

And Derek.

Derek was still close enough to smell.

Vlad lifted his head slowly, eyes burning now, not red with frenzy but dark with resolve. Whatever restraint he had left tightened into purpose, cold and unyielding.

A hunt had begun.

And the master of the castle craved red.

–

Derek’s scent thinned as the wind rose, unraveling and knotting itself again as altitude and cold tore at it. It stretched and frayed, tugged apart by distance until Vlad felt a flash of real fear that he might lose it altogether. Still, he followed. Down the mountain road, through switchbacks carved into stone that still remembered horses and blood, where the day pressed close and whispered of older hunts. The path wound steep and narrow, the ground uneven beneath his boots, the dark thick with pine and damp earth.

The farther he went, the quieter the world became.

The air thinned. Sound softened. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

So did his sanity.

For a moment, just a treacherous one, he forgot the scent. Forgot the rage coiled tight beneath his ribs. Forgot the way hunger sharpened every thought into something dangerous and unrelenting. Memory slipped in through the cracks he had left unguarded.

He remembered her in the western garden.

Sunlight had caught in her hair as she laughed, skirts tangled carelessly in the rosebushes she refused to mind. Thorns had snagged the hem of a dress she loved, threatening to tear the fabric, and he had scolded her for it. His voice had been stern even as he crossed the space between them, fingers careful and reverent as he freed the cloth from the thorns.

She had only smiled at him.

Bright. Defiant. Entirely unrepentant.

“The roses are worth the blood,” she had said, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world.

She had always said things like that.

He remembered how she smelled then. Sun-warmed skin, crushed petals beneath her shoes, and beneath it all the faint metallic tang of life. Human. Fragile. Alive. The scent had made his throat ache even before the curse, before hunger had learned his name and sharpened its claws around his soul.

He remembered the absurd, tender thought that had struck him in that instant. That if eternity existed, it should look like this. Like her standing there with dirt on her shoes and laughter in her voice, teasing him for worrying too much. Like his hands on her wrists, brushing away thorns as if he could protect her from every sharp thing in the world.

The memory folded in on itself.

Crushed beneath the weight of time.

The present surged back, sharp and merciless, and Vlad staggered half a step as reality reasserted itself. The garden vanished. The sun died. Laughter turned to ash in his mouth.

Fury rushed in to fill the hollow left behind, hot and relentless, merciful in its brutality. Rage was easier than longing. Anger gave him something solid to stand on when grief threatened to hollow him out completely.

And so he let it take him.

–

There were moments when the trail vanished entirely, when pine and wet earth swallowed every trace of him, and Vlad stood motionless in the clouded morning light with nothing but instinct to guide him. In those pauses, something inside him began to fracture. He closed his eyes and drew the air deep into himself, letting the scent settle into bone and blood, into the ancient part of him that never forgot. Derek’s presence was careless, unmistakably human. It brushed against the world and left impressions behind, marks that betrayed him without effort. A warmth too blunt. A life too loud.

And then her scent rose beneath it.

Subtle at first, but unmistakable. It threaded through the thinning light like a living thing, soap and paper and skin warmed by fear and motion. It struck Vlad with such force that he staggered a step, breath tearing free of him in a sound that might have been her name if he had allowed it. His chest burned, not with hunger alone, not with rage alone, but with something darker and far more dangerous.

Possession.

He moved faster then, the ground barely touching him as the forest thinned into stone and road. Trees gave way to walls. Moss gave way to cobblestone. The town emerged below, dim lanterns flickering beneath shuttered windows, the low murmur of places not yet awake but already breathing. He slowed only when the scent grew thick enough to taste, heavy in the air, gathered in pockets like a secret the streets could not quite contain.

As he tracked her through the narrow lanes, memory pressed in again, unbidden and unwelcome, slipping past his defenses as easily as breath.

Her hand in his.

Not fleeing. Not afraid. Just resting there, warm and trusting, fingers curling into his palm as they sat before the hearth. The fire had burned low and steady, its glow painting her skin in gold. She had leaned into him without thought, head against his shoulder, murmuring about nothing at all. A half-formed idea, a passing worry, some small observation about the night. He had listened as though each word mattered more than anything else in the world.

Because to him, it had.

The fire had cracked softly, embers shifting, and she had traced idle patterns into the back of his hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if he were something that could be kept. Something permanent. Something that would not be taken from her. He remembered thinking then, foolishly and tenderly, that if the world ended, it would end like this. Quiet. Warm. With her breath against his throat and her hand still holding his.

He had been wrong.

The scent sharpened again, vicious in its clarity, and the memory shattered. The unmistakable echo of another man’s nearness tore through the softness, ripping the past to pieces. It filled his lungs and his mouth and his thoughts, foreign and invasive and wrong. Rage surged up to meet it, hot and consuming, devouring what little gentleness remained.

The scent came in full, relentless waves now, strongest near the inn.

So he waited.

Still as stone. Silent as the dead.

Waiting for the moment when restraint would no longer be enough.

–

The building squatted at the edge of the road, lights low and uninviting, laughter long since faded. Most of the town had gone home, drawn indoors by the cold and the hour. The night here was heavier, pressed down by cloud and fog, the kind that swallowed sound and rewarded predators who knew how to wait.

Vlad stopped across the road, a shadow among shadows, and remained there. He waited as stone waits, as earth waits, as graves wait. Hours passed without measure. All day, if such a word could still apply to him. Like a cat on the outskirts of a field, watching for the smallest movement, the faintest sign of life. Yet she did not leave. Did not wander. Did not explore the town that lay so temptingly close. She stayed inside.

Outside, as the wind carried her scent away in thin threads, the worst memory came for him.

Her voice in the dark. Soft. Certain. Unafraid of the future she had handed him.

“You will find me again,” she had said, fingers brushing his cheek as though she were the one offering comfort, as though he were the fragile thing between them. Her touch had been warm and lingering, filled with a faith he had not earned and could not refuse. “You always do.”

He had believed her. Not because he was foolish, but because loving her had taught him to trust even the impossible.

He had not known how cruel that promise would become.

That finding her again would mean watching her forget him. Watching her live whole lives that did not include him. Watching her die with other names on her lips, in other beds, beneath other skies. Each time, he had found her. Each time, he had lost her all over again.

The wind shifted, cold and indifferent, and the memory shattered as it always did. It left him standing alone beneath the stars, the night vast and uncaring, tracking a woman who no longer knew what she had promised or what it had cost him to keep it.

And still, he followed. Because some vows are not broken by time. They are sharpened by it.

Her scent was everywhere now. Upstairs. Near one window. Alive with breath and uncertainty.

And Derek, derek did not join her until late, bursting through the doors once darkness cloaked the land. 

Two heartbeats. Two throats.

Two birds.

Vlad’s lips parted slowly, fangs sliding free with a sound as soft as a vow spoken in the dark. The ticking inside him ceased, not because time had stopped, but because the moment had finally arrived.

He entered through the front door, choosing spectacle over secrecy.

The room changed the instant he crossed the threshold. It was subtle at first, a pressure in the air, a hitch in breath and sound alike. The desk clerk looked up from his ledger and froze, the question already forming on his lips before the air strangled it into silence.

The barmaid stood alone behind the counter, polishing a mug that squeaked faintly beneath her cloth. The rest of the staff had vanished deeper into the inn, drawn away by timing or mercy. Vlad did not care which.

He could smell them. Upstairs.

Her fear, faint but sharp. Derek’s warmth, arrogant in its closeness. Their scents clung to the stairwell, the banister, and the very air, as though the building itself had breathed them in and refused to let them go.

The desk clerk cleared his throat. “Sir—”

Vlad turned his gaze on him. Nothing moved. Nothing breathed.

