Her blood was screaming, a messy mix of anger and pure terror. That sight in the mirror – the woman with her hair, her eyes blank like death, wearing that old, strange dress, hearing the name Serena – it was stuck in her head. It wouldn't leave, not as a bad dream or just stress. And Kylian's eyes had been red. Actually red. And he had just shown up in the study, like mist.
She stumbled down the long hall towards her bedroom. It felt huge now, empty and echoing, each shadow stretching out like a claw. The air got thick, heavy, like it was pressing the breath out of her lungs. This was her home, the manor she grew up in, but it felt wrong now, dirty somehow because of him, because of what she'd seen and felt.
The biting cold from the study still clung to her, a freezing reminder of how close he'd been. It felt like it had seeped into her skin. But under that ice, a different heat started to build. It was a slow fire in her stomach, spreading fast, heating her skin, making her head pound like a drum.
By the time she reached her room, the cold was gone. Now, it was like stepping into a furnace. The fever didn't just show up politely. It kicked the whole damn door down.
One second, Aisling Rutherford was pacing her room, a caged tiger muttering about old blood deals, crazy marriage threats, and vampires with eyes like chips of ice. The next second—wham—her legs just gave out. All that raw fear from the study, the shock of the vision, the sickening feeling of Kylian just being there – it had all hit her at once. It wasn't just terror; it was a physical smackdown.
She landed hard on the floor, a crumpled, angry mess. What the hell? She didn't do this. She got mad. She fought back. She didn't fall down like some delicate flower.
Sweat poured down her back in hot, embarrassing streams. Her nightdress stuck to her like punishment. Her breathing was terrible – short, shallow gasps that didn't fill her lungs, each one a struggle for air that wasn't there. Her head swam, spinning in a hot, dizzy mess.
Was this what dying felt like? How totally lame. If she was going to die, she should at least go down after stabbing that frustrating vampire right in his smug, rich-boy throat. Kylian bloody Hawkrige. With his perfect way of standing, his cold stare, and that arrogant look like he already owned her. As if her soul was just another thing on his list of stolen treasures.
Another wave of heat slammed through her, burning from the inside out. It was hotter this time, meaner. Her sight pulsed – red, red, red, like fire poured into her skull. Not the sharp, icy red of Kylian's eyes, but a hazy, thick crimson, blurring the edges of the room. Her hands grabbed at the floor, but the rug felt like it was moving, rippling under her fingers, slick with something wet and unseen.
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to feel the solid ground, but the heat just got worse, pressing on her head. When she opened them again, the room was wrong. The bedposts weren't straight; they twisted, like old, gnarled roots, stretching and groaning with a sound she felt more than heard. Her pillows looked like they were melting into dark, thick puddles.
The fireplace roared too loud, every crackle sounding like a scream, like wood breaking under impossible weight. Shadows danced on the walls, tall and bony and twisted, like broken things. It wasn't just the fever anymore. The world itself seemed to be falling apart around her, matching the mess inside her head.
No. No, no, no. She wasn't seeing things this bad. She wasn't weak. She was Aisling of House Rutherford. She didn't faint. She didn't get dizzy spells. She started fires and swore at people in three languages. She—she fought.
Her thoughts scattered like scared birds. The heat was crazy hot, but she was shaking. The air got thick and heavy, smelling sweet and sick at the same time, like honey mixed with old metal.
Then, the dreams started.
Red. Just red everywhere. A thick, heavy tide of the deepest, richest red she'd ever seen. It swirled around her, heavy like thick curtains, choking like blood. She was wearing a dress that same impossible color, silk that felt cool and smooth against her burning skin. Black roses with thorns were sewn onto the front, vines twisting up like claws, beautiful and dangerous.
She was in a huge room, not very bright, smelling of old dust and something sweet that made her feel sleepy. A man stood in front of her, hidden in shadows. He was tall, standing perfectly straight, but his face was just blank. No eyes, no mouth.
He reached out a hand, covered in something dark and smooth, and put it on her waist. He pulled her closer, and she felt a strange, heavy feeling, like drowning in perfume and silk. His head bent down, and his lips touched her neck.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It felt like he was claiming her, owning her. She felt a sharp prick, sudden, then a strange warmth spreading. A low hum went through her, a dark shaking that was scary and, weirdly, not totally awful in the fever haze. She wanted to push him away, to scream, but her arms and legs felt heavy, frozen. The man with no face stayed there, his breath warm on her skin, his touch taking hold.
The dream changed. The red got deeper, felt more real. The room disappeared. Now she was in a swirling, inky blackness with a few scattered lights like cold stars. The smell of roses was stronger, sickeningly sweet, but now mixed with the sharp, metal smell of blood.
She wasn't standing anymore. She was in something. Water? No, something thicker, warmer. It stuck to her skin, heavy and slick. The red dress was gone. She was just… naked in the liquid.
