Only a handful of minutes had passed when the knock echoed softly against the doorframe—three precise taps, neither rushed nor uncertain. Caralee rose with a quiet breath, her fingers smoothing down the front of her dress in an automatic gesture of preparation. She had grown used to these summonses, each one leading her further down the gilded corridors of this strange new life, each one walking her deeper into the labyrinth that was Merrick.
Jacobo stood in the corridor, his dark coat tailored as perfectly as his posture. He bowed with mechanical grace, offering no words, merely turning on his heel and beginning the now-familiar path through the quiet halls of the estate. As they walked, Caralee's mind spun, emotions churning in indistinct patterns, like storm clouds unable to decide whether to gather or disperse.
When the grand double doors of the dining hall opened before her, she halted just inside the threshold. Her breath caught in her throat.
Gone was the scene of casual aristocracy—the velvet draped chairs scattered with lazy disinterest, the clink of utensils and half-finished glasses of crimson. No, tonight the room had been transformed into something bordering on reverence.
At the head of the long table, beneath a chandelier of golden arms and candlelight, stood Merrick.
He was already facing her, as though he had heard her heartbeat—or lack thereof—the moment she entered. For a long moment, he did not move. Then, with the sort of deliberate grace that made every motion feel like ritual, he stepped out from behind the chair nearest his own and bowed.
Not a nod. Not a shallow tilt of the head. A full, courtly bow—deep, spine bent at a right angle, one arm elegantly swept to his side, the other extended in invitation. The gesture was so jarringly formal, so startlingly reverent, that Caralee faltered in place.
Her gaze dropped to take in the transformation.
Tonight, Merrick was regal incarnate.
Gone were the loose tunics and the effortless, arrogant charm of an unbothered predator. He wore a jacket of deep obsidian velvet trimmed with silver embroidery in the shape of coiled thorns and crescent moons. The fabric clung perfectly to his broad shoulders and tapered waist, each button carved from jet. His cravat was tied with surgical precision, a sapphire pin catching the candlelight like a drop of night sky. His hair—usually a cascade of wild ink—was pulled into a sleek tail at the nape of his neck, brushed until it gleamed like woven silk.
He looked like a monarch from legend, carved from midnight and myth.
Caralee swallowed, then dipped into a curtsey, as if compelled by some ancient instinct long buried in her blood. She stepped forward slowly, her slippered feet silent against the polished floor.
There, upon the place set at Merrick's side, lay a single rose.
Its crimson petals curled in perfect spirals, unfurling like the whispered secrets of an old romance. She reached for it, lifting the bloom to her nose and inhaling. The scent was soft, intoxicating—velvet and dew and something subtly spiced, like wine kissed with smoke.
"It's lovely," she said, her voice barely above a murmur.
He straightened, and with a confidence borne not of arrogance, but of absolute certainty, took her free hand. Raising it to his lips, he pressed a kiss against the delicate skin atop her knuckles.
"You look stunning, my sweet," he said, voice rich as dark honey, "as always."
A blush colored her cheeks, warming her alabaster skin.
"You look rather dashing yourself, my lord," she replied, feeling the words catch slightly in her throat.
He smiled—a slow, languid curve of lips that hinted at both affection and amusement. As he gestured for her to sit, he lowered into the seat at the head of the table.
"May I inquire," she began, "as to the occasion?"
The light in his eyes shifted—mischievous now, with a glint of heat behind the charm.
"Does a man need an occasion," he asked smoothly, "to dine beside the most beautiful woman he's ever seen?"
Her gaze dropped, flustered, and she bit her lower lip to suppress a smile. "You're too kind, my lord."
Dinner arrived in courses—small, exquisite portions served on silver-rimmed porcelain. Everything gleamed. Even the blood, poured from crystal decanters into slender goblets, had been warmed to perfection and scented faintly with herbs. Caralee lifted the glass, hesitating just a fraction before sipping.
It was sweet—sweeter than she expected. Rich and full-bodied, like aged port, yet somehow lacking the charged heat she had come to associate with feeding. There was no rush of primal desire, no flush of arousal rising to her skin. Just smooth, subtle nourishment.
She lowered the glass, contemplative. So, she thought, the carnal element must be linked to the intimacy of the act—the physical draw between host and vampire. Not the blood itself, but the moment it passed lips and skin. A connection deeper than taste.
They spoke of ordinary things as they ate, their conversation gliding from one subject to the next like a gondola drifting beneath moonlight.
She asked about the court. Or rather, the lack of one.
Merrick sighed, setting down his knife with a soft clink.
"I've never cared for the charade," he said. "The politics. The preening. People auctioning off their daughters like prized horses. Negotiations that last longer than the marriages they arrange. Families desperate to climb a ladder built on artifice and ambition. It's all distasteful."
She nodded slowly, sensing the weight behind his words.
"I haven't held court in centuries. My lands are rural, my people scattered. They don't have time for pomp. Nor do I."
Caralee smiled faintly. "It sounds… peaceful."
His expression softened. "It can be. When I'm not chasing escaped brides through the woods." his words, clearly pointed.
She laughed—a delicate sound, light as wind through vines. He watched her closely, his gaze lingering in a way that made her skin prickle pleasantly.
After a lull, he leaned back and studied her thoughtfully.
"Have you given any thought," he asked casually, "to a discipline? A pursuit for your private tutoring sessions? A sport, perhaps? Or an instrument?"
She tilted her head. "I'm afraid I've no experience with either." After a contemplative pause, she looked at Merrick. "What would you suggest?"
He tapped a finger against his lower lip, considering her.
"Something refined. The violin, maybe. Or fencing. You'd be terrifying with a rapier, my sweet."
Caralee laughed again, shaking her head. "You jest."
"I do not." His tone was perfectly serious. "You were born for more than silk gowns and tea ceremonies, Caralee. You should learn to wield something that bites."
A strange thrill danced along her spine at the thought.
He watched her closely, his smile slow and knowing. "We'll find your passion. Together."
And just like that, she felt the walls around her inch lower, the warmth of the candlelight drawing her into his world—a world she was beginning to feel, terrifyingly, like she might belong in.