Chapter ten

Night had draped itself thick across the manor.

Outside, the fields shimmered silver beneath the moonlight, and the sharp edges of trees swayed like watchful sentinels. Inside, the air felt still, too still. The kind of stillness that made even old wood hesitate to creak.

Crimson sat on the edge of her straw mattress, the moonlight barely touching the floor. The room was shared with two other girls, but they were fast asleep, their soft breaths rising and falling like waves. The hearth had long since gone cold. Her feet ached. Her hands were scraped from chimney soot. But all she could think about was Lara.

Lara hadn't spoken much that day. Not after the vase shattered in the hall. The Steward's eyes had narrowed when it happened, just a tremble of the brow, a ghost of disappointment, but it had been enough.

"No supper," he'd said. Quietly. Coldly. As though denying a child food was routine.

Crimson had caught Lara's expression afterward. A brave front. A single nod. But behind her eyes was something fragile, like a thread about to snap. She'd heard the crying later, muffled into thin sheets in the servant's wing.

That had been hours ago.

Crimson stood.

She moved carefully with a lantern in hand, stepping over the uneven floorboards. She tugged her cloak over her shift, it wasn't much, but it would muffle the chill. One of the girls stirred but didn't wake.

The manor's halls were quiet at this hour. The Steward had made it clear again, "None are to wander the halls past the eleventh bell. Not without summons."

But Crimson had grown up with rules like that. And she'd learned, quickly, that some rules didn't keep you safe. They kept you obedient.

She pressed her palm to the cool handle of the wooden door and slipped into the corridor.

---

The hallway was dark save for the sparse flicker of torches mounted to the stone walls. Their flames cast long shadows, distorting the carved patterns in the ancient wood. Paintings watched her as she passed, their eyes somehow too alert in the dim light.

She moved silently, sticking to the edges of the corridor. The manor was vast, easy to get lost in, but she'd scrubbed enough chimneys and floors to know every hallway like the back of her hand.

The kitchen was down a narrow stairwell beneath the east wing. Crimson knew if she walked past the gallery, she'd risk passing the butler's quarters. So she doubled back, taking the longer path through the conservatory, where moonlight streamed through tall glass panes. Outside, the trees rustled unnaturally. For a moment, she thought she saw something shift in the corner of her eyes.

She didn't stop to check.

The kitchen was still warm when she arrived.

Coals glowed in the hearth, a pot hung above it, mostly empty save for a few floating herbs. The long preparation table was clean, the smell of baked bread lingering like perfume. She moved quietly, tiptoeing toward the side shelf where leftover scraps were sometimes tucked away for the dogs.

Her fingers found a half-loaf wrapped in cloth. A small, shriveled apple beside it. Not much, but enough.

"She didn't deserve that," Crimson whispered to herself. "None of us do."

She turned to go, the bread in one hand, the flickering lantern in the other...

And collided with something solid.

Something cold.

Hard.

Immovable.

A wall?

No.

Her breath caught.

The lantern's light wavered, casting long, jittering shadows over the stone walls and tiled floor.

She looked up.

Her gaze met red eyes.

Not red from the flicker of fire or fury. Not human at all.

They were deep, blood-colored and fathomless, glowing faintly in the dark like coals left too long in a hearth.

A man stood before her, tall and still and perfectly composed. His skin was pale, the sort of pale that didn't belong to the living, his face unreadable, not a single expression touched it.

And yet… he watched her.

Studied her.

The lantern's glow trembled in her shaking hand, casting shadows beneath his cheekbones. The bread slipped slightly in her grip.

The Lord of the Manor.

Crimson swallowed, her throat dry as stone. "M-my Lord…" she managed to whisper, her voice thin and brittle as parchment.

His eyes flicked down to the loaf of bread in her hand, then back to her face.

No words. Not yet.

Crimson dipped her head hastily, trying to bow and retreat at the same time, the lantern nearly falling from her grasp. "Forgive me... I didn't mean... "

He stepped closer.

A single step.

Crimson froze.

His scent hit her, cool like rain-soaked wood and something older, darker, beneath it. Something like copper. Or iron.

"You broke the rules," he said at last, voice low, smooth, but not soft. It wasn't angry, it didn't need to be.