She was in a bathtub. An old one with claw feet, dark and fancy, sitting strangely in the black empty space. And she wasn't alone.
He was there. Kylian. His face was clear now, lit up by the weird, scattered lights. His eyes, cold blue, were locked on her, an intense stare that stole her breath. He was kneeling next to the tub, still wearing his black velvet clothes, somehow dry and untouched by the crimson liquid she was in.
He wasn't looking at her face. His eyes were on her wrist, resting on the edge of the tub.
He reached out, his gloved fingers gently lifting her hand. And then he lowered his head.
She watched, scared and somehow frozen, as he kissed her wrist. His lips parted a little. His tongue flicked out, once, twice, slow and careful. He wasn't just touching it; he was licking. Licking the crimson liquid from her skin.
An image flashed in her mind – a broken crystal chandelier, sparkling in a weird light. The smell of old dust and roses and blood.
He raised his head. His eyes met hers. His mouth was stained crimson, shiny in the dim light. A slow, happy smile curved his lips, a smile that didn't reach his cold eyes at all. He said something, but she couldn't hear it in the silent dream.
He lowered his head again, going back to her wrist, his touch possessive. His tongue traced the spot where her pulse beat. The feeling of it, so close, mixed with the terrifying strangeness of what he was doing, sent a jolt through her. It was a confusing mix of wanting to throw up and a strange, uneasy awareness. This wasn't just a bad dream about being eaten or used. It was a dream about being claimed. About some dark, hidden connection she didn't understand.
Aisling gasped, her eyes snapping open.
She was back in her room, sprawled on the floor next to her bed. The heat was still bad, but the crazy melting walls and twisting furniture were gone. Just her room, though it was still spinning a little.
Her sheets weren't wet with crimson liquid. They were soaked with sweat. Her nightdress stuck to her, damp and miserable. Her breath came in ragged gasps, fast and shaky, just like her heart was beating.
She pushed herself up onto shaky hands and knees. The rug felt blessedly solid beneath her palms. Her head still swam, the leftover feeling of the fever dreams clinging to her like spiderwebs.
Her eyes fell to her hands.
She froze.
Her fingers were stained. A faint, reddish color coated the tips, especially around her fingernails. It looked like… rust? Or maybe…
She brought her fingers closer, smelling them carefully. There was a faint, metal smell, almost hidden by the sweat and dust. It looked like dried blood.
Or maybe… ink?
She rubbed her fingers together hard, then against her nightdress. The stain didn't go away. It just smeared a little. It was real. A physical mark left by the terrifying trip her mind had just taken.
The dream. Kylian. The bathtub. Licking her wrist…
Her eyes snapped down to her wrist.
There. Right below the little bone. A mark.
It wasn't big, maybe the size of a large coin. It looked like a symbol, freshly pressed into her skin. The lines were slightly raised and red, like someone had drawn them with blood or fire. A circle with sharp points around it, like crescent moons or thorns. Inside: a twisting thorn wrapped around a thin, sharp dagger.
It burned faintly, a partner to the fever's heat that was still fading. It hadn't been there yesterday. It hadn't been there when she ran from the study.
Panic hit her again, colder than the fever, sharper than any thorn. This wasn't just a dream. Not completely. The vision in the mirror, the mark, her stained fingers, the horribly intimate dream in the bathtub – they were all connected. They were signs.
She scrambled to her feet, legs wobbling, and stumbled to the mirror above her dressing table. She yanked open the wardrobe door, needing to see herself, needing to prove she was still her.
She stared at her reflection in the glass. The mark was still there on her wrist, clear against her pale skin, pulsing with a faint light from inside. Her emerald eyes looked too wide, like she'd seen a ghost. Her lips were dry and cracked. Her red hair was a tangled mess, sticking to her damp neck and face.
And for just a second—a single heartbeat—
Her reflection smiled without her. A slow, creepy curve of the lips. It wasn't her smile at all. It felt… old. Like it owned something.
Then it was gone, leaving just her own terrified face staring back.
She didn't scream. She refused to scream. Screaming was for some cursed ghost bride. She was Aisling bloody Rutherford, not some delicate little lady from a spooky story. Even if her legs barely worked, and her mirror seemed to hate her, and her body was marked by a nightmare.
She pressed her hand over the mark on her wrist. The heat under her palm was a burning reminder of what she'd gone through, what she might be. Who was Serena? Why had Kylian's eyes been red? Why the dreams, the mark, the blood?
She was Aisling. But the past was reaching out, pulling her into a history she didn't know. It was demanding she become someone she wasn't. The cold in the air, the faint, sweet metal smell, the ghost of Kylian's touch on her wrist – they were all telling her that her life, the one she knew, was over.
The nightmare had walked out of the study and somehow, impossibly, into her skin.