Achilles is surprisingly good at this. I didn’t expect him to be such a patient trainer, but here we are, hours into our first session, and he hasn’t once lost his temper or made me feel incompetent. His instructions are clear, his movements precise, and his humor—though relentless—keeps me from drowning in my own frustration. By the time we finish the last lap of our training for the day, I’m exhausted but oddly satisfied. My muscles ache, but it’s a good ache, the kind that reminds me I’m getting stronger.As we cool down, I can’t help but ask the question that’s been nagging at me all morning. “How do you know so much about vampire fighting styles? You’re a shapeshifter, not a vampire.”He grins, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “I’ve been around Valentine long enough to pick up a thing or two. Plus, when you’ve fought as many battles as I have, you learn to adapt. Doesn’t matter if you’re a vampire, a shapeshifter, or a human—fighting is fighting. The basic
The dining room is warm, the soft glow of the chandelier casting a golden light over the table. Mara, Achilles, Finn, and I are seated around it, the remains of dinner scattered across the table. The conversation has been light, a welcome distraction from the chaos of the past few days. Finn is animatedly recounting the plot of a movie 'Interview with the Vampire', his hands gesturing wildly as he describes the characters.“You’ve really never seen it?” he asks, his tone incredulous. “It’s a classic! You’re missing out.”I shake my head, laughing. “I haven’t had much time for movies lately. But it sounds interesting.”“Interesting?” Achilles interjects, leaning back in his chair. “It’s more than interesting. It’s iconic. And honestly, Lestat? Total Valentine vibes. Charismatic, dangerous, and way too good-looking for his own good.”Mara smirks, her eyes flicking to me. “Except Lestat’s love story is nothing like yours. Yours is… well, let’s just say it’s bound to be more complicate
The garage is brightly lit, the faint hum of the fluorescent lights casting a blinding glow over the sleek lines of the motorcycle. I slide off the bike, my legs a little shaky from the ride, and I stretch my body as soon as I'm free from the curled position I had to assume all through the ride.His scent is all over me as I was completely pressed into him, and it feels kind of shaky as I try to get used to the ground again.I can still feel the smooth vibrations from the bike. It's a sweet feeling, but I don't want to dwell in it.The rubber band he used to tie my hair into a bun is stuck to the helmet, and when I pull it free, my hair tumbles down in a tangled mess. I hand him the helmet and as he takes it, his fingers brushing against mine for the briefest moment, and I feel a jolt of electricity shoot through me. I try to ignore it, focusing instead on the mess of my hair.I groan, running my fingers through it in a futile attempt to smooth it out. He watches me, his golden eye
Pain is a brutal teacher.The training room is dimly lit, its concrete walls swallowing the last remnants of warmth. The scent of sweat, leather, and something sharp—maybe my own blood—clings to the air. My breath is ragged, my body screaming in protest, but Achilles doesn’t care. He moves around me like a predator, his voice cold and relentless.“Again.”My fingers twitch, curled into fists, but my vision remains shrouded in darkness. The blindfold strips me of control, leaving me vulnerable. Every nerve in my body is straining, trying to anticipate the next attack.Then—pain.A fist collides with my ribs. I grunt, stumbling back. My balance wavers, and before I can recover—another strike, this time to my shoulder. My breath catches. A third—straight to my stomach. I hit the ground hard, gasping.Achilles sighs, unimpressed. “You’re still relying on your eyes.”“Because that’s how normal people fight,” I snap, clutching my ribs.I hear him crouch beside me, his voice deceptively
The staircase winds upward, steep and endless, each step echoing softly beneath my boots. Shadows curl around me, thick and unmoving, swallowing the faint light seeping from the sconces along the stone walls. The air shifts the higher I climb—colder, heavier. As if the very walls of this place are alive, breathing, watching.At the top, his doors loom ahead—tall, carved from ancient blackwood, etched with intricate symbols that seem to shift when I look too long. The sheer size of them makes me feel small, insignificant, like standing before the gates of something forbidden.I hesitate.The last time I walked through these doors, I left with the scent of him burned into my skin and the ghost of his eyes lingering behind my mind.And now… I’m about to do it again.I knock, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the thick wood.No response.Instead, a soft sound hums from beyond the doors—a violin.The melody is haunting, delicate yet deliberate, each note pulling at something deep
The dining room is bathed in soft morning light, the kind that makes everything feel warm and golden. Dust motes float lazily in the air, catching the glow as if time itself has slowed down. I’m picking at a plate of fruit, my mind still on the sensual kiss Valentine and I shared the day before, when Achilles strolls in, looking far too energetic for this hour.He’s wearing a fitted black shirt and jeans, his usual smirk plastered across his annoyingly perfect face. There’s something about the way he moves, like he owns every room he walks into, and in some twisted way, he probably does.“Morning, sunshine,” he says, sliding into the chair across from me. “Sleep well?”I glare at him. “Define ‘well.’”He chuckles, reaching for a croissant. He bites into it, moaning out softly in pleasure. "Mara bakes the best of these. You can't find them taste this good elsewhere. Not even in France.""Oh? You would never say this to her face though.""Of course not." He leans over the table to me.
