Cara ran.
The world around her blurred into streaks of grey and black, the very air thick and cloying like smoke. Each footfall struck the ground with desperate urgency, her lungs burning as she pushed herself harder, faster. Twisted trees clawed at her as she passed, their skeletal fingers raking her bare arms, but she dared not slow. Terror gripped her like iron bands around her ribs, and in her dream, she knew: if she stopped, if she faltered, she would be caught.
Something was behind her.
She could hear it — the sound of footfalls heavier than hers, purposeful, relentless. A primal instinct screamed at her not to look, to keep her eyes forward, but against her will, her head turned.
Donovan.
His golden hair wild in the wind, his once-gentle eyes burning with something terrible, something hungry. His hand reached out for her, fingers stretched wide to seize her.
Cara gasped and woke, bolting upright in bed.
Her heart — no, her chest ached where her heart once had pounded, and she clutched the sheets against her body as her wide eyes darted around the unfamiliar room. The windowless room was steeped in darkness, thick and seemingly endless. Despite the lightless abyss of the room without windows her more advanced eyesight allowed her perfect vision, particularly in the dark. Scanning the room she saw nobody. She was alone. Merrick was nowhere in sight. Nor was Donovan.
Her pulseless body shivered anyway.
Before she could gather her thoughts, the door creaked open, a stream of wall sconces lit with fire on their own, as if by magic, as several young women in soft linen uniforms hurried inside. They bowed deeply, heads lowered in practiced deference.
"Your Majesty," the eldest said, her voice careful and pleasant. "His Highness, the King instructed us to prepare you. We are to bathe and dress you, then escort you to your new chambers."
Cara blinked, her mind sluggish from sleep and shadowed by the remnants of the nightmare. New chambers? Bathe her? She tried to form words, but all that escaped her lips was a confused stammer.
Wait— King? Merrick is their King?
"I... I don't... I mean—"
They simply smiled with patience reserved for newborn royalty and ushered her gently from the massive bed. She clutched the oversized bed sheet around her, mortified, her cheeks flushing with residual human modesty.
She had never had servants before. Never been waited upon like this.
Still trying to chase the lingering image of Donovan from her mind — the guilt prickling sharply in her chest — she allowed herself to be led to an adjoining chamber. The scent of lavender and soap hung in the air. In the center of the tiled floor, a grand brass tub awaited, steam curling from the surface of the water like beckoning fingers.
The maids worked with swift, efficient hands, peeling the sheet from her reluctant shoulders with hardly a pause. Cara yelped in protest, her hands flying to cover herself, but the women simply chuckled softly, accustomed to such reactions. In mere moments, she was submerged in the perfumed bath, her hair undone and floating like a red cloud around her.
She sat stiffly as they scrubbed her from head to toe, the rough washcloth dragging over her skin in practiced strokes. Their chatter filled the air — meaningless gossip about kitchen quarrels, a broken vase blamed on the wrong scullery maid, the flirtations of a young stable boy — but Cara barely heard them.
Her mind was adrift.
The past two days spun like a fever dream: Merrick's face hovering above hers, the first searing thirst, the terrifying ecstasy of the feed... and Donovan's haunted eyes as she fled the inn in her dream.
Donovan.
How could she have forgotten him so quickly?
The sound came to her first as a whisper, almost mistaken for the beat of her own mind.
Thud-thud. Thud-thud.
It grew louder, more insistent, an intrusive pulse that seemed to vibrate through her very bones. Cara squeezed her eyes shut, contemplating pressing her palms against her ears, as the sound only intensified.
When she opened her eyes again, the bath was over. Two of the maids held up an enormous towel, gesturing for her to step out.
Shivering slightly, she complied, allowing them to briskly dry her off. Another servant brought forth a robe of shimmering silk, delicate and flowing, which they slid onto her shoulders before leading her to a low stool before an ornate vanity.
Cara watched, dazed, as her reflection transformed under their skilled fingers.
Her hair was brushed until it gleamed like polished rosewood, twisted into an intricate arrangement of pinned curls. Her cheeks were dusted with a faint rouge, her lips stained a soft rose. She barely recognized herself. The young woman staring back at her looked regal, composed — nothing like the scared peasant girl she felt herself to be.
But the drumming noise was now deafening. She could hardly hear the maids' conversation, could barely feel their hands on her hair.
Cara groaned softly and pressed her fingertips to her temples. Rubbing in circles trying to to dull the constant pounding left by the beating.
The maids stilled, exchanging glances.
"Your Majesty?" one of them ventured cautiously. "Forgive me if I speak out of turn, but... your teeth..."
Cara's fingers trembled as she reached up, brushing her lips. Her fingertips met the unmistakable points of two sharp, descending fangs.
Her stomach twisted in horror and shame.
The drumming she had heard — the maddening, mouth-watering thudding — wasn't imagined. It was real. It wasn't a drum.
From beyond the chamber door, she now realized, came the bustling sounds of a human servant — folding linens, changing sheets, humming absently to herself.
The maids, all vampires themselves, had no such intoxicating heartbeat. Merrick, ever cautious, had ensured that only vampire attendants were assigned to her. Yet the presence of a human — so close, so oblivious — had stirred a primal hunger within her she was utterly unprepared to face.