The man swallowed hard, a tremor ripping through him, and Vlad’s eyes lingered. His fangs ached behind his lips. Hunger clawed at his ribs. He did not strike. Not yet.

“You can’t be in here,” the clerk tried again, weaker now. “No vaca—”

Vlad raised a hand.

The gesture was small. Effortless.

The words died in the man’s throat as Vlad seized him, fingers closing with terrifying precision. Not crushing. Just enough to lift him onto his toes, to remind him how fragile breath truly was. Vlad stood feet away, hand suspended in the air, grasping nothing but the idea of this man’s life. Still, the clerk choked, clawing at a grip he could feel but could not see.

Silence fell.

Vlad’s eyes flicked toward the barmaid. “Leave,” he said quietly.

She did not argue. The mug shattered on the floor as she dropped it, fleeing without a backward glance, skirts tangling as she vanished into the back room. The sound echoed far too loudly in the stillness.

Vlad released the clerk, letting him collapse against the desk in a shaking heap. He did not look back as the stairs waited for him.

He took them without haste, each step measured and inevitable. The scent grew stronger with every floor, thick enough now to taste. Her room. Her breath. Derek’s pulse far too close to hers.

Vlad’s control thinned with each rise.

By the time he reached the landing, the monster in him was no longer asking permission.

The lights were off. No candle burned. No sconce guttered with half-life beneath her door. When he entered, the room lay in darkness, silent and contained, waiting.

Yet in the narrow space, all that remained was her.

She slept on the bed, undisturbed, breath slow and even, one arm curved loosely at her side. No signs of struggle. No panic etched into her posture. The room had not been violated by violence, only by presence.

Derek was gone.

The absence struck him first, sharp and disorienting, halting him where he stood. Relief flared, unwelcome and immediate. Then something darker followed close behind.

Because Derek’s scent remained.

It clung to the room, to the air, to her. Too close. Too intimate. Threaded through linen and skin like a careless signature. Vlad’s jaw tightened as the truth assembled itself with cruel clarity.

He had touched her. Kissed her.

And she had not stopped him.

The anger surged, but not toward her. Never toward her. It burned itself clean in one direction only. Derek. Always Derek. Hunger rose with it, pressing hard against Vlad’s ribs, demanding action, demanding blood, demanding retribution.

Yet it was her beauty that undid him.

Sleeping. Still. Unaware of the storm gathered at her bedside. She had stayed. Had not taken the train. Had not vanished into another century as she so often did.

She stayed.

The knowledge reopened something in him that had never fully healed.

For whom, though, had she stayed?

Vlad stood there in the dark, fury coiled tight in his chest, heart aching with a pain no feeding had ever dulled. He could feel the echo of Derek’s nearness on her skin, and beneath it, something else. Her steadiness. Her choice. Her breath anchoring her to this moment.

He did not touch her. He could not.

Instead, he remained where he was, a shadow at the edge of her sleep, torn between gratitude and devastation, between the monster that demanded and the man who loved her too fiercely to claim what was not freely given.

He wanted to stay. To remain a silent sentinel, memorizing the rise and fall of her breath until dawn drove him away. But Derek’s scent did not fade. It thickened, pooling in corners where it did not belong, pressing against Vlad’s senses until anger sharpened again.

Control returned in fragments as the fog thinned.

And then he felt it.

Presence.

“Hello, Vlad.”

The voice came from the far shadow near the door, low and altered, no longer warm, no longer careless. The accent was wrong. Russian now. Hard consonants. Deliberate cadence. There was no trace of the charming scholar who had laughed in the halls hours earlier. This voice carried intention, the way a blade feels heavier once drawn.

“I was wondering when you’d turn up.”

Vlad did not move. Did not turn.

His hand lowered slowly to his side, fingers curling with deliberate calm. Every instinct screamed to strike, to tear, to end the thing breathing in the dark. Instead, he measured distance, angles, and the betraying sound of Derek’s pulse beneath the confidence in his voice.

“You should not be here,” Vlad said quietly.

A soft laugh followed. Dry. Knowing.

“Funny,” Derek replied, stepping just far enough into the weak spill of moonlight to be seen. His glasses were gone. His posture had changed, straighter, steadier, as though he had finally stopped pretending. “I was thinking the same thing about you.”

He tilted his head, studying Vlad with open appraisal.

“I haven’t properly introduced myself yet, have I?”

Vlad turned then. Confusion flickered for only a fraction of a second before fury reclaimed its place.

Derek smiled at that. Not kindly.

“My name is Derek Oliver Van Helsing,” he said evenly, each word placed with care. “And I believe you knew my great-grandfather.”

Taglist:

Welcome to Poenari. 

That was what the elegant embossed parchment read, sitting neatly on the desk beside a waiting pen. The nib glinted faintly in the lamplight, its placement deliberate, perfectly aligned with the paper's edge, as if awaiting your touch. You’d brought your own pens, of course; any seasoned architect would. Still, the gesture felt strangely personal. 

The room itself was more than you’d ever needed. A grand canopy bed occupied its center, four carved posts stretching toward the ceiling, draped in waves of deep red fabric that shimmered when the light shifted. To the right, a hearth set into a stonework wall, untouched but ready. Beyond it, tall arched doors opened onto a narrow balcony, where the fog pressed close to the glass. The desk, beautifully crafted with drawers and compartments meant for a craftsman’s order, stood by the entry wall, functional and elegant, like everything else here. 

A fur rug softened the cold stone beneath your feet. Paintings adorned the walls in deliberate disarray: landscapes, flowers, and faces half-lost to time. Their pigments had faded, but not their presence; they seemed to know they had been hanging there for centuries. 

The steward had placed your bags at the foot of the bed and offered to help you unpack. You declined, polite but firmly. Having a middle-aged man sort through your undergarments was not how you planned to begin your stay… and the image alone was scarring enough. 

You unpacked only the necessities, leaving the rest for the morning. Dusk was deepening, and you felt a flicker of disappointment that the lord of the estate had not offered a tour. Still in your travelling clothes, you opened the balcony door to let the room breathe. The night air poured in, clean, cold, and tasting faintly of the rain that was now retreating over the mountain. The view was spectacular. Below, the valley glittered with pockets of firelight, the small townhouses glowing like stars scattered across the dark. You inhaled the chill until it prickled your lungs, a perfect contrast to the warmth within. 

There was something compelling about this place. Achingly so. The kind of beauty that invited obsession. You’d told yourself it was the architecture: the arches, the impossible symmetry, the craftsmanship older than memory. But beneath that rational admiration was a quieter pull, something that felt older than stone or history. Something that waited for you. 

Lord Drӑculești was no different. A man like that—so refined, so composed—must have carried centuries of stories behind his eyes. Though he appeared no older than thirty, there was a gravity to him that defied youth. You’d noticed, when introduced, that he did not offer his hand. Granted, neither did you, but the hesitation had felt deliberate. Perhaps he was simply unused to company.

He had mentioned the east wing’s restoration, yet from what little you’d seen, the rest of the estate was immaculate. The castle had to be over five hundred years old, judging by the external stonework and the delicate craftsmanship of the towers. And yet everything gleamed as if it had been built yesterday. 

Drӑculești's refinement made him seem a man of inheritance, young money polished by old. You still found his absence from public record unsettling, but there were many noble families who preferred privacy. Old money, old secrets. "Nothing to worry about," you told yourself. And yet, the moment you first saw him from the door, the world went still. 

 He stood at the top of the stair like a figure drawn from an older century. Composed, deliberate…the kind of presence that made silence feel intentional. Lamplight found his hair, dark and pale all at once, the color of ash brushed with gold. His skin was too smooth for the mountain cold, too untouched, as though light itself refused to mark him.

