"But first... You are going to fix me."
His fangs grazed the frantic, erratic pulse beating at the base of my throat.
The sensation was a violent shock to my central nervous system—sharp, freezing, and utterly inhuman. My medical training screamed at me to fight, to protect my carotid artery at all costs, but his icy, iron grip on my wrist pinned me against the leather seat, making me a captive audience to my own murder.
"Fix you?" I choked out, my voice a pathetic, trembling whisper in the pitch-black SUV.
Kaelen inhaled deeply against my skin, the sound loud in the pressurized vacuum of the car. His chest remained perfectly, terrifyingly still against mine, but the golden flecks in his emerald eyes burned with a starving, feral frenzy. For a microscopic second, the monstrous pressure of his jaw flexed. I was absolutely certain he was going to tear my throat out.
Instead, with a sickening sound of restraint, he violently shoved himself backward, putting the width of the leather seat between us.
The sudden release of pressure left me gasping for air, my spine pressing hard against the reinforced door.
"Whiskey," Kaelen ordered. His voice was ragged, the demonic echo still vibrating in his throat. He pointed a long, pale finger toward a crystal decanter housed in the center console. "Pour it. Now."
My hands were shaking so violently that I nearly dropped the heavy crystal stopper. I poured the amber liquid, the glass clinking erratically, and shoved it toward him. He didn't drink it. He simply held the cold crystal, his knuckles turning stark white as he fought to regain his clinical, mafia-king composure. The feral hunger was slowly, painfully retreating behind a mask of ancient ice.
"What are you?" I breathed, my eyes darting from the glass in his hand to his flawless, pale face. "You have no pulse. You don't breathe. Marco didn't just die of hypovolemic shock... You drained him."
"Stop analyzing me, Seraphina," he said, not turning his head to look at me. "Your diagnostic reflexes will not save you here."
"I am a diagnostician," I shot back, the sheer absurdity of the situation sparking a desperate anger. "It's my job to understand the biology of the people in my care."
Kaelen turned his head. The movement was fluid, too smooth, like oil sliding over glass. In the dim light of the passing streetlamps, his eyes flared with that unsettling, deep emerald luminescence.
"I am the reason your father's enemies disappeared in the middle of the night, leaving no trace of blood behind," Kaelen replied coldly. "And you are here to keep my syndicate from starving in a prolonged war. Do not confuse your utility with privilege."
"Where are we going?" I demanded, gripping the edge of the leather seat.
"The Vane Estate," he answered, his voice returning to that smooth, aristocratic cadence. "North of the city. The Screaming Woods."
My blood ran cold. The Screaming Woods was a local legend—a dead zone of dense, ancient pines that clung to the jagged cliffs overlooking the ocean. It was named for the way the wind howled through the trees, but the locals had darker stories. Disappearances. Cults. It was a complete dead zone for cell reception and sanity.
"That's twenty miles out of the city," I argued, panic rising in my chest again. "You said you needed a surgeon for your men. My equipment, my team—"
"I have equipment," he interrupted smoothly. "Better than the archaic, rusted tools you were using at St. Jude's. As for your team... I do not trust teams. Betrayal is a group activity, Doctor. Loyalty is a solitary one."
He leaned forward, the leather creaking softly under his immense weight. He was invading my personal space again, sucking the oxygen out of the cabin. His gaze dropped from my eyes back to my throat, staring at the exact spot his fangs had touched seconds ago.
I felt a phantom pressure there, a prickling sensation on my dermis. I could feel my own heart rate spiking—tachycardia induced by sheer, predatory proximity. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
His nostrils flared slightly. He took a long, slow drag of air, as if savoring a fine vintage.
"You have a question," he murmured, his eyes still fixed on my pulsing vein. "Ask it. Your silence is incredibly loud."
I swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "Who is Lenore?"
The atmosphere in the car shifted instantly. The ambient temperature seemed to plummet ten degrees, turning my breath to mist. The predatory hunger in his eyes was instantly replaced by a flash of something ancient, possessive, and ruinous.
He looked up, meeting my gaze. For a second, the impenetrable King looked tired. Not sleepy-tired, but the kind of catastrophic exhaustion that seeps into the bones after a lifetime of war.
"A mistake," he said, his voice flat, devoid of all emotion. "A memory of a life I buried a long time ago."
"You looked at me in the hospital and saw her," I pressed, my curiosity overriding my survival instinct. "Is she why I'm here? Because my father knew I looked like an ex-girlfriend?"
Kaelen let out a low, dark chuckle that sent a shiver down my spine. "An ex-girlfriend? That is a... quaint, mortal way to put it."
He leaned back, putting distance between us, and the air finally became breathable again. "Do not romanticize your captivity, Seraphina. You are a tool. A specialized medical instrument. If you function well, you will live in luxury. If you break..."