The mirror doesn’t recognize me.I tilt my head, studying the reflection staring back. The sleek bun makes my face look sharper, more refined. My cheekbones are more prominent, my eyes—once hidden behind thick glasses—are piercing. I've also noticed that they've taken an icy look. It was subtle at first during the early stages of my transformation, but now, they're completely icy. Blue...almost like glass and lined with dark kohl and mascara, they hold an intensity that wasn’t there before. The black dress hugs my body perfectly, flowing down to my calves in an elegant, almost regal way. Paired with knee-high leather boots and the jacket Achilles forced onto me, the entire ensemble screams old money and quiet dominance.I run a hand down my sleeve, feeling the buttery smoothness of the leather. My fingers tremble slightly, but not with nerves. With something else. Something… powerful.For the first time, I don’t feel like the turtle girl who hid in my mother's oversized sweaters
"I am a vampire."Ellie stares at me, unblinking.Then she laughs.It’s not the reaction I expect—not even close. It starts as a chuckle, then grows into a full-on cackle. Her hands clutch her stomach, her head tilting back as if this is the funniest thing she’s ever heard.“Oh my God.” She wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. “You really had me for a second there, North. A vampire? Seriously? Is this your way of telling me you’ve gone goth?”I don’t say anything. I just watch her. Honestly, I don't know what I was expecting really. Instant terror?Of course not. If anyone had come to me three months ago to tell me this very same thing, this would be my honest reaction. Like...yeah sure, weirdo.Her laughter fades when she notices I stare at her dead on without any hint of amusement.The amusement in her face flickers, then dies entirely. Her eyes scan mine, searching for the punchline. When she finds none, she shifts in her seat, straightening her back.“You’re serious,” she bre
The clock on the wall reads 3:07 AM when the door creaks open.I stir, blinking against the dim glow of the fireplace as heavy boots echo across the marble floors.Then I see him.And my drowsiness vanishes.Valentine strides in like something out of a gothic fever dream, long coat dusted with grime, moonlight trailing him through the open doorway. But it’s not his dramatic entrance that has me bolting upright.It’s the girl in his arms.I stare.Her body is limp, her head resting against his chest. Her ridiculously long black hair spills past his knees, trailing like a shadow. Her lips are slightly parted, her skin almost translucent beneath the chandelier’s glow.Oh, this is rich.I exhale sharply, pressing a hand over my heart in mock horror.“Val,” I gasp. “Have you resorted to kidnapping?”His glare is immediate.I continue anyway.“Is this where we are now? You get a little lonely, and instead of asking me to take you out, you—what? Pluck the prettiest girl off the streets an
A century. A mere blink in my existence, yet it feels like an eternity when spent with him. He. He, the chaos incarnate, the walking, talking embodiment of every headache I've ever endured. Achilles. Even now, a hundred years on, he manages to fill the mansion with his incessant chatter, his ridiculous schemes, his… his presence. Tonight, I seek a reprieve. A hunt.The moon hangs heavy, a silver coin in the velvet sky. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, a familiar aroma that usually soothes me. Tonight, it merely serves as a backdrop to my frustration. I stalk through the shadows of the old cemetery, my senses heightened, searching for the telltale signs of wild vampires. They’re a nuisance, these feral creatures, a stain on our kind.Then, I smell it. Something sweet. Caramel, with a delicate hint of lavender. A human scent, but unlike any I've encountered before. It draws me in, a strange, compelling pull.I move silently, a shadow among shado
If I had a coin for every time someone looked at me like I was an inconvenience, I’d probably own a nice pair of boots by now.Valentine’s mother, however, doesn’t just look at me like I’m an inconvenience—she looks at me like I’m a cockroach she’s too disgusted to crush.And I have to say, that’s not new.She says nothing when we run into each other in the halls, just gives me a long, cold stare before turning the other way and ignoring my existence entirely. But I can feel her disapproval dripping off her in waves. The king is no different—silent, unreadable, always watching me with mild curiosity, like I’m some street cat Valentine dragged in from the gutter.(Which, to be fair, is accurate. But still.)I keep my mouth shut, keep my hands to myself, but the longer I sit there in that stifling palace, the more I realize I hate it. I hate the way their presence makes Valentine tense, hate the way his mother’s sharp words cut him down without effort.So when he grabs my wrist later