His eyes were the first thing you noticed. Not their color, but their stillness. They didn’t wander to seek; they observed. It was the kind of gaze that made the air tighten, waiting for permission to breathe with him. 

He was tall, but without arrogance. Every line of him balanced from the slope of his shoulder to the clean length of his hand grasping the banister. His suit was dark, perfectly tailored, and without ornament. He wore elegance the way others wore breath, unthinking and inevitable. When he moved, it was soundless control: the soft whisper of fabric, the faint echo of heel on marble, each movement carrying farther than it should have. There was no hesitation in him, but neither, it seemed, was there error. 

For a strange, fleeting moment, you thought he might have been carved from the same stone that held the castle upright. Polished, impossibly still, and watching. And in another fleeting moment… you thought him too good to be true. 

Now, as you stood on the balcony, something drew you from thought: a nocturne drifting faintly through the corridors. The melody was slow, sorrowful, and intimate. A waltz for ghosts. You couldn’t tell from where it came, but it wrapped itself around the edges of the night until the fog itself seemed to hum. Perhaps the patron was still awake. Or perhaps the melody was simply the castle's lullaby. A nightly ritual of mourning and rest. 

So, you closed the balcony doors, trapping what warmth remained, though the hearth stayed unlit. The chill along your arms felt almost welcome, like a reminder of purpose, of work waiting in these old bones of stone. 

When you finally lay down, the bed was too large, the satin too soft, and the silence too complete. Shadows shifted faintly across the room, cast by the dying lamplight, but they did not follow you. The watchful presence that had haunted so many of your nights was quiet here. The darkness felt natural, unthreatening. 

And so, you slept soundly, for the first time in years, without smoke, without fire. 

Instead, you dreamed of music.

The first notes came softly, as though they’d been playing long before you arrived. Strings, distant and tender, circling in slow, patent phrases. You followed their sound into a room vast beyond measure, a ballroom too grand to belong to this century, perhaps any. Chandeliers hung like constellations, their light burning without flame, scattering gold across marble floors polished to a mirror’s sheen. 

Your hand was already caught in another’s, gloved, steady, certain. Then the waltz began. Not brisk but mournful, a rhythm that felt familiar in your bones. You moved easily, your steps sure despite not remembering how to dance. The air smelled faintly of wax and roses; laughter glimmered somewhere far off, belonging to no one you could see. You should have been afraid, but the moment was too beautiful for fear. You felt known, as if your body had been waiting for this song. 

Then, the mirror. 

A single wall-length mirror caught the room in its silver surface, reflecting a dozen chandeliers and a hundred shadows. You glimpsed yourself there, turning, smiling, and for an instant, you could almost believe the joy belonged to you. 

But as your partner spun you through the next measure, the reflection shifted. The light dimmed and the music slowed. 

In the glass, you stood alone. Your hand extended toward empty air, the movement half-finished. The figure who had led you was gone, never there in the mirror surface to begin with. 

The silence that followed was immense. You tried to speak, but no voice came. Only your breath. Slow, shallow, and uncertain. Then you felt it: the warmth of his presence, the partner who never was. A whisper of fabric. The soft graze of a gloved hand against your shoulder. The chill that followed was not fear but recognition, deep and involuntary. 

Lips found the curve of your neck, soft and deliberate. Reverent. One kiss, then another, slower this time, as if memorizing the shape of you. His breath trembled against your skin as he hesitated, carrying the faintest scent of roses and smoke. The air around you darkened, the music bent out of time, and the light collapsed into shadow. 

You turned to look at him. But there was no one there. 

Only a darkness that was endless and soundless. The faint echo of the waltz faded back into silence. 

-

The warmth of the kiss buzzed along your neck when you awoke, reaching up to touch the spot, feeling nothing but the cold chill of morning along your skin. The dream had not been terrifying but rather melancholy, as if it were a memory locked away for reasons of sorrow and longing.

The sun had barely broken the peaks of the mountains when you made your way to the bathing chamber. You would call it a bathroom, but it was far too elegant for that.

The chamber seemed almost new compared to the rest of the castle, the air faintly perfumed with soap and cedar, the tiles beneath your feet gleaming with a polish that spoke of recent care. The stone was lighter here, a soft grey streaked with veins of silver, catching the early light in quiet flashes. Brass fixtures gleamed at the tub’s edge, and when you turned the handle, the water came clear and steaming, filling the basin with a low, melodic rush.

It didn’t feel medieval or even Victorian. It felt… deliberate. Modern touches hidden behind centuries of craftsmanship, as though someone had been quietly tending to this room alone.

The red and black of the bedroom continued here in subtler ways: a towel folded with surgical precision and the faint sheen of garnet mosaic running the length of the wall behind the tub.

Even the soap was molded with a crest of dragons intertwined. You traced it absently with your thumb before it melted under your touch.

You sank into the water, letting the heat close over your skin until the chill of the mountain air vanished. The sensation was exquisite, almost too much. You couldn’t tell if you’d bathed here before or if your body only wanted to believe you had. There was a familiarity in the way your shoulders fit against the stone rim, in the curve of the light across the wall.

For a moment, as steam filled the chamber, you thought you saw movement in the reflection on the surface of the water. You noticed a shift, a shadow that didn’t belong to you. You blinked, and it was gone, leaving only ripples and steam.

The bath felt like a memory shared by someone else’s body. A ghost’s comfort borrowed through time.

You lingered longer than you meant to. The water cooled; the air bit at your skin. Finally, with a reluctant sigh, you rose and wrapped yourself in the heavy robe waiting near the hearth. The fabric was soft, embroidered along the edges with tiny silver threads that caught the light when you moved. Someone had placed it there for you deliberately, as though they knew your size, your shape, and your habits.

It wasn’t until the clock somewhere down the hall chimed that you stirred fully from the trance of the morning. The day waited. Work waited. You dressed in your working clothes, simple and practical, sleeves rolled to the elbow, boots laced tight. The castle was still quiet, its pulse steady, almost tender. You could feel it in the stone when you moved across the floor.

A knock came at the door.

Soft. Three beats. A rhythm that felt more like a suggestion than an order.

“Miss,” came the voice of a maid from the other side, polite but not intrusive. “Lord Drăculești requests your presence in his study.”

The sound of the name curled through the air like smoke, and your breath hitched despite yourself.

You glanced once at your reflection in the mirror, the faint line of your collarbone, and the wet strands of hair dark against your neck. You didn't understand why you hesitated. Perhaps it was the dream still haunting the edge of your memory or the strange way your pulse quickened at the thought of seeing him again.

When you finally opened the door, the maid bowed slightly. “This way, miss.”

As you stepped into the corridor, the faint scent of roses reached you. Subtle but unmistakable. It was fresh, not the dried kind pressed into books or vases. You followed it through the hall until you reached the grand foyer below.

There, on a small marble table by the stair, sat a silver bowl filled with white roses. Their petals were impossibly bright against the dark stone, beads of dew still clinging to their edges. You didn’t remember them being there the night before.

The air around them seemed just a little warmer, touched by the faintest shimmer of something alive. You leaned closer, breathing in the perfume—clean, cold, with a sweetness that lingered behind your teeth. For a reason you couldn’t name, the scent pulled at your chest, familiar and comforting all at once.

“It’s just at the end of the hall, miss.” Her voice broke through your thoughts, and you blinked, realizing you’d stopped halfway down the corridor. You lifted your eyes to find a magnificent oak door at the far end. Tall and weathered smooth, its surface was carved with patterns that gleamed faintly under the sconce light. 

“Thank you,” you said, inclining your head toward the housekeeper.

She offered a polite smile and retreated the way she’d come, her footsteps fading until the hall swallowed them entirely. 

