Page 17 of Bloodstained
I’d seen countless Dracula movies, but they never seemed real. I’d never given them much thought.
Until now.
“Rest,” he said at last, his tone no longer sharp but low and deep. “I’ll have something brought for you to eat.” He didn’t wait for my response. He moved toward the door, the shadows bending and shifting with him, as if they were afraid of the power he wielded.
Before I could summon the courage to speak, he was gone, the large oak door closing with a soft, finalthud. The silence afterward suffocated me.
I stumbled to the bed and sank onto it, burying my face in my hands. My pulse still thundered, my skin damp with sweat. I wanted to scream, but what would be the point? No one would hear. And even if they did, no one would come to save me.
I let myself lie back, staring at the thick and intricately embroidered canopy overhead. Every part of me ached with the truth of what he’d said. Declared.
He was a monster who’d claimed me as his. But… that made me more curious than it ever should have. The admission made me nauseous.
A short time later, he’d brought me homemade soup, bread, and water. But I had no appetite and left it untouched.
At some point, exhaustion dragged me into sleep, and I curled into myself and dreamt of sharp teeth sinking into my throat, of blood pouring over me and covering his mouth, and of the arousal that followed, making me wet.
I woke with a scream, gasping, my thighs pressed together tightly, my body hot with shame. I wanted to scrub myself raw, to wash away the desire I felt. But I sat in silence and stared at the closed door, waiting for him to return.
Because I knew he would.
CHAPTER TEN
CLARA
Days blurred together. By now, my family would be worried about me. The gallery would notice my absence. People would surely be searching for me now.
The light creeping through the shutters and thick curtains was faint, pale, like the sun was trying to wring out a semblance of light.
It cut through the room, making it feel oppressive and heavy. Even in daylight, the castle didn’t feel alive.
I didn’t feel like myself. None of this felt right. The room smelled faintly of smoke and age but not the kind that stung the nose. It was of an age reminiscent of wealth and knowledge, like you could learn from.
I sat up slowly, the shift clinging to my skin. I hated knowing he’d changed me into it while I’d been sleeping, but another part of me, something dark and somewhat uninhibited, felt otherwise. Something I didn’t want to think too deeply about.
My throat throbbed, tender where his mouth had been. Every time my hand crept up to touch the bite, I jerked it away again. As if refusing to acknowledge it could erase the proof. Instead, I touched my cheeks, my skin warm, no doubt flushed.
Because I knew what was there. A mark.His. Although it should have been healing by now, it still felt so fresh, so tender.
The fire in the hearth had died down to dull embers, and a chill settled in my bones. Shadows huddled together in the corners, taunting that they belonged here more than I did. I felt like the walls loomed over me. It made me realize how small I was compared to the heart of this place.
I wanted out. I got up, found my clothes—freshly laundered and folded on a small chair by the mantel—and dressed. When I walked to the bedroom door, I told myself he wouldn’t leave it unlocked. But maybe…
The floor was icy under my bare feet as I crossed the chamber.The bastard could’ve at least left my damn socks.My fingers hovered before I touched the iron handle. Cold, slick, heavy. I pressed the latch down, holding my breath, and the door gave with only a whisper of sound.
And when it opened, that single truth set my pulse racing. I told myself not to be foolish, not to hope. He wanted me to notice. He wanted me to test the boundaries, to remind me this was still his world no matter what I touched.
The corridor stretched in both directions, long and hushed, lined with faded tapestries and warped paintings. I slipped out and closed the door behind me, leaning against it for just a second. My chest heaved. I wasn’t free—I knew that—but the smallest act of opening the door made me feel like I’d stolen something back.
I moved carefully. The air out here was cooler, damp, and laced with the scent of candle wax and wood polish. The intricately embroidered and designed tapestries hung on their hooks, their colors leached out by time. Shapes of hunts and battles blurred into faint smears.
The paintings were no better—portraits of men and women whose eyes had dulled to shadows. They watched as I crept forward, reminding me I didn’t belong but that I couldn’t leave.
Every step felt too loud.
The hall bent sharply and spilled into a long gallery. Tall windows let in pale light, fractured by stained glass depicting battles and wild animals. I moved up and peered out from parts of clear glass.
The forest pressed close. There were endless green trees full of life on the horizon. I’d grown up in cities, where sound never stopped. Here, the silence pressed its weight against me.
