The second night of the ball came cloaked in greater finery than the first. The chandeliers burned brighter, their jeweled firelight spilling across the gilded ballroom like molten gold. Perfumed air hung heavy with anticipation, though none dared name it aloud. Something important lingered in the undercurrent—an edge to every glance, a hush beneath each laugh.
Tonight, something was going to happen. Everyone knew it.
Eva moved quietly along the wall, tray in hand, careful not to make noise. The room swelled with murmurs—of titles, of favors, of hungers both old and new. But it was not merely thirst that filled the vampires' gazes. It was ambition. Desperation. The kind of wanting that could ruin a life just to sharpen its own smile.
She tried not to think of the garden. Or the dead man. Or the strange pull of His Grace's eyes when they had last met—like he'd seen her and chosen not to. Or perhaps worse, had.
Then, the moment arrived.
The Duke entered the ballroom, flanked by two elders of the Council. He did not smile, nor did he offer courtesies. His presence alone carved silence through the crowd. He moved like a storm barely leashed.
Lady Valeria was already waiting.
She stood near the central stair in crimson silk, her gown slashing through the sea of paler dresses like a bloodstain. Her smile, practiced to perfection, faltered only for a heartbeat when His Grace passed without meeting her eye.
One of the elders stepped forward, voice clear and solemn.
"Tonight, we reaffirm the strength of the old houses. The Duke is to marry Lady Valeria of Blackthorn."
No gasps. No shrieks of surprise. The news had arrived days prior, carried in whispers and sealed letters. But still, the room shifted. Applause rang out—measured, polite, dutiful. Beneath it pulsed a tension like wine left too long in the bottle, ready to sour.
Eva bowed her head and kept moving.
She offered glasses, adjusted wicks, avoided notice. Yet each movement felt more difficult than the last, as though the air were turning thick around her limbs. When she lifted her gaze for a moment, she saw Lady Valeria watching her again.
The noblewoman's expression was unreadable, her gaze fixed and cold. She did not look away.
Eva lowered her eyes and passed through a pair of velvet curtains into the servant's corridor. Her breath came shallow. Her hands, damp on the tray. She didn't notice the figure in the shadows until it moved.
"Quite the spectacle, isn't it?" came a voice.
Lira. Pale, poised, dressed in mourning-black lace that clung like cobwebs. Her lips curled faintly, but the expression never reached her eyes.
"I didn't mean to cause anything," Eva said, quietly.
"That's the trouble with your sort," Lira replied, stepping closer. "You never mean to. You simply do."
Her gaze swept over Eva like a scalpel. "You're soft. Pretty in that forgettable way they like. Dangerous without trying."
Eva stiffened. "I have no interest in the Duke."
"That's rich." Lira gave a dry laugh. "You think it matters what you want? He noticed you. That's all it takes. He doesn't notice often. And never without reason."
She stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "You might be the new favorite. But favorites break quickest."
And then she was gone, swallowed by the dark hall with the elegance of smoke. Eva leaned back against the wall, trying to calm her breath, when a softer voice spoke beside her.
"She's always like that."
It was Mira.
Her curls were tied back in a simple ribbon, her apron faintly wrinkled from honest work. She looked small in the shadows, but her presence was a balm.
"Don't let her worry you," Mira said. "Lira's been around a long while. His Grace feeds on her sometimes."
Eva's stomach tightened. "Feeds on her?"
Mira nodded. "She pretends it means something more than it does."
"Does it?" Eva asked.
A shrug. "He's never fed on the same girl twice. Except Lira. But he's never spoken to her. Not like you."
"He didn't speak to me."
"You came back shaking," Mira said gently. "And you were still breathing."
That gave Eva pause.
Mira hesitated, then reached for her hand. "Lady Valeria doesn't take kindly to competition. Even imagined. And Lira… she marks what she thinks is hers."
Eva managed a weak smile. "I don't want to belong to anyone."
Mira nodded. "Then you must be careful. Because in this place, not choosing is still a choice. And sometimes… it's the most dangerous one of all."
The words lingered long after Mira left, trailing her soft steps down the corridor. And Eva, standing alone, realized something terrible.
Blackthorn Manor did not simply devour the weak. It crowned them in silk first—kissed their brow, painted their lips—and made them believe they'd been chosen.
Before swallowing them whole.