You were alone again. 

As you approached the door, the air seemed to grow warmer, as though the room beyond had its own quiet pulse. You hesitated with your hand on the brass handle, smoothing the front of your blouse as if that might steady your breath. The rose’s scent still lingered faintly behind you. 

The door opened almost without sound. 

The study was brighter than you expected. Modern, composed, and immaculate like all other things. The walls were lined with shelves built from the same pale oak as the door, filled with leather-bound volumes arranged by height and color. The floors were dark wood, polished to a sheen, with a faint pattern of light and shadow shifting where the morning crept through tall windows. 

Everything about the room was almost surgical in its order. No clutter. No dust. Every object was placed as if chosen for both beauty and utility: a decanter half-filled with amber liquid, a few scattered maps pinned neatly to a corkboard, and an armchair angled toward the fire with an open book resting on its arm. 

And there, near the far corner, the gramophone. 

Its brass horn in the lamplight, catching the faintest glint of gold. You stared at it for a moment, remembering the tune you’d heard the night before. The low, mournful strains of a nocturne had drifted through the walls like a ghostly heartbeat. Liszt, you thought. Though you couldn’t say why you were so certain. 

The memory of it lingered in your chest, slow and sweet and strangely human. 

A voice broke the stillness. 

“You heard it, then.”

You startled slightly. He was already there. Lord Drӑculești. Standing beside the window where the light framed him in quiet amber. You hadn’t heard him enter, or perhaps he’d been there all along, hidden in the stillness. 

He looked much the same as he had the night before, though the daylight, or what little of it filtered through the fog, softened him. The sharpness of his profile was less severe, though no less striking. His dark suit fit him perfectly, the cuffs pressed, the collar buttoned, and a silver ring glinting faintly on one hand as it rested at his side. He truly was intriguing to look at, though you flushed when you noticed yourself staring too long. Something in his composure made the memory of your dream stir a breath behind your ribs. 

The phantom heat of lips pressed against your neck, the soft murmur you’d almost heard before waking…the way your body had answered it in sleep. The recollection burned through you without warning, and you looked away quickly, forcing air into your lungs as though to exhale it out. 

You watched the gramophone now with great intensity, the faint reflection of its brass horn bending the morning light into strange shapes across the floor. 

“I—yes,” you managed, finding anything to appear less frantic. “The song you were playing, may I ask? Was it Liszt?” 

He smiled faintly. “It was,” he said quietly, gaze shifting to the gramophone. For the first time since you entered, his stillness deepened. “Liebestraum no. 3. It was my wife’s favorite.”

You froze, unsure why the words hit so strangely. Was it because you admired him for longer than was comfortable? My wife. They seemed to hang in the air between you like a quiet accusation.

“I didn’t realize you were married,” you said, and the sound of your voice startled you. You felt heat rise to your face again, though from shame or embarrassment, you couldn’t tell. 

“I was,” he replied, and though his tone remained calm, something within it faltered. “A long time ago.” 

The light from the window caught across his face as he spoke, the angle revealing something that wasn’t quite sorrow but instead endurance. A grief so well-practiced it had become part of his composure. 

You hesitated, unsure whether to offer sympathy or silence. His hands, you noticed, were perfectly still. No wedding ring. No trace of the woman he spoke of, save for the music echoing faintly in his room. You lowered your gaze, ashamed at your own curiosity, at the flicker of longing that had preceded it. 

“I’m sorry,” you said softly. “I shouldn’t have asked,”

He shook his head once, faintly. “There is nothing to forgive. The dead require no secrecy. Only remembrance.”

The phrasing was peculiar, almost formal, but there was a tenderness in it. A kind of reverence that made you ache without understanding why. 

Whatever shadow had crossed his expression smoothed away, replaced with that same polite warmth from the night before. “In any case, I’m pleased to know someone else appreciates Liszt. Most guests prefer Strauss.”

You smiled finally at that, though your mind was still caught on the word was. Something in his voice when he said it, how he lingered on it, almost unwillingly, made your chest tighten. You smiled faintly, but your pulse still hadn’t settled. The ghost of that dream, those lips, that voice… lingered just beneath your skin. You wondered, for a brief, irrational moment, what kind of woman could have been loved by a man like him. 

“I trust you slept well?” he asked.

“Yes, actually,” you said softly. “Better than I have in a long time.” 

A hint of a smile ghosted across his mouth. “That pleases me.” He let a silence linger a moment before his purpose had changed, measured now, businesslike. 

“I received word this morning,” he began, crossing behind his desk “Another of the institute’s scholars will be arriving shortly. He's been assigned to oversee a smaller commission on the ground—the restoration of the chapel near the southern gardens. The nuns’ old sanctuary.” 

You nodded faintly. “I wasn’t aware there were two separate projects.”

He looked up in response, a faint smile touching his mouth. “Few are. The chapel is a delicate structure, and I prefer to keep its repairs discreet. You’ll find your work far more ambitious by comparison.” 

He gestured lightly toward the rolled maps resting on his desk. Architectural drawings you recognized from the Institute’s archives, though these looked newly inked, the paper still crisp. “Tell me, where would you like to begin?”

“The galleries, I think,” you said, glancing toward the tall windows that framed the fog-swept valley. “The layout will help me understand the castle’s bones before I touch anything structural.”

“A sensible choice,” he said, approval flickering through his voice like a spark. “The east wing can wait until you’ve grown familiar with the rest. It has a temperament of its own.”

There was something in his phrasing, half jest, half warning, that made you pause. 

He turned back toward the window, hands clasped loosely behind his back. “When the scholar arrives, introductions should be made. He’ll have his own work to occupy him, but I trust you’ll find him… Competent.” 

The word hung delicately, almost ironically.

You smiled faintly. “I’ll do my best not to get in his way.” 

“I doubt that’s possible,” he said, his tone gentler now. “You have the air of someone who commands a room without meaning to.” 

The words caught you off guard, so personal and precise…. But before you could form a reply, he inclined his head toward the door. “The motorcar makes its ascent, my lady.”

The statement was calm and matter-of-fact. Yet when you glanced toward the windows, you realized he couldn’t possibly see the road from here, not through the fog. Certainly not at this distance. 

You looked back to him before leaving, but his attention had already returned to the view, expression unreadable. When you turned to leave, the scent of roses lingered faintly as a faint hum reached you a heartbeat later, the engine’s low growl winding its way up the mountain road. 

-

You heard the motorcar before you saw it, and for a reason you couldn’t name, the sound of it made your pulse quicken. It was wrong for this place. It cut through the hush like something new and unapologetic, like the twentieth century forcing its way into a dream that preferred to stay medieval. 

By the time you reached the landing above the main hall, the doors had already opened. A draft rolled through the vestibule, smelling faintly of oil and rain, and a man stepped inside. 

He was not what you expected. 

Sunlight struck his hair as he removed his hat. A soft gold that looked almost too bright for the stone around him. His spectacles flashed when he looked up, lenses edged in brass that caught every bit of light. His coat was a traveler’s one, sturdy but lived-in, and beneath it, his shirt collar sat open in the careless way of a man who didn’t mind a wrinkle or two. 

He wasn’t tall in the way the benefactor was—commanding, architectural—but there was a kind of ease to him, a confidence built on movement rather than stillness. You could imagine him talking with his hands, laughing too loudly, and making the staff forget they were meant to whisper. 

When he saw you on the stair, he smiled. It was quick and genuine, almost entirely without calculation. The kind of smile that made you realize how long it has been since anyone here had truly meant one. 

He reached into his coat for a handkerchief, brushing a streak of dust from his sleeve before saying, “Apologies, I think I’ve brought half the road with me.”

