The evening air was rich with the scent of sandalwood and blooming dusk lilies when Elowen received the summons.
"Lord Julian requires you in his chambers," Tomas said, voice clipped as always.
Elowen blinked. "Now?"
"Yes, Miss Grantham. To arrange his garments for the soiree."
Her feet moved before her mind could object.
The hallway to Julian's quarters was quieter than the others, the walls darker, the light dimmed by thick crimson drapes and golden sconces. The air even smelled different—cleaner, deeper, like a mixture of ink, cedarwood, and the faintest hint of something wild.
Julian's room was exactly as she imagined—large, but not excessively so. Dark oak shelves lined with rare books and weapons, a writing desk stacked with sealed letters and silver-tipped quills. His bed was wide, sheets black with silver embroidery. The hearth glowed, fire crackling gently. A balcony overlooked the eastern courtyard, its doors slightly ajar.
No sign of the devil himself.
Elowen turned toward the designer bag and began unfastening it, fingertips brushing the luxurious fabric inside.
Then, a movement—soft, silent—caught her eye.
Julian entered from the balcony.
He wore only his white shirt sleeves, unbuttoned at the top. The collar hung loose around his throat, the fabric hugging his sculpted torso. His trousers were dark, tailored, but it was the way the moonlight poured over his frame—the hard lines of his chest beneath cotton, the muscles carved like old stone beneath skin—that made her forget to breathe.
She stared.
"Didn't know my wildflower could turn me into a view," he murmured. Smirking mischievously.
Elowen blinked rapidly. "I—I didn't mean to stare—" she looked down quickly, cheeks burning.
He took a slow step toward her, his smile dark and lazy. "So a wildflower blushes…"
"That's not my name, Lord Ravenshade."
Julian arched a brow, amused.
"Hmm."
She scrambled to retrieve his soiree attire—midnight emerald -black coat with silver-feather embroidery at the lapel, a silver-threaded waistcoat, onyx cufflinks—and placed them carefully on the polished dressing stand.
"All ready, my Lord." She dipped a stiff curtsy and turned to leave.
"Miss Grantham."
She froze like a deer in a headlight.
Oh heavens! What more does the devil want ?
"Yes, Lord Julian?"
He approached with something in hand—the floral pink bag. Her heart stuttered. The same one the designer had handed Tomas days ago.
He gave it to her without a word. "Tomas will instruct you."
That was all.
When she returned to her room, a knock sounded mere seconds later. Tomas stood outside with a beautician in tow—a sharp-faced woman with a kit the size of a coffin.
"As the Lord's assistant, you'll need to appear… complementary to his aesthetic," Tomas said, as if reading a grocery list. "Select the dress that matches his. The beautician knows the details."
Then he left, leaving Elowen half-stunned.
Inside the pink bag, beneath folds of tissue, lay a gown the color of emerald-kissed ice. Not extravagant—no beads, no wild embellishments—but every stitch whispered of refinement. Long sleeves, high collar, the bodice fitted perfectly, cinching at the waist before flowing down like liquid moonlight. Hand stitched embroidery looking simple yet unique.
She wore it silently, watching her reflection shift into something both foreign and frighteningly… noble.
It was a simple yet elegant dress but it appeared like a royal design.
It was evening now, Lord Julian's carriage was beyond anything she'd known.
Silk-padded seats, crystal oil lamps, enchanted suspension that made every turn feel like gliding on mist. Julian sat across from her, dressed in his full soiree attire.
He hadn't said a word since she entered, but she felt his gaze like heat through glass.
So she looked everywhere but at him.
The closer they got to Westerlin Vale, the louder the hum of sea breeze became. At the dock, a massive ship floated—opulent, unmoving—draped in gold lanterns and violet banners bearing the Thornvale crest.
The soiree was being held on the sea.
Elowen's heart thudded.
She remembered last night's dinner.
"What's a soiree like?" she had asked Seraphine.
"You've never been to one, have you?" the blonde asked, astonished.
Elowen shook her head.
"You'll adapt. You're beautiful and bold. But there's one rule among vampires."
Seraphine said, looking more serious but with a jolly demeanor.
Elowen leaned in. "What rule?"
"Don't despise the blood meal. Whether it's in a cup… or from a throat. Don't wince. Don't flinch." Seraphine smiled a bit, not wanting to scare her off. "You could be punished."
"What if I don't want to..."Elowen said.
Seraphine looked more serious "Darling, you're not permitted not to see... Or say such in a meeting of shadow creatures."
Now, seated across from a pureblood vampire, her hands clenched in her lap, Elowen tried to slow her breathing.
The carriage shifted as it slowed.
Julian finally spoke. "You'll be fine, Miss Grantham."
She glanced up. His voice wasn't mocking this time.
And then he looked away.
The ship was a castle upon water. Golden lanterns lined the stairs. Music drifted from the deck—a waltz of strings and harps. Servants lined the entrance, heads bowed.
And then—
He emerged.
Lord Julian Ravenshade, son of Morganna, heir of Eldhollow, glided down from the carriage like a king returned to court. His coat shimmered like wet obsidian. Seraphine, already waiting at the ship's landing, joined him and offered her arm.
She rode a different carraige away from Lord Julian's.
Their appearance was flawless.
Seraphine wore a blood-red gown with silver thorns curling up her sleeves, her hair piled like a crown of gold flames. Julian's presence was colder, darker—regal power forged into form.
Heads bowed. Women blushed. Men stepped aside.
But the gasps didn't come until Elowen stepped off the carriage.
She didn't walk. She floated.
Her gown shimmered under the lanterns, simple and elegant, as if crafted from frozen starlight. Her hair was pinned with silver clasps, a single curl trailing down her cheek.
She looked like she belonged to no one.
And yet, somehow, above everyone.
A wildflower, indeed.