He let the sentence hang in the freezing air, unfinished and terrifying.
The car began to slow. We had left the paved city roads miles ago; the heavy, reinforced tires were now crunching over loose gravel. Outside, the fog was so thick it pressed against the bulletproof windows like wet cotton. Through the mist, towering iron gates loomed into the sky, wrought into sharp shapes of twisting vines and thorns.
They swung open automatically, offering no sound of welcome.
We drove up a winding path lined with trees that looked entirely dead, their skeletal branches clawing at the dark sky. At the top of the cliff stood the house.
Calling it a "house" was a profound insult to architecture. It was a massive fortress of grey stone, Gothic Revival style, with towering spires and arched windows that looked out over the raging black ocean below. It was magnificent and entirely horrifying. It looked like a cancerous tumor of stone that defied time itself.
The SUV stopped. The driver—another unnervingly silent man in a black suit—opened my door.
Kaelen stepped out first, unbothered by the freezing night air. He didn't wait for me. He walked toward the massive oak double doors, moving with the absolute certainty that I would follow.
I stepped out, the salt spray of the ocean stinging my face. I shivered violently, clutching my thin arms. I was still wearing my blue surgical scrubs, damp from the scrub sink back at the hospital. The thin cotton fabric stuck to my skin, offering zero protection against the biting coastal wind.
As I walked up the stone steps, my eyes scanned the perimeter. No security cameras. No electronic keypads. No armed guards visible at the entrance.
"You don't lock your doors?" I asked as I caught up to his broad back.
Kaelen pushed the heavy, iron-bound doors open with one hand, a feat that should have required two strong men. "I am the reason people lock their doors, Seraphina. I do not need to lock mine."
We stepped inside.
If the exterior was a grim fortress, the interior was a mausoleum of forgotten opulence. The cavernous foyer was dominated by a sweeping dual staircase made of black marble. A massive crystal chandelier, dusty and dim, hung from the vaulted ceiling. But it was the smell that struck me. The air was heavy with the scent of old paper, burning wood, and... lilies. Thousands of fresh lilies.
The house was poorly lit, illuminated only by flickering wall sconces that cast long, dancing shadows across the ancient tapestries.
"Welcome home," Kaelen said dryly, the sarcasm biting.
A woman appeared from the shadows of a hallway to the left. She was elderly, dressed in a severe, immaculate black housekeeper's uniform that looked like it belonged in the 19th century. Her skin was pale, papery, and translucent, her eyes clouded with dense cataracts.
"Master Vane," she said, her voice a dry, rattling rasp. "We were not expecting a guest."
"She is not a guest, Martha. She is the new surgeon," Kaelen corrected, smoothly shrugging off his charcoal jacket. He tossed it to the woman without looking. "Prepare the East Wing. The Blue Room."
Martha froze completely. The bundle of clothing slipped slightly in her frail hands. Her clouded eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated terror, shifting from her Master to me.
"The Blue Room, sir?" she stammered, her voice shaking. "But... Master Vane, that room has been sealed for centuries. The scent—"
"Do not question me," Kaelen commanded. His voice didn't rise in volume, but the sheer, crushing authority in it cracked like a physical whip across the room.
Martha bowed her head, trembling so hard I could hear her bones rattling. "Yes, Master. Immediately." She scurried away into the dark corridors, moving with a frantic, unnatural speed for a woman of her age.
I turned to Kaelen, my heart hammering against my ribs. "What's wrong with the Blue Room?"
"Nothing," he said smoothly. "It has the best view of the ocean. You will need the distraction."
He turned his full attention to me, his expression unreadable. "You reek of fear and sterile antiseptic. Go upstairs. Third door on the left. Wash yourself. There are clothes in the antique wardrobe. Burn those medical scrubs; the scent of your father's dead enforcer on them offends me."
"And then what?" I demanded, refusing to back down, my chin lifting defensively. "When do I start working off this 'debt'?"
Kaelen stepped closer. This time, I didn't flinch. I held my ground. He reached out and placed his large, calloused hand on my forehead.
His skin was shockingly cold—cryogenic. It felt like metal left out in a blizzard.
"Your pulse is one hundred and twenty. You are vibrating with clinical exhaustion," he murmured, his thumb lightly brushing my temple, a terrifying juxtaposition of gentleness and lethal power.
"Hypothermia," I countered, my teeth chattering uncontrollably. "Your house is a freezer."
His emerald eyes softened, just a microscopic fraction. A tiny crack in the ancient ice. "Yes. I suppose it is. I run cold."
He dropped his hand abruptly, stepping back and pulling the shadows around him like a cloak. "Go. Before my patience runs out and I put you in the cellar with the rats."
I didn't need to be told twice. I turned and ascended the sweeping marble stairs, feeling his heavy, predatory gaze burning into my spine with every step.