You found yourself smiling back as you made your way to the bottom of the stairs. He watched you descend like a man who’s never seen a woman before in his life. It wasn’t leering… it was wonder, spontaneous and almost boyish. It made heat creep into your cheeks before you had time to think about the gesture. Something in the air shifted as you neared him. The chill that was clinging to the castle softened; even the light seemed to brighten around his presence… and he was right; he carried the world outside with him. Dust, rain, and the smell of gasoline and paper were all strangely human. 

You realized, with a faint surprise, that he didn’t seem to belong here at all. The castle swallowed sound, but his voice when he greeted the steward was warm, modern, and almost musical in its cadence. When he turned that voice towards you, the space between you felt smaller than it was. 

“Derek Oliver,” he said, the gold rims of his spectacles catching the lamplight as his eyes lifted to meet yours. He extended a hand, and this time, you took it. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” 

His grip was gentle and measured, the sort that knew exactly how long to hold. When he bent to brush a kiss across the back of your hand, it was old-fashioned enough to make you pause. A gentleman, then. 

“Derek… Oliver?” you echoed. “I don’t recall seeing you at the institute. What department are you with?” 

That spark lit again in his eyes, a quick, playful glint as his hand went to the back of his neck.

“Ah—yes, I should have started with that. I'm stationed locally, just west of here, in Sibiu. Student placement through the Institute of Architecture and Restoration.”

You arched a brow, smoothing the front of your blouse where a wrinkle suddenly felt more obvious. “An engineer?” 

“Correct. Civil engineer,” he said, smiling wide enough to make the corners of his eyes crease behind the glass. “Basically, the one who makes sure your brilliant designs don’t collapse on my watch.” 

You laughed softly, and the sound echoed more than you intended in the stone hall. “A noble profession.” 

He pretended to sigh. “Noble, underpaid, and really appreciated—I’d say it counts as a calling.”

“Indeed it does.” 

The voice came from behind. Low. Composed. Close.

The warmth between you and Derek fractured in an instant. The sound of it wasn’t loud, but it seemed to claim the air itself, the way thunder sometimes does without striking. 

You turned.

The Patron stood half in shadow beneath the archway, as though the darkness had simply decided to take shape and speak. He wasn’t smiling. He didn’t need to. The weight of his presence was enough to still everything. The dust, the sound, even Derek's easy breath. 

“Sir Drӑculești,” you said, stepping back a little. You hadn’t heard him approach. 

“Miss,” he said softly, then his gaze shifted to Derek, polite but precise. “And our new arrival. You must be the engineer from Sibiu.” 

Derek, to his credit, recovered quickly, or at least pretended to. He bowed slightly, hand to chest. 

“Derek Oliver, sir. A pleasure to meet you. I’m honored to be assisting with your restoration.”

“Assisting?” Draculesti repeated, with the faintest lift of an eyebrow. “I was informed the two of you were to oversee different projects.” 

“Yes, I—ah, they said the project’s scale warranted an extra pair of hands.” Derek’s smile returned, careful and charming. “I hope that’s not an inconvenience.” 

The benefactor's eyes flicked briefly to your hand, the one Derek had kissed, before returning to the engineer. “Not at all,” he said after a moment, though the pause between words felt deliberate. “Poenari welcomes all who respect its history.” 

His gaze lingered on Derek just long enough for the civility to curdle into something colder, then shifted toward the steward waiting silently by the door. 

“See that Mr. Oliver is shown to his room,” he said. “And have him rejoin us here within the half hour. I would like to give our guests a proper tour of the house.” 

The steward bowed. “Of course, my lord.”

Drӑculești's eyes turned to you. “There’s something I must attend to first,” he said, softer now. Almost grateful. Then, with the smallest incline of his head, he turned. His footsteps made no sound against the marble, and in a breath, he was gone… absorbed back into the quiet the way a flame slips into smoke. 

The silence that followed was so complete you almost didn’t notice Derek exhale. He blinked, adjusting his glasses. “Does he…”—a quick grin broke through—“Does “he always arrive like that? Out of thin air, all authority and perfectly tailored?” 

You let out a startled laugh, covering your mouth too late. “I don’t think so,” you said. “But I’m beginning to suspect he practices.”

Derek laughed under his breath. “Figures. I didn’t think people like that existed outside gothic novels. I half-expected him to turn into a bat and fly off through the ceiling.” 

You smiled, shaking your head, placing a playful tap on his shoulder. “Careful. I think the walls have ears.” 

He leaned slightly closer, voice lowered conspiratorially. “Good. Then they’ll hear me say that I prefer my hosts a little less… spectral.” 

You tried not to smile again and failed. “You’re terrible.” 

“Maybe,” he said, grin widening, “but at least I’m human.” 

The words hung between you. Did he mean something by them? Could the patron truly be inhuman?  Or merely a man who had exiled himself so long from modern life that humanity had slipped, quietly, from his habits?

The thought unsettled you, though you weren’t sure why. 

You gave Derek a soft smile before the steward cleared his throat, a reminder that you weren’t alone. Derek straightened immediately, his grin turning sheepish. “Right. The rooms.”

The steward nodded, gesturing for you both to follow. 

The corridor was bright with morning light filtering through tall arched windows; the electric sconces were dimmed but still hummed faintly. You could hear the rhythmic click of the steward’s shoes ahead, the faint creak of wood underfoot, and the soft hum of modernity folded inside an ancient house.

Derek fell into step beside you. “I’ll admit,” he said, glancing around, “I was expecting more cobwebs and less… grandeur. Is it just me, or does this place seem like it could host a gala at a moment’s notice?”

You smiled. “I think that’s rather the point.”

He made a face. “Well, I didn’t pack for a gala. I barely packed for stairs.”

You laughed, covering your mouth again, the sound echoing softly off the vaulted ceiling. It felt good to laugh here, almost improper, like sunlight in a cathedral.

At the top of the stairs, the steward stopped before a door on your left. “Your suite, miss.”

“Thank you,” you said, glancing to Derek, whose curiosity hadn’t dimmed in the least.

“Guess this is where I pretend to be a gentleman,” he said. “You know, let the lady settle in; pretend I don’t get lost in houses with more hallways than sense.”

You crossed your arms, fighting a smile. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“Only to breathe,” he said, cheerful as ever. Then, with a crooked grin, “Half an hour, right? I’ll try not to cause too much trouble before then.”

“Somehow,” you said, stepping toward your door, “I doubt that.”

“Try not to miss me too much,” he called over his shoulder as the steward gestured for him to follow down the corridor.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your mouth as his laughter echoed after him—bright and candid, the sound of someone who belonged to daylight. It carried down the ancient hall, warm and irreverent, entirely out of place in Poenari’s ageless quiet.

For a moment, the house seemed to be still around it. Then, faintly, almost too faintly to hear, something in the walls shifted, as if the castle itself had taken offense.

(Guys chapter 4 is in draculas pov im giggling and kicking my feet)

Tag list:

The world was nonexistent. 

You didn’t remember taking your hands off Vlad’s coat. You didn’t remember turning from the grave bearing her name, your name, or the look on his face as your breath shattered in your chest. 

You only remembered the cold. The cold and the urge to move. 

Your boots hit the gravel path in a frantic rhythm as you climbed the stairs back into the keep, your pulse pounding louder than the wind. The castle rose around you like a stone throat, dark corridors swallowing the light as you tore through them. Past the hall, past the tapestries, past the portraits with eyes that followed your sprint. 

You didn’t stop until you collided with someone, and then hands caught your arms. 

“Woah—hey!” 

Derek. 

You hadn’t even seen him rounding the corner. His glasses were askew, his hair ruffled, and a blueprint rolled under one arm as he stared at you in startled confusion. 