It was simply truth.

"I… yes." Her eyes flicked up, just once. "I only thought..."

"You thought?" he interrupted gently, almost curiously. "A thrall, thinking. How novel."

She frowned.

"Do you know what would happen if any servant wandered the halls at night? " His voice was quiet, but there was an edge under the silk.

Crimson nodded once, eyes still downcast. "Yes, milord."

"You could've been mistaken for something else," he said. "A thief. A spy... A rat."

The air grew colder. Her skin prickled. Still, she didn't move.

With a casual flick of his wrist, he held it up to the lantern's glow.

"Mold on the edge," he murmured.

He handed it back.

"You're not very good at stealing."

"I wasn't..." she started, but he raised a single finger, silencing her.

"I know."

He stepped forward. She stepped back, retreating until her back met the cold stone wall with a soft thud, the lantern shaking faintly in her grasp. Her breath caught as the vampire took a single, leisurely last step toward her. He didn't rush. He didn't need to.

His presence filled the space between them until she could feel it, like shadows pressing in.

"What is your name?" he asked at last, his voice silk-draped steel.

Crimson opened her mouth and closed it again, before finally whispering, "Crimson."

A beat passed.

Here it comes… 'the cursed name'.

She waited, as she always did. For the sneer. For the mocking comment. For the smirk that would say 'how fitting'.

But it didn't come... not right away.

Instead, his lips parted slightly as he repeated it, almost tasting it:

"Crimson…"

The way he said it made her shiver, a slow, curious tilt of his head followed.

" Crimson?" he echoed with a smirk. "In my world, names like that are invitations. How merciful of your mother to offer you up so... willingly."

Her throat tightened, fingers clenching tighter around the wrapped bread.

He stepped even more closer.

His gaze flicked upward, taking in the unruly strands of her hair that peeked from her hood. "And yet," he murmured, more to himself now, "that's not the usual hue. That's… different. A different shade of red."

She didn't know if he meant her name or her hair.

Her heart beat frantically in her chest, as though trying to flee without her. The lantern trembled slightly in her grasp.

Then his eyes drifted to the bread she still held tightly to her chest. His lip curved ever so slightly.

"Well," he murmured, voice dipped in mock consideration, "now that I'm here, I realize I feel a bit... thirsty."

His gaze flicked to her's , predator-like. "It wouldn't be fair, would it? If you were the only one to eat?"

Crimson stilled completely.

She didn't know what to say. What to do. Her back was flush with the wall. Her hands trembled, one clinging to the wrapped bread, the other white-knuckled around the lantern.

He was teasing her.

He had to be.

Right?

Then she saw it. The faintest glint of fang as his tongue swept slowly across his teeth.

Her breath caught. Her arms trembled.

Was he... was he actually going to feed?

It wasn't like she hadn't imagined it. Dying at the hands of a vampire. They all had, in the village.

Her fingers loosened around the bread.

She exhaled, soft and steady, then tilted her head to the side. Her eyes slipped shut, her jaw tightening as she bared her neck.

'If it's going to happen, let it happen fast.'

She thought of Lara. Of the fire. Of her grandmother swinging from the ceiling.

Of nothing, really.

And then...

A low, silken chuckle.

It startled her.

Her eyes snapped open, and there he was, watching her with something darkly amused glowing faintly behind his crimson stare.

"My," he said, almost mockingly, "eager to become a meal, aren't you?"

She flushed. Not from shame. From anger. Embarrassment. Maybe both.

He stepped back, ever so slightly, the shadows pulling away with him. "Run along," he said quietly. "Be careful walking in the dark, Crimson. The walls in this manor don't take kindly to clumsy little things."

But he didn't move. He didn't give her space. He remained between her and the path out.

She hesitated.

No way in hell was she turning her back on a vampire.

With careful, measured steps, she began to sidestep along the wall, her shoulder brushing the stone. Always facing him. Always watching.

He watched her, too, like a predator, mildly curious to see how long its prey could dance without falling.

She paused at the doorframe, barely turning her head. She said nothing.

She didn't dare.

Then she stepped into the corridor and walked... no, 'ran'...quietly down the hall.

"What a fiery little thing."