Achilles is a menace.A charming, loud, dramatic menace.And somehow, against all logic and reason, I am enjoying myself.I’ve spent nearly three centuries in this world, drifting through time with the same predictable routine. Nothing ever surprises me. But Achilles—Achilles is unpredictable. A whirlwind of sarcasm and chaos wrapped in a too-thin frame, wearing my clothes as if he owns them.And now, I am taking him into the city.Paris at night is a sight to behold—cobblestone streets glistening under the glow of gas lamps, the murmur of voices spilling from cafés and carriages rolling down the avenues. The scent of warm bread lingers in the air, mixing with the ever-present perfume of the Seine.Achilles stretches his arms above his head as we step onto the street. “Ah, freedom! I can already smell the possibilities.”I give him a dry look. “That would be fresh bread, not possibilities.”He waves a hand. “Same thing.”We walk, side by side, and I notice he’s still too thin. The
I should’ve seen it coming.The ridiculous wealth. The manor that looks like something out of an ancient royal painting. The way people around here bow slightly when they see him, as if he’s made of something more than the rest of us.Of course, Valentine isn’t just an important vampire. He’s a prince.The prince of all vampires.I pause mid-step in the corridor, my brain struggling to process this absurd fact. I mean, I knew he was high up the vampire ladder—no one lives in a place this extravagant without some serious power backing them—but the son of the king and queen? This is their manor?I’m staying under the same roof as the vampire king and queen?I run a hand down my face. Holy shit.And yet, despite all this, my senses don’t go haywire. I always assumed that if I ever stood in the presence of powerful supernaturals, my body would react—some primal, deep-rooted fear kicking in. But right now, all I feel is…Well. Mild panic. But that’s normal.I shake off the thoughts and
The moment we step into the manor, I hear Achilles’ heart pick up its pace.He’s overwhelmed.It’s evident in the way his wide, dark eyes dart around, struggling to take everything in—the marble floors polished to a mirror shine, the chandeliers dripping with golden light, the tapestries lining the hallways like relics of another time.He hasn’t lived like this before. That much is clear.I don’t acknowledge his awe. Instead, I lead him down the grand hall, past the looming portraits of my ancestors who watch us with unblinking eyes. The silence between us stretches, but I don’t break it. Not yet.We arrive at the dining hall. A long, gleaming mahogany table stretches nearly the entire length of the room, fit for a feast that no one ever has.Achilles lingers at the doorway.“Sit,” I tell him.He hesitates before obeying, perching stiffly on one of the velvet chairs like he’s ready to flee at any second.I turn to one of the maids, who bows instantly. “Something hefty,” I instruct, g
Pain blossoms across my ribs as another kick lands. The crowd jeers, their shouts merging into an incomprehensible storm of voices. Blood trickles down the side of my face, the warm sting mixing with the bitter cold of the Parisian night.I try to move, but a boot presses against my shoulder, pinning me down."Filthy thief," someone spits.I close my eyes. This is it. This is how it ends. Torn apart in the streets like a rat. I don't even have the strength to shift to save my own life.The hunters—standing just beyond the mob—watch with unnerving patience, hands resting on their weapons. They’re waiting for the right moment. The moment I’m too weak to fight back.Then, a voice. Smooth, deep, unhurried.“Enough.”The weight lifts off my shoulder. The kicks stop. The crowd shifts uneasily, murmurs rising like rustling leaves.I open my eyes.A man stands there, tall and composed, golden-blond hair neatly arranged, his fine black coat barely disturbed by the night breeze. There’s some
The gas lamps outside the cabaret flicker weakly, their orange glow barely cutting through the thick fog that clings to the streets of Paris.Inside, the air is heavy with the scent of cheap perfume, spilled wine, and the faint, metallic tang of blood.The orchestra plays a frenzied waltz, the violins screeching like banshees, while couples spin across the floor in a chaotic blur of silk and sweat.I sit in a shadowed corner, a glass of absinthe in my hand, the green liquid swirling like liquid poison.Across from me, a young woman—Marie, she said her name was—chatters incessantly.Her voice is high-pitched, grating, and she’s been going on about her village, her family, her dreams of becoming a singer.I smile, though my patience wears thin.“Do you come here often, monsieur?” she asks, leaning forward, her décolletage on full display.Her French is tinged with a provincial accent, marking her as new to the city.I tilt my head, letting my lips curl into a dangerous smile. “Only when
I stand frozen, the heat of the flames licking at my skin even from this distance. The crackling of the fire is deafening, but it’s the silence in my chest that terrifies me. My mother’s voice echoes in my head, sharp and desperate: “Run, Achilles! Run and don’t look back!”I can still smell the acrid smoke, the burning wood, the charred remains of my childhood. Half of it is gone now, reduced to ash and embers. The other half stands like a hollow shell, a monument to everything I’ve lost.My legs move before I can think, carrying me away from the only home I’ve ever known. Greece. My mother’s coven. The demon. They’re all chasing me now, and I don’t know where to go. All I know is that I can’t stay here. My heart pounds in my chest, my breath coming in ragged gasps as I stumble through the dark streets. I don’t even know where I’m going. Just away. Away from the flames. Away from the coven. Away from the demon that haunts my nightmares.Away...that leads me to Paris.The stree