“Hey, slow down,” he said, bracing you with a laugh that died when he saw your face. “What—what happened? You look like you’ve seen—”

“I have to leave.”

Your voice cracked as you wrenched away. 

“What? Now? Why?” Derek followed you as you fled down the corridor, nearly tripping over his own feet. “Did something happen?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. 

If you opened your mouth, the scream in your chest would rip the world apart. 

You burst into your room and slammed it shut behind you. Your hands shook so violently you could barely turn the latch on your suitcase. Clothes, notebooks, sketches—everything was snatched, shoved, and stuffed with frantic, uneven movements. 

Something fell. You didn’t look to see what it was. 

Your breath kept catching in your throat, sharp and painful, as though you couldn’t fill your lungs fast enough. Then a knock sounded. 

“What’s going on?” Derek's voice was muffled through the door. “Open up. Talk to me.”

You ignored him while snapping the case shut, grabbed your coat, and then wiped at your cheeks with the back of your sleeve. 

“I’m getting a carriage,” you muttered to no one. 

Then you flung the door open, and Derek was right there, startled, glasses slightly fogged from chasing you. 

“Hey—wait, just—slow down, what—”

“I’m going.”

“Where?” he hurried after you as you strode down the corridor. “You’re shaking—just tell me what happened. Did he—?”

“Don’t,” you snapped. 

He froze at the edge in your voice. 

You didn’t look back as you fled down the grand staircase, the castle’s air cold and strange against your skin. A lone servant passing through the foyer jumped at your abreast appearance. 

“Please—” your voice cracked, “—I need a carriage. Now. To the station.”

The servant blinked, startled, then stammered. “Of—of course, miss. I’ll fetch the driver.” 

Derek caught up again, short of breath. 

“Talk to me. Please,” he said softly, “You don’t have to run from me too.”

You shook your head, eyes burning but refusing to spill. 

“I just need to leave.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

His face shifted, hurt, flickering beneath the confusion, but you pushed past him, out the door and into the cold. 

The air hit you hard.

You stood on the steps, hugging your arms around yourself as you watched the servant sprint to the stables, the distant clatter of hooves echoing faintly. 

You told yourself you weren't looking back at the castle… But your eyes kept searching the shadows of its windows anyways. Searching for him. For the shape, you already knew it by heart. Until footsteps approached behind you. 

Derek stood a few steps higher, watching you with concern, softening his sharp humor into something disarmingly gentle. 

“You’re scaring me,” he said. 

You closed your eyes. “I’m scaring myself.”

When the carriage finally arrived, you climbed into it without waiting for help, gripping the handle so tightly your knuckles whitened. 

Derek stood beside the door, breathless and earnest. “Let me come with you,” he said. 

“No. I need to go.”

He opened his mouth to argue—but you signaled to the driver, voice cracking:

“The station. Please—quickly.”

The horses lurched forward and as the castle receded behind you, Derek watched– Confused, hurt, and determined.

He would follow you. You knew he would.

The carriage jolted forward, wheels clattering over the cobblestone as the castle disappeared behind a curtain of fog. You didn’t look back. You refused to. If you did, you knew your resolve would crumble like old plaster. 

Your fingers dug into the seat, the leather cold under your palms, and you couldn’t stop shaking. 

The trees blurred past the window in long, dark strokes, branches clawing at the gray morning. The horses’ breath steamed into the air, sharp and frantic, mirroring your own. 

What are you doing? What are you running from? What did he mean?

Your name, her name, etched in stone centuries before you were born. 

You squeezed your eyes shut, but the memory hit you like a collision:

“She died in the fire.”

He said it so gently. So brokenly.  As if the loss still lived in his throat. As if he felt it every time he breathed. 

Your pulse stumbled. No, no, it couldn't be real. You weren’t her. You couldn’t be her. Memories didn't just crawl out of the bones of a place and slip into your dreams. Names didn’t follow you through centuries like shadows attached to your blood. 

But the dream… that kiss…

The way he looked at you the moment he descended the stairs that first night—your hand flew to your mouth as an awful, dizzy fear seized your chest. 

How is he alive? 

A Patron. A lord. A man who looked at you as though centuries had carved your face into his memory. 

He moved like someone untouched by time. Spoke as though he remembered the fire. Looked at you as though he had lost you once—and never recovered. What if he wasn’t lying? What if you were her? Something inside you had known this place…

The carriage lurched sharply as the road narrowed. The closer you got to the station, the sharper the ache became. You felt torn between running from him and running to him, between safety and something that felt terrifyingly like truth. 

Why did it hurt?

How was he alive?

You reached for logic—any logic—but your mind gave you the only thing it had: 

Him. 

Not the grave. Not Derek. Not the fire-scarred stone or the way the past had pressed its mouth against your ear and whispered old memories. 

Him. 

The softness of his voice when he spoke your name. The way it has never once sounded like a title in his mouth. The care threaded through every sentence, as if words themselves were fragile things where you were cornered. You thought of how he stood close without touching, how his restraint felt heavier than desire ever could. 

How he looked at you as though you were not something newly arrived but something returned. 

There had been yearning there. You were certain of it now. Not possession, not order. Something quieter. Something devastatingly patient. 

You pressed your palm flat against your chest, breath shallow. 

Why did he feel safe?

Why did the idea of leaving him behind feel like tearing something loose from inside you?

The carriage jolted again.

You gasped softly as the wheels ground to a halt, the sudden stillness snapping you out of the spiral like a thread pulled too tight. 

“We’re here, miss,” the driver called. 

You blinked, disoriented, the fog thinning enough to reveal the station ahead, small, unassuming, and familiar in the way places are when they promise escape. 

This was it. 

This was where you were meant to go. 

You gathered your bags with trembling hands and stepped down into the cold, the smell of coal and damp stone grounding you for a moment. The train tracks stretched away like an answer you were too afraid to speak aloud. 

Leave. 

Get on the train. Go back to Bucharest. Go anywhere that wasn’t Poenari. 

Anywhere that didn't look at you like it remembered you besides home. 

You took a step toward the platform. 

Then stopped. 

Your feet refused to move. 

It was absurd—nothing but hesitation, nothing but nerves—but the longer you stood there, the heavier your limbs felt, as though the ground itself had reached up and claimed you. As though something unseen had wrapped a hand around your wrist and whispered, "Not yet." 

You closed your eyes, fruition prickling behind them. 

Move, you told yourself. 

Go. 

Your body did not listen. 

The station felt too open. Too exposed. The thought of boarding the train made your stomach twist, not with relief, but with something closer to grief. 

Leaving felt final. 

Forever. And you weren't ready for that kind of ending.

You exhaled shakily, shoulders slumping as you turned away from the tracks. Your gaze landed instead on the narrow road leading into town, lanterns already lit despite the early hour. 

An inn stood just beyond the bend, warm light spilling through its windows, the low murmur of voices drifting out to meet you. A pub below, rooms above. Temporary. Neutral. A place to think. 

A place to be still without committing to leaving. 

You adjusted your grip on your bags and started toward it, boots crunching softly against gravel. Each step felt like a compromise you didn’t fully understand, but relief loosened something in your chest all the same. 

You told yourself it was just for the night. Just until your thoughts settled. Just until the fog in your head cleared. 

But as you pushed open the inn’s door and warmth washed over you—wood smoke, ale, and laughter—you couldn’t shake the feeling that this, too, has been chosen. 

Not by you. 

By whatever it was that had kept you standing at the station, rooted, listening to a pull you were not yet brave enough to name. 

The thought settled before something colder and truer rose beneath it. 

He would come for you. 

Not in pursuit. Not in anger, but with the same inevitability that had threaded through everything since your arrival. As if distance were a courtesy rather than a barrier. As if leaving the mountain had only redrawn the map, not broken the line between you. 

