Vincent

By the time vampires became part of society, no one was surprised by their presence. Palaces along deserted roads hid secrets behind marble and curtains. People believed that nobility was a guarantee of safety, unaware that fangs lurked beneath the silk and smiles. After all, a count who nodded kindly in the morning might sink his teeth into your neck by evening.

Silver and crosses—they were just children's fairy tales. Vampires feared only the sun, but even that didn't stop them—after all, aristocrats had always hidden under lace parasols.

You belonged to the nobility and, at eighteen, became the wife of Count Vincent, lord of the northern lands. Tall, with eyes the color of molten rubies, he lived in a castle where night always reigned.

One day, passing his office, you overheard a conversation—Vincent was talking about your transformation. A chill gripped your body, but you didn't have time to leave.

“Then it will be easier this way,” he said before his fangs touched the skin.

You woke up later. In the mirror—a pale face, alien eyes the color of wine. Vincent was sitting by the fireplace: — Get used to it. You're a part of me now.

Since then, the castle has become a cage. At the reception where you were taken, you almost believed in the chance to escape—until his voice whispered in your ear:

"Don't even try to escape. Half the guests are vampires. And your blood is the sweetest of all."