"Virile heart, it could die as it can love" -Maximilien Robespierre
He could feel her.
Even from across the narrow, gas-lit alley, the pulse of her lifeblood throbbed like a drumbeat beneath her skin, as vivid to him as the rhythm of a symphony. Caralee's chest heaved in shallow, fractured breaths, the panic in her lungs clawing up her throat like it was trying to escape before she could. Each inhalation was sharp and ragged, tearing at her windpipe as her emerald eyes darted wildly for an exit that did not exist.
Cornered. Caged.
The realization washed over her with frigid finality—there was nowhere left to go. Her back was pressed against damp stone, the grime of civilization's underbelly seeping into her skirts, anchoring her like the weight of dread itself. Above her, the faint trickle of drizzling rainwater began tracing eerie echoes down the alley walls, a hollow accompaniment to her fear.
And then he moved.
Not with the noise of footsteps or the clumsy shifting of weight, but with the impossible smoothness of smoke, gliding forward without sound, without haste, as though the ground rose to meet him. He stalked her with the elegance of a dancer and the patience of a predator, savoring the game as only something inhuman could.
He spoke, but not in words she knew.
The language—alien, ancient—drifted from his lips in a melodic whisper, like wind rustling through chimes spun of silver and shadow. Though her ears could not translate the syllables, her soul quivered in recognition. The cadence curled through her mind like a spell, luring her thoughts into a haze of warmth and seduction.
Then, with a grace that defied mortality, he raised a single hand—long, pale fingers poised like a sculptor about to touch his marble masterpiece—and let them trail across her cheek.
The chill of his touch bit through her fevered skin, startling her with its exquisite contrast. His fingers were as cold as river stones in winter, but where they passed, they left fire in their wake. Her spine arched slightly. Her head fell back with a soft, involuntary gasp. She didn't know if it was from pleasure or fear—or both.
The desire in his eyes—deep, impossibly ancient eyes—wrapped around her like a velvet rope. It wasn't merely lust; it was longing, hunger sharpened to a blade's edge, and he wielded it with terrible finesse.
She tried—oh, how she tried—to run. But her limbs refused to obey. Her body remained fixed in place as if ensnared by invisible threads spun from the very darkness itself. Her mind screamed in protest, but her soul leaned forward. And then he was close—so close she could smell the earthy sweetness of damp leaves clinging to his breath.
And then—
Motion.
It wasn't walking. It was more like drifting, like being swept up in the arms of a gale. One moment the alley walls were pressing in around her, the next they were melting away in a blur of wind and lamplight. The city bent around them, colors streaking past her eyes in strange, painterly arcs.
And then, there was stillness.
She landed, or perhaps was placed, upon something soft. Her back sank into it, silk against her spine, warmer than it had any right to be. The scent of amber greeted her nose—smoky and sweet, like the distant memory of an autumn fire. Her eyes fluttered open.
The room was like something drawn from a fevered dream.
Stone walls framed the space—ancient, immense, untouched by time. There were no windows, but it glowed. Dozens of torches flickered in sconces along the walls, casting golden shadows across elaborately woven rugs strewn across the floor. The patterns were hypnotic, a tapestry of fire-kissed reds and dusky oranges, all swirling into one another like the coals of a dying flame.
Her fingers curled into the fabric at her sides. They were clean. Her skin—scrubbed, soft, and fragrant with rose oil. Her fingernails bore no trace of the dirt she'd lived with for days.
Caralee's gaze dropped—and her breath caught in her throat.
She was no longer in her own threadbare garments but clad in something magnificent. A gown, crimson and black, fitted with artful precision. The bodice hugged her waist, woven with satin ribbons like tendrils of night. Her hair—once tangled and filthy—was now brushed to a gleam, pinned and curled, streaked with silken strands of jet ribbon.
The scent of roses clung to her like a promise.
She sat upright, trembling, when the shadow moved.
He emerged from the darker corner of the room—tall, looming, yet striking in a way that made her heart gallop against her chest. His black shirt clung to a chest sculpted like a statue's. Each movement was fluid, deliberate. His face was sharp and impossibly symmetrical, his skin the color of moonlight, his hair a tousled brown that kissed his shoulders.
But it was his eyes that arrested her completely.
Green—piercing and bottomless, like the thorns of a rose in full bloom. They held her there, bleeding her of reason and fear all at once. When he looked at her, it wasn't like he saw her—it was like he knew her, as if every hidden thought had already been laid bare.
"Beautiful," he said, his voice like velvet wine.
Caralee's throat tightened. "The dress is… stunning," she whispered, flinching at her own boldness, ashamed and breathless all at once.
"I meant you."
He stepped closer.
She didn't move. Couldn't. Her body was caught in a strange tension, suspended between yearning and terror. Was this the man Donovan had spoken of in warning? Or was he something else entirely?
He reached for her once more, cupping her cheek, letting the cold of his palm trail through the heat in her blood. Her breath hitched as his hand found her waist, pulling her closer, pressing her against him. No breath stirred in his chest. No heartbeat met her ear.
What is he?
Her lips parted to speak—to scream—but he silenced her with a kiss.
It burned.
Not like fire. Like something deeper, more ancient. Her body betrayed her with every nerve alight, her mind unspooling at the edges. Her knees buckled, but he held her effortlessly. His arms cradled her like a breeze might carry a leaf.
The world began to turn.
Were they dancing? Floating? The room spun, or she did—it didn't matter. He was everything. Everywhere.
When he laid her down once more, it was as though the world ceased to exist.
His kisses trailed down her neck, across her chest, as his hands moved with practiced grace to her corset. Her breath caught, her chest rising with each second as he unlaced the silken bindings. Her bare skin met the chill of the air—the milky cream flesh of her bare breasts spilled out into his welcoming hands.
She froze, wide-eyed, and trembling but she did not resist.
She was untouched, innocent—and terrified. And yet, the terror was matched only by her desire. He tasted her skin with reverence, a worshiper at a sacred altar. His lips mapped her collarbone, his fingers dancing along the curve of her ribs.
She felt as though she was unraveling.
And then, just as she began to surrender entirely to the sensation, a single thought sliced through the bliss like a blade. His intent was not to kill her.
Or so she thought.