You knew it with a certainty that has nothing to do with logic. 

He would already feel your absence. The quiet shift where you should have been. The echo of a decision made too quickly and not quickly enough. Nothing would stop him—not stone, not distance, not the small, frightened hope you’d wrapped around yourself like armor. 

The thought should have terrified you.

Instead, it steadied your breath. 

Perhaps that was why you stayed. Not because you were afraid to leave, but because some part of you needed to know whether you would be found. Whether the pull you felt was real or only a story your heart was telling itself to survive the strangeness of this place. 

You carried your bags further into the inn, letting warmth and noise gather around your skin. Those thoughts had to stay at the door. If you carried them inside with you—the pull, the certainty, the sense of being followed by something that did not hurry—you would never manage the next step. So you left them there like damp coats, shut them out with a practiced breath, and crossed the threshold of uncertainty. 

The warmth was inviting first. Not the clean, deliberate warmth of Poenari, but something heavier. Lived-in. A fire's hearth and mopped floor, damp wool, and boiled potatoes. The air was thick with voices that paused when you entered. Not enough to be polite or obvious. 

The inn was low-ceilinged, the beams darkened with age and smoke. A few men sat hunched over mugs at a long table near the hearth. A woman wiped down the bar with a cloth that had long ago given up pretending to be clean. Someone laughed too loudly, then stopped. 

You walked to the counter anyway. 

The clerk looked up slowly. He was older than you’d expected, with a face like cured leather and eyes that assessed rather than welcomed. His gaze flicked first to your bags, then to your coat, then—lingering just a moment too long—to your face. 

“You’re not from around here,” he said.

It wasn’t a question. 

You rested your hands on the counter, fingers curling slightly into the wood. “No.”

The word landed heavier than you meant it to. 

He hummed, noncommittal, glancing past you as if expecting someone else to follow you in. When no one did, his eyes narrowed a fraction. 

”We don’t get many strangers,” he said. “Not this time of year.”

“I need a room,” you replied, then hesitated, adding a bit quieter, “Just for the night.”

The woman behind the bar snorted softly but said nothing. 

The clerk studied you again, as though trying to place you in a story he already knew. You felt suddenly, acutely aware of how you must look. Too clean for the road, too well-dressed for the mountain, carrying yourself like someone used to being somewhere else. 

“How much?” he asked. 

You reached into your satchel and pulled out your purse, setting it on the counter with a deliberate clink. “I’ll pay whatever.”

That did it. A flicker passed through his expression, not greed exactly, but something closer to resignation. 

He didn't smile. 

Instead, he sighed and turned away, reaching beneath the counter for a ledger so thick it looked more like a brick than a book. He flipped through it slowly, dragging the moment out, as if hoping you might change your mind and leave. 

“We’ve got a room,” he said at last. “Third floor. Back stair.”

The woman behind the bar shot him a look. He ignored it. 

“It’s small,” he continued. “Cold. Window sticks. And the bed—” he paused, then shrugged. “It’s a bed.”

“That’s fine,” you said too quickly. 

He wrote your name down without asking for it. 

You noticed that. The way he didn’t ask. He slid a key across the counter. The metal was worn smooth, the number barely legible. When your fingers brushed it, the chill surprised you. 

“You’ll want to keep the door locked,” he said, voice lowering just enough to be heard only by you. “And if you hear footsteps in the hall—”

He stopped. Looked at you again. Then, as if reconsidering, he shook his head. “Never mind. Supper’s done before dark. If you want it, be quick.”

You nodded, swallowing the sudden tightness in your throat. “Thank you.”

He didn’t respond. 

As you turned toward the stairs, you felt it again—that subtle shift in the room, like something had been set into motion simply because you’d arrived. Conversation resumed, but quieter now. The laughter from before didn’t return. 

Halfway up the narrow staircase, you glanced back. 

The clerk was watching you. 

Not with suspicion. 

With something closer to pity. 

You climbed the rest of the way quickly, bags heavy in your hands, heart beating just a little too fast. 

Just for the night, you reminded yourself again. 

But as the inn creaked around you—old wood settling, footsteps echoing where no one stood—you knew, with the same certainty you hadn’t been able to shake since leaving the castle, that the night would not pass quietly. 

And wherever you had gone, you had not gone alone. 

—----

By the time the hours crept past, hunger had settled into you like a second pulse. 

It wasn’t sharp at first, just a dull ache, a gentle insistence that grew louder with every passing minute. The scent of food drifted upward through the floorboards in slow, taunting waves: roasted meat, onions softened in butter, and bread still warm from the oven. Your stomach answered each one traitorously, twisting until the thought of sleep became impossible. 

You checked the door once. Locked. 

Checked the window. Fog pressed against the glass, the outside world erased into a blank, breathing grey. 

Supper began to sound less like a meal and more like a summons. 

Eventually, you gave in. 

The stairway groaned beneath your steps as you descended, each creak sounding too loud in the quiet. The farther down you went, the warmer the air became, thick with smoke and voices and something almost celebratory. 

When you reached the pub level, the sight stopped you short. 

It was crowded. 

Not merely occupied—but full. Men shoulder to shoulder at long tables, tankards clutched in rough hands. Laughter spilled freely now, louder than before, the hearth roaring bright enough to throw wild shadows across the low ceiling. Someone was tuning a fiddle near the corner; someone else pounded the table in time, demanding a song. 

You hesitated, scanning the room. 

So that's where everyone was. 

The thought made your skin prickle. Maybe your room truly was the last. 

A woman at the bar caught your eye and lifted her chin toward an empty stool beside her. The same barmaid from earlier—apron dusted with flour now, sleeves rolled up, cheeks flushed from the heat. 

“You look like you’ve been staring at the wall for a while,” she said, not unkindly. “Sit. Before someone steals it.”

You did, shrugging off your coat and setting it carefully at your feet. 

She poured you a drink without asking. Something amber, steaming daintily. “Don’t mind him,” she added, nodding toward the front of the inn. “He gets... Particular about strangers.”

You wrapped your hands around the mug, grateful for the warmth. “He warned me,” you said after a moment. “About the hall. Footsteps.”

Her hands stilled. Just for a second. 

Then she resumed wiping the bar, slower now. “He talks too much when he’s tired.”

“That wasn’t the impression I got.”

She glanced at you sideways, weighing something. The din of the room swelled, laughter cresting and falling like waves. At last, she sighed. 

“Strangers around here don’t last long,” she said quietly. 

You looked up. “What does that mean?”

Her mouth pressed into a thin line. “It means folk pass through. Then they don’t,” she lowered her voice further. “And once they’re gone, they don’t come back.”

A chill slid down your spine, utterly at odds with the heat of the room. 

“Gone how?” you asked.

She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes flicked toward the door, then the windows, then—strangely—the floor beneath your feet. 

“There’s something out there,” she said at last. “Always has been. Mountains remember. People forget.” she hesitated, then added, almost apologetically, “Best thing is not to linger.”

Your grip tightened on the mug. 

Something out there. 

Unbidden, his face surfaced in your mind, calm, controlled, watching as though the world bent itself around him. Vlad. The fire-warm steadiness of his voice. The way the castle seems to breathe with him. You didn't know why your thoughts went to him. You didn’t want them to. 

Or how he’s alive—

The door burst open. 

Cold air tore through the room, scattering smoke and laughter alike. The fiddle stuttered to a stop. A few heads turned sharply. 

Your heart leapt. 

For one disorienting second, you thought—

But it wasn't him. 

It was Derek. 