The East Wing was completely silent. The thick velvet carpet runner swallowed the sound of my bare feet. I found the third door on the left and pushed it open.
I gasped.
The room was breathtaking. It was a bedchamber fit for a Victorian queen. A massive four-poster bed with heavy, midnight-blue canopies dominated the center of the space. A fire crackled aggressively in the huge stone hearth, throwing golden light across the opulent furniture.
But it was the details that made my stomach churn with unease.
On the vanity table, a silver hairbrush set lay neatly arranged, heavily tarnished with age. A crystal perfume bottle with an atomizer bulb sat next to it. I walked over, my medical instincts urging me to gather data, and picked it up. I squeezed the bulb, spraying a tiny mist into the air.
Lavender and rose.
The scent hit me like a physical blow to the chest. It triggered a sense of déjà vu so powerful I had to grab the edge of the mahogany table to keep my legs from giving out. I knew this smell. It was familiar, deep, and heartbreaking.
Stop it, Seraphina, I scolded myself, shaking my head violently. Dissociation. Stress-induced hallucination. Focus.
I walked to the massive wooden wardrobe and threw the doors open.
It wasn't empty. It was filled with clothes. But they weren't modern scrubs, jeans, or even contemporary dresses. The rack was lined with heavy silk nightgowns, thick velvet robes, and intricate gowns that looked like they belonged in a museum exhibit of 15th-century European fashion. High lace collars, corsets, and long sweeping sleeves.
Burn those scrubs, he had ordered.
I stripped off the damp, dirty blue scrubs, shivering as the cold air of the room hit my bare skin. I grabbed a heavy velvet robe from the wardrobe—emerald green, the exact shade of Kaelen's eyes—and wrapped it tightly around myself, tying the sash. It was too long, the expensive fabric dragging on the floor, but it was incredibly warm.
I walked toward the floor-to-ceiling arched window, looking out over the cliffs. Below, the black ocean crashed violently against the jagged rocks, the white foam glowing like bone in the moonlight.
I saw my reflection in the glass. Pale, wide-eyed, wearing a dead stranger's clothes in a monster's castle.
Then, I noticed something else in the reflection.
In the far corner of the room, there was a tall, rectangular object covered by a heavy, dust-caked canvas sheet.
Curiosity is a surgeon's greatest weakness. We always need to know what's under the skin.
I walked over to the object. The cloth was thick, heavy canvas, smelling of centuries of neglect. I gripped the edge firmly and pulled.
A cloud of dust motes danced in the firelight as the cover fell heavily to the floor.
It was an oil painting. A life-sized portrait, the varnish slightly yellowed with immense age, but the skill of the artist was undeniable.
It depicted a woman standing on this very cliff edge, the turbulent ocean raging behind her. She was wearing a stunning, blood-red velvet dress. Her hair was honey-brown, loose and wild in the wind. She was smiling—a sad, secretive, knowing smile.
But it was her face that made the scream die in my throat before it could even form.
It was me.
Not an ancestor. Not someone who vaguely resembled me. It was me. The exact same arch of the eyebrow. The same small mole above the left lip. The same honey-brown eyes staring back at me through the centuries.
I looked down at the tarnished brass plaque bolted to the bottom of the ornate frame.
Lenore. 1452.
My rational, scientific mind violently rejected the information. Coincidence. A bizarre genetic anomaly. A sick, elaborate psychological trick played by a mafia boss.
Before I could even process the horror of the canvas, the heavy oak door behind me slammed shut with a deafening BANG that rattled the windows.
I whipped around just in time to hear the distinct, heavy mechanical click of an iron deadbolt sliding into place from the outside.
"Hey!" I yelled, dropping the velvet robe and sprinting toward the door. I grabbed the brass handle, twisting and pulling frantically. It wouldn't budge. "Let me out! Kaelen!"
"She was brilliant, just like you, Doctor," Kaelen's voice drifted through the thick wood. He sounded impossibly close, standing right on the other side of the door. "But her brilliance couldn't save her from the starvation."
I backed away from the door, my chest heaving, the air in the room suddenly feeling too thin to breathe. "What are you talking about? Open this door!"
"My men are dying, Seraphina. Their bodies are rejecting human blood," his voice continued, cold, merciless, and utterly demonic. "You have exactly twenty-four hours to use my medical wing to synthesize a substitute that won't turn my syndicate into feral beasts."
Silence stretched for a terrifying second, filled only by the crashing of the ocean outside.
"Work fast, Dr. Laurent," the Mafia King whispered through the wood. "If you fail... the men will starve. And I will stop fighting my hunger for you."
His heavy footsteps faded down the hall, leaving me locked in a dead woman's room with a ticking clock, a five-hundred-year-old mystery, and a death sentence.