The morning air in the mansion was always strangely crisp. As if it had never been touched by warmth, only chilled by centuries of silence and whispered secrets. Monise's bare feet whispered against the cold marble as she balanced a silver tray in both hands. The tea set upon it shimmered—expensive, delicate, the kind nobles probably drank blood from when no one was looking.
She had barely been there for two weeks, and already she had made three mistakes that nearly cost her her position. Or worse, her life.
Today, she was delivering breakfast to Lady Virelle.
The name alone made her stomach tighten. The sister of the mansion's master. A pureblood vampire known for her cruelty, elegance, and intolerance for anyone beneath her. Which, in her eyes, included everyone.
As Monise approached the rosewood doors of Virelle's chambers, her heartbeat quickened. Not out of fear—but anticipation. Something about being constantly on edge had forced her to pay attention to every movement, every shadow.
She knocked lightly.
"Come in, or do you plan to age and die on my doorstep?" came the silken, icy voice from within.
Monise opened the door, careful not to clink the china. Lady Virelle sat before a mirror, her raven-black hair cascading in waves down her shoulders, her pale hands adjusting an earring shaped like a crescent fang. She didn't turn to acknowledge Monise.
"Set it there."
Monise obeyed, placing the tray on a nearby table. But as she turned to leave, her foot caught on the edge of a rug and the edge of the tray nudged the teapot—it rocked, and before she could stop it, a splash of tea splattered on the lace runner.
Time froze.
Virelle turned slowly, like a predator indulging the kill.
"Did your human ancestors teach you how to ruin linen, or is that your own unique gift?"
Monise quickly grabbed a cloth to dab the spill. "I-I'm sorry, milady, it was an accident—"
"Silence."
A pause.
Then Virelle smiled—beautiful and venomous. "I see why my brother hasn't fed on you. You're too clumsy to digest."
The insult stung more than Monise wanted it to. She bowed, kept her eyes down, and retreated from the room before more words could be thrown like knives.
---
Back in the servant quarters, the air buzzed with the kind of whispers meant to sting.
"Did you see how she spilled tea in Lady Virelle's room?"
"Lucky she still has her neck."
"They say Lord Kael saw her fall that night."
"Didn't kill her though. That means something."
"Maybe he's just waiting to taste her fear."
Lord Kael.
That was his name. The master of the house. Pureblood. First generation. Untouched by time.
They said his family were among the first to walk out of the shadows. Royals of the night. He had never taken a consort, though many tried—vampire women of powerful lineage, all dressed in elegance and deception, hovered around him like moths around an eternal flame.
Monise kept her head low, but the whispers followed her like ghosts.
"She's human. He'd never... not seriously."
"But he caught her. Saved her."
She wondered about that night sometimes. The fall. The arms. The warmth. The nothingness after. It felt like a dream swallowed by moonlight.
---
Later that evening, Monise was sent to clean the old music hall—a grand chamber rarely used, layered in dust, the chandelier above held cobwebs like forgotten crowns. She worked in silence, wiping down a grand piano when she heard footsteps.
Heavy. Intentional.
She turned.
Lord Kael entered the room.
He was taller than she remembered. Dressed in black, a long coat trailing behind him like a whisper. His eyes were silver, impossibly bright in the dim room. Cold, unreadable.
He didn't speak. Just stood there, watching her. Not like a man—like a question she hadn't asked yet.
Monise bowed quickly, nearly knocking over a candlestick.
He raised one hand. "Stop."
His voice was low, measured, like water slowly being poured.
"You've been assigned to this wing?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Who approved it?"
She blinked. "I... I don't know. The head maid sent me."
He stepped closer. She could hear the echo of his boots against the tile. He passed her, trailed a finger along the piano, and turned to face her.
"I can hear your heart. It's louder when you lie."
Monise clenched her fists. "I'm not lying."
He tilted his head, curious. "You're trembling. Why?"
"Because you're frightening."
He smiled—not kindly. "Good."
Then, just like that, he turned and vanished through the door, leaving her breathless in the center of the room.
What kind of man saves someone and then threatens to unravel them?
Lord Kael was not a savior. He was a storm in silk.
And Monise had just walked into his path.
Perfect. Here's Chapter 6 coming up—expect high tension, rich settings, and Monise's clumsy charm rubbing shoulders (or fangs) with the cold-blooded elite. We'll deepen her struggles, increase the stakes, and stir some hidden forces around her.
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The grand hall shimmered with chandeliers that looked like they had been plucked from ancient starlight. Candlelight flickered against obsidian walls veined with molten silver, and a haunting tune from a ghostly string quartet hummed through the air like a lullaby for the dead.