He stood in the doorway, hair mussed, glasses askew, and coat half-buttoned as if he’d forgotten to finish dressing. His chest rose and fell too fast, breath fogging in the sudden warmth. When his eyes found you, relief hit his face so openly it startled you. 

“There you are,” he breathed. 

He crossed the room in quick strides, ignoring the stares and the muttered comments. He stopped short in front of you, hands hovering as if he wasn’t sure whether to touch you or not. 

“I thought—” he laughed, sharp and breathless. “God, I thought you’d really left.”

Your name left this mouth like a confession. 

“You can’t just disappear like that,” he went on, running a hand through his hair. “I went to every inn, then the roads, then—” he shook his head. “You scared me.” 

The barmaid raised an eyebrow at you but said nothing. 

“I needed space,” you said, though even to your own ears it sounded thin. 

Derek nodded quickly. Too quickly. “Of course. Yes. I get that.” His smile tried to return, wavering at the edges. “I just—when I didn’t see you, I thought something happened, that he did something—”

Vlad wouldn’t— You swallowed. 

“I’m fine,” you said. “I just needed a night away.”

His gaze lingered on your face, searching. Then, softer, “You don’t have to do this alone, you know.”

The room seemed to press closer, the noise returning in cautious fragments. The barmaid slid a bowl of stew toward you, steam rising rich and fragrant. 

“Eat,” she said firmly. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Your appetite surged again, sharp and sudden as you lifted the spoon. 

Derek didn’t leave. 

After a moment, he pulled out the stool beside you and sat, close enough that you could feel the heat from him, the nervous energy rolling off his body in restless waves. He rested his forearms on the bar, fingers laced together, staring into the middle distance as if gathering the courage to say something he’d been circling for days. 

“You really frightened me,” he said quietly. Gone was the easy grin, the teasing lilt. His voice was steadier now, lower. Honest. “When you got in that carriage... I thought i’d missed my chance to make sure you were alright.”

You looked at him then. Really looked. Spoon sat in your bowl. 

The frantic edge had softened, replaced by something gentler. Concern, yes—but also something warmer. Something that made your chest tighten. 

“I’m not very good at this,” he added, with a small, self-conscious breath. “But I keep thinking—if you’re here, if you’re staying—then maybe everything doesn’t have to feel so… wrong.”

He glanced at you, green eyes searching your face like he was bracing for a blow. 

“Everything will be alright,” he said, as if saying it enough times might make it true. “I promise.”

The promise lingered between you, because he must think this is all the job. Stress of working. That’s theres something here for the two of you—

You finished your meal mostly in silence after that, the noise of the pub dulling around you, your thoughts drifting back to the barmaid's words. Strangers don’t last long. The words echoed now, louder in the quiet that followed Derek’s confession. 

When you stood, Derek was already rising with you. 

“I’ll walk you up,” he said gently. “It’s late.”

The stairway creaked as you climbed, the warmth of the pub thinning with each step. Derek stayed close behind you—not touching, but present. When you reached the third floor, the hall was empty. Lit only by a single buzzing electric lamp at the far end. 

Your room waited with it. 

Small didn’t begin to describe it. 

The ceiling sloped low enough that Derek had to duck slightly as he stepped inside. The bed was narrow and pressed against one wall beneath a rattling window. A washstand stood crooked near the door, and your bags sat unopened in the corner where you’d dropped them earlier. The rooms smelled faintly of soap and cold plaster. 

You suddenly felt exposed. 

“Well,” Derek said with a crooked smile, glancing around. “Cosier than the castle, at least.”

You let out a quiet laugh despite yourself and set your coat aside. 

He lingered near the door this time, hands shoved into his pockets, rocking back on his heels like he wasn’t sure whether to stay or retreat. The silence stretched, thick and uncertain. 

“Would you like... Company?” he asked at last.

The question was careful. Not presumptive. Almost hopeful. 

Your mind flicked back to the clerk’s eyes. The barmaid’s quiet voice. It was certainly unnerving that someone else would already feel where you were. 

A doubt crept in then, sharp and unwelcome. 

Should you let Derek in?

The thought of Vlad surfaced instantly—uninvited, undeniable. Would this upset him? The idea shouldn't have mattered, and yet it did, settling heavy in your chest. You pictured his stillness, the careful distance he kept, and the way his presence seemed to fill rooms even when he said nothing at all. 

And then another thought followed, quieter but more dangerous. 

What if having Derek here would keep him away?

What if warmth could ward off whatever pull threaded between you and the castle, between you and the man who felt too close for someone you barely knew? Derek was human. Solid. Bright. Predictable in a way the mountain never was. Was Vlad inhuman?

Maybe this was safety. 

You stepped back, making room. 

“Just for a bit,” you said. 

The door closed softly behind him. And as the latch clicked into place, you couldn’t tell whether you had chosen comfort or simply delayed something that would not be denied. 

—-

Time blurred. 

You weren't sure how long the two of you talked, minutes folding into something softer, safer. Derek sat cross-legged on the edge of the narrow bed, his glasses abandoned on the nightstand, sleeves rolled up as he animated some story about a professor who’d mistaken a structural collapse for “intentional Gothic minimalism.” You laughed despite yourself, the sound surprising you as much as it seemed to please him. 

It felt… normal. 

He had that effect. Derek brought you back into the present with an easy charm and well-timed humor, making the heaviness lift just enough that you could breathe again. For a while the mountain receded. The grave. The name. The way Vlad’s voice had followed you even as you fled. 

You forgot. 

Or maybe you let yourself forget. 

Derek watched you as you laughed, the corners of his mouth lifting, his gaze lingering a second longer than polite. When the room finally quieted, the laughter thinning into a comfortable hush, his expression shifted.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Can I ask you something?”

Your shoulders tightened before you could stop them. “You already are.”

He smiled faintly, then sobered. “What happened back there?”

You looked away, eyes catching on the warped ceiling, the crack that ran like a fault line above the bed. The truth pressed hard against your teeth—fire and stone and a name carved centuries ago—but you swallowed it down. 

“It was just… a lot,” you said instead. “The work. The place. I think I overwhelmed myself.”

Derek studied you, clearly unconvinced, but he didn’t push. “You ran,” he said quietly.

Your pulse jumped. 

“I’m fine,” you insisted, forcing a smile. “Really,”

He nodded, but his voice softened. “I’m sorry for prying. Seeing you like that—frantic, scared—it…” he trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. “It killed me a little.”

You met his eyes then. There was no humor waiting there this time. Just earnestness. Feeling. 

“I don’t usually get attached this fast,” he admitted. “But you—you make sense to me. Even when nothing else does.”

The room seemed to shrink, the air growing thick and close. You felt pulled in two directions at once—one warm and immediate, the other distant and consuming. Was this happening?

“I don’t know what I feel,” you said honestly. 

“That’s okay,” Derek replied. “I think I do.”

He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. 

You didn’t…. And he kissed you. 

It was warm. Human. A little clumsy. His lips pressed to yours with nervous intent, hands hovering before settling at your waist as if unsure he was allowed to touch you at all. There was no fire in it. No, pull that unraveled you at the seams. 

And yet—

Something recoiled inside you. 

It felt foreign. Like trying on a coat that fit but belonged to someone else. You kissed him back because it was easy, because it was here, because it asked nothing of you except presence. 

But the air shifted. 

Not dramatically. Not visibly. Just enough that you felt it—a tightening, a hush, as if the walls themselves had drawn inward. 

When Derek finally pulled back, smiling softly, you couldn’t return it. 

The warmth lingered on your lips, but beneath it lay something colder. 

Guilt. 

Not because you’d done something wrong, but because somewhere, somehow, something had reacted. Something has changed. 

And it felt as if it did not forgive easily. 

You were right before. Nothing would stop Vlad. Not even this. 

Taglist: