Oliver stayed frozen long after the noble's presence disappeared.
Minutes passed. Maybe more. Time felt thin, stretched out like a thread pulled too tight. Every part of his body—muscles, lungs, heartbeat—waited for something else to happen. Something worse.
Only when his legs began to tremble did he finally force himself to sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, but it didn't feel solid. Nothing did. His room was the same… and yet every corner felt carved out, hollowed, watched.
His fingers curled around the blanket.
She came in the day.
Her retainers weren't alone.
And something inside him had answered her.
He remembered it too vividly.
That whisper in his blood.
A cold echo. Claiming him.
His breath shook.
He pressed a palm to his sternum as though he could push the memory out.
But it stayed.
The sunlight creeping around the curtains crawled across the floorboards, painting thin gold lines that shimmered strangely to his sharpened eyes. The light hurt—but not enough to wound. It simply burned with a warning.
His skin didn't feel like his own anymore.
It was too tight.
Too sensitive.
Too alert.
He moved to stand, and the world swayed—sharper, louder, clearer.
His hearing stretched farther than it should have.
A car engine several streets away.
A woman dropping a glass in her kitchen.
The faint metallic click of a sprinkler timer turning on.
Too much.
Oliver stumbled to his desk, gripping the wood hard. The table groaned under the pressure.
"Get it together," he whispered to himself.
But his voice sounded different.
Lower.
Rougher.
Not entirely human.
A spike of fear shot up his spine.
A vibration settled behind his teeth—a faint ringing, like the world had added a new frequency only he could hear. It hummed through his bones, through the walls, through the air.
And then—
His phone buzzed.
Oliver nearly jumped out of his skin, snatching it up too fast.
His fingers moved before his mind did.
Macy
You up? We're gonna be late. Need a ride?
Her normal, casual tone felt like a relic from another life.
He typed quickly:
Overslept. Dad took the car. Go without me.
A believable lie.
A safe lie.
The phone buzzed again.
Are you okay? You sound weird.
He stared at those last two words.
You sound weird.
What did she mean?
Had something been off in his typing?
Or was something else happening, something he couldn't hide even through a text message?
He didn't answer.
He set the phone down, exhaled shakily, and backed away from the desk.
The ringing behind his teeth grew stronger.
It wasn't random.
It wasn't meaningless.
It was pulling him toward the window.
Oliver stopped halfway across the room.
"No," he whispered. "Not again."
But the sensation grew—curving around the inside of his skull, tugging at him with soft, icy fingers. He approached the curtains slowly.
The fabric rippled.
Not from wind.
From something else.
Something outside.
A prickle crawled down his neck. His instincts—the new, hungry ones—flared like sparks.
Someone was there.
Three someones.
Heavy footsteps approached the wall just beneath the window.
Not human-heavy.
Rooted-heavy.
Predator-heavy.
Oliver's muscles locked. His breath caught.
Then came the voices.
A young one first—bright, mocking, too cheerful to be sane.
"He's close. I can smell him. Smells like brand new nightborn."
Oliver's stomach twisted violently.
The older voice answered, gravelly and irritated.
"Restrain yourself. We wait until the sun drops."
"But he's right there," the younger one whined. "Right on the other side of the glass."
The third presence didn't speak.
It didn't have to.
Oliver felt it like a cold hand sliding down his spine.
That… wasn't human.
Not even close.
A scraping sound—nails dragging slowly down the outside frame—shivered through the air. The vibration ran all the way to Oliver's teeth, making his jaw clench.
He crouched instinctively, muscles coiling, breath held.
But something else happened.
Another pulse inside him.
A whisper—this time unmistakably hers.
Hide.
Not loud.
Not spoken.
Not even inside the room.
Inside him.
He obeyed before thinking, dropping behind the bed, heart hammering silently in his ribs.
Outside, the young voice giggled faintly.
"He's scared. That makes it better."
"Focus," the older one snapped. "We don't engage without the house's approval. You want the wrath of the nobles on your neck?"
"Nobles?" the young one scoffed. "She's not even—"
"She claimed him."
That silenced everything.
Even the scraping paused.
Oliver's breath stopped.
Claimed?
The noble… had claimed him?
The younger voice hissed.
"No. No, that's not possible. She shouldn't have—he's just—he's nothing."
A long exhale from the older one.
"That girl has broken more rules than any of us. If she sets her sights on him, he's not 'nothing' anymore."
A heavy silence stretched.
Then the third presence moved.
It didn't walk.
It slid.
Like drifting smoke with weight.
Its hand—or something like a hand—pressed against the window. Oliver could hear the faint thump of each finger tapping the glass. Five taps.
Except… no.
Six.
He squeezed his eyes shut, bile rising in his throat.
The older one spoke again, voice lower now.
"Fall back. Her aura is too close. She's watching."
A petulant groan. "I wanted to see him! Just a peek—"
"You'll see him soon enough," the older one hissed. "When the sun dies."
The footsteps retreated.
Three separate sets.
Two humanoid.
One… not.
Oliver kept hiding until every sound faded into normal daylight noise.
Only then did he slowly rise from behind the bed.
The window was still fogged with breath.
Except breath didn't leave marks like that.
Oliver stepped closer despite every instinct telling him to stay as far away as possible.
On the outside of the glass was the print of a hand.
Long-fingered.
Crooked at unnatural angles.
Not the shape of anything human or noble.
His legs almost gave out.
He whispered shakily, "What is happening to me…?"
His voice trembled.
His hands trembled.
Even his heartbeat felt unstable.
He backed away from the window entirely, refusing to turn his back to it, until he reached his desk again. The light stung against his skin more now—like the transformation inside him reacted to fear.
And beneath it all…
The whisper in his blood pulsed faintly.
Not words this time.
Just presence.
Cold.
Claiming.
Watching.
The noble might have left—but she hadn't gone far.
And the others… her rivals…
They weren't waiting for nightfall out of mercy.
They were waiting for the rules to allow them to tear him apart.
Oliver sank to the floor, pulling his knees close, breathing unevenly through the growing ache in his bones.
He wasn't safe in his room.
He wasn't safe in daylight.
He wasn't safe with other vampires.
He wasn't safe from the noble.
And worst of all—
He wasn't safe from himself.
Because whatever he was turning into…
It was happening faster now.
And he couldn't stop it.