Monise adjusted the tight-fitted servant's dress—a silky, deep burgundy that clung to her form uncomfortably—and winced as the lace bit into her arms. She was to serve wine. Or blood. Or whatever the fine glass decanters on the silver trays held.
"Keep your head low. Do not speak unless spoken to. And for the sake of your existence, do not trip," hissed Madam Venelle, the vampire in charge of training the human staff. Her breath smelled like withered roses and iron.
Monise nodded stiffly, hands gripping the tray too tightly.
The elite had arrived in slow procession, each gliding through the towering archways like living portraits from a cursed painting. They were beautiful, all of them, terrifyingly so. Pale skin like marble, eyes gleaming in deep reds, silvers, or cold blues. They wore high fashion cut with ancient flair—long coats lined with fur, corsets stitched with bone-thread, gowns that swayed like mist.
"Humans shouldn't be anywhere near the High Banquet," someone sneered as Monise passed. A tall woman with ink-black eyes and a cascade of silver hair watched her with disdain, fanning herself lazily with a raven-feathered fan. "Unless we're draining them."
Monise kept walking, chest tight, face unreadable.
And then she saw him—Valen.
He stood alone beneath a blood-red banner bearing the sigil of House Elvior—the first bloodline. His posture was relaxed, one hand tucked into the inner pocket of his sleek, midnight coat. A silver signet glinted on his finger. Though surrounded by whispers and stolen glances, he seemed unreachable, eyes fixed on something far beyond the room.
But then he looked at her.
Only for a second.
A flicker of curiosity, or irritation, she couldn't tell.
She stumbled.
The tray wobbled dangerously, one of the decanters clinking. A soft gasp echoed from behind her.
"Clumsy little thing," purred a mocking voice.
Monise turned to find herself face-to-face with Serephina, Valen's sister. Her beauty was like frostbite—sharp, stunning, and fatal. Her gown was made of black velvet, open at the back to reveal tattoos that shimmered like spilled ink.
"Did you mean to spill 200-year-old Elvior vintage all over the floor?" she asked sweetly. "Or is that just your way of trying to make an impression?"
"I—no, I—"
"Save your breath, pet. You won't last here," Serephina cut in, brushing past her with a subtle shove. "You're a mistake waiting to happen."
Hot embarrassment burned through Monise's chest, but she didn't let the tears rise. Not here. Not in front of them.
"Don't mind her," a voice whispered beside her. A young vampire, no older than he looked—maybe 17 if he were human. His eyes glimmered with faint gold, and he had a playful smirk. "That's just her love language. Public humiliation."
Monise couldn't help the small, grateful smile that tugged at her lips.
"Name's Ren. You're the new human, right? Everyone's talking about you."
"Talking?" she echoed.
"Mm-hmm. Word travels fast in these walls. They say Lord Valen caught you from the sky and spared you. That he didn't feed even though your neck was… rather temptingly exposed."
She blinked.
"Some say you must be enchanted. Others think you're cursed."
Monise swallowed hard. "What do you think?"
Ren grinned. "I think you're lucky. Or incredibly doomed. Which makes you… interesting."
Before she could respond, a hush fell over the hall.
Valen had moved.
Not just moved—he was walking straight toward her.
The crowd parted, instinctively shifting like shadows to make way.
He stopped a foot in front of her.
Her breath hitched.
"Follow me," he said simply.
No tone. No explanation.
Monise glanced at Ren, who raised an eyebrow, then silently obeyed.
They walked through a side corridor lined with gargoyle sconces and walls that seemed to pulse faintly with ancient magic.
He didn't speak until they reached the end, where two towering glass doors opened onto a moonlit balcony. The night wind tousled his hair.
"You're drawing attention," he said, not looking at her.
"I didn't ask to," she replied, biting her tongue a second too late.
Valen turned slowly. A flicker of amusement danced in his crimson eyes.
"Good. I was worried you were dull."
Monise stiffened. "Why did you bring me here?"
"Because you're careless," he said, stepping closer. "And in this house, carelessness gets you dead. Or worse."
She met his gaze, and for a moment, there was silence. Dense, electric.
"I didn't ask to be here," she said quietly.
"No one ever does."
Something in his tone changed. Less cold. More… tired?
But before she could press further, a low growl echoed from within the house, followed by a commotion.
Valen's expression darkened instantly.
He turned away.
"Stay here."
"But—"
"Do not move."
Then he vanished—literally disappeared into the air like shadow dissolving into mist.
Monise stood frozen, heart racing.
From behind the door, she heard shouting, crashing, something that sounded like snarling.
Then a scream.
Human.
She couldn't stop her legs—they were already moving toward the sound.