Zara woke to the soft hum of an air conditioner and the faint scent of cedar.
For one dizzy second, she thought she'd simply overslept after another grueling double shift. But her sheets didn't smell like cedar. Her sheets smelled like the bargain-brand detergent she bought from the dollar store. And her bedroom didn't have silk curtains that glowed faintly with dawn light spilling through them.
Her eyes snapped open.
This wasn't her bed.
This wasn't her apartment.
The mattress was too soft, the pillow too plush, the ceiling too high and painted a creamy white that made the dark wood-paneled walls look richer.
Then memory came in jagged flashes — footsteps in the alley, rough voices, the men closing in, and then… him. That cold, steel-gray gaze. Violence in a blur. Fingers brushing her jaw.
And the bite.
Her hand flew to her neck. Two raised punctures met her fingertips — tender, warm, but dry. No bleeding. No bandage.
Her heart thudded. She sat up too quickly, and the room spun. Nausea coiled in her gut as a slow, pulsing throb spread through her temples.
"You should lie back," a voice said from the shadows.
Zara froze.
He stepped into the dim light, tall and composed, the black of his coat moving like liquid around him. His hair was darker than she remembered, brushing his jawline, and those pale metallic eyes were exactly the same — steady, unblinking, impossible to ignore.
"What did you do to me?"
He didn't answer right away. He moved instead, each step silent, deliberate, the kind of grace that came from never once being clumsy in his life. When he stopped beside the bed, a glass of water appeared in his hand as if conjured from the air.
"Drink," he said.
Her throat was dry and raw. Against her better judgment, she took the glass, sipping slowly while keeping her eyes locked on him.
"Where am I?"
"Safe."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you need for now."
She set the glass down harder than she meant to. "I'm leaving."
"You can't."
The words were quiet, but there was a weight behind them — final, like a door closing in her face.
Her chest tightened. "Try and stop me."
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood. Or tried to. Her knees buckled instantly.
His hand was there before she could fall — firm, steady, warm through the fabric of her shirt.
"You've lost blood," he said evenly. "It will pass."
Her stomach twisted. "You bit me."
"Yes." No hesitation. No shame. Just fact, dropped between them like a stone sinking into still water.
She stared at him, waiting for the punchline. There wasn't one.
"You're insane," she whispered.
"You're alive," he replied. "That's more than you'd be if they had reached you first."
Images of the men in the alley flashed hot in her mind — their grins, their hands, the way they'd closed in. Her pulse kicked. So did her anger.
"That doesn't make you my hero."
He tilted his head, studying her as if she'd just said something mildly amusing. "I didn't ask to be."
The room felt too quiet. The faint hum of the air was the only sound. She took it in now — the polished antique furniture, heavy curtains, a desk scattered with papers and a single black fountain pen. Shelves lined with books whose cracked spines spoke of years of use.
"How long have I been here?" she asked.
"Since last night."
"And you just… stood there and watched me sleep?"
"I made sure you didn't wake screaming."
She narrowed her eyes. "That's not creepy at all."
The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile.
"If you're going to keep me here, at least tell me your name."
He hesitated. "Lucien."
The name suited him — sharp, elegant, dangerous. She hated that it did.
"I'm not staying, Lucien."
"You'll change your mind."
"No," she said flatly. "I won't."
He stepped closer, close enough for her to see the faint scar along his temple, the subtle hollows under his eyes. He wasn't perfect. Somehow, that was worse.
"There are things in this city that will notice you now," he said quietly. "Things that won't care you're unprepared."
"What does that even mean?"
"It means my bite marked you. You are… different."
Her laugh was short, sharp. "You cursed me?"
"I didn't say cursed."
"You didn't have to."
He didn't flinch, didn't look away. His gaze was steady in a way that made her feel exposed, as if he could sift through her thoughts.
Heat prickled in her chest. She hated that, too.
She brushed past him and strode to the door. Her legs trembled, but her stubbornness shoved her forward. She gripped the handle and twisted — nothing. No click. No movement.
"You won't leave," Lucien said behind her.
"Because you won't let me?"
"Because you're safer here."
Her pulse hammered. "I don't even know you. You don't get to decide what's safe for me."
His voice softened, though it was still edged in steel. "Then give me one day. If you still want to leave after that, I won't stop you."
She hesitated.
One day. That was enough to figure out what he meant, to understand what he'd done to her… and to find a way to get out without collapsing in the street.
"Fine," she said. "One day."
Lucien inclined his head as if she'd just passed a test she didn't know she'd taken. "Then you should eat."
Only then did she notice the tray on the small table near the window — toast, fresh fruit, a pat of what looked like real butter. Her stomach betrayed her with a growl.
She sat, never taking her eyes off him as she ate. He didn't join her. Just leaned against the wall, still as a statue, like someone who could stand there for hours without tiring.
When she finished, he spoke again. "There's more you need to know. About me. About last night."
She pushed the plate away. "Start talking."
But Lucien's gaze slid to the curtains. His jaw tightened.
"What?" she asked.
"They're here sooner than I expected," he murmured.
Her grip on the table edge tightened. "Who's 'they'?"
He looked at her then, and for the first time, something flickered in his expression — something close to concern.
"The ones who can smell what you've become."