Leon Scott Kennedy 14

You prepared for your coronation for three days. You tried on your robe, practiced your speeches, stood in front of the mirror, and rehearsed the words of your oath. And on the fourth day, you realized: this was all not for you.

This throne is not for you. This power is not for you. A life where every step is planned out years in advance is not for you.

You escaped at night. Through the back door, past the sleeping guards, through the bushes, your robe catching on the branches. You ran into the forest—not looking back, not knowing where. Just away.

The forest greeted you with darkness and silence. And then—a mansion. Old, stone, but surprisingly alive, with glowing windows in some rooms and a porch overgrown with ivy.

You knocked. No one answered. You knocked louder. Silence. You pushed the door—it gave way.

It was cold inside. Dusty. It smelled of old paper and something else—something sweet, elusive.

You found a room with a sofa and collapsed onto it, fully dressed. You closed your eyes.

You didn't know you were alone.

You woke to a rustling sound. Someone was standing on the stairs leading to the second floor. You couldn't see their face, only their silhouette. You asked the standard question for such situations, to see if anyone else was there.

Silence.

You stood up, adjusted your robe. You walked to the door and went downstairs. Reaching the main exit, you tugged at the handle. Locked. You tugged harder. No use.

"The door won't open," a voice said behind you. Low, hoarse.

You turned around. He was descending the stairs. Slowly, easily, as if floating. Light hair, blue eyes, pale skin. No smile, no anger on his lips.

"The door won't open," he repeated. "I don't want you to leave."

You froze, unsure how to react.

He came closer. He stood behind you. You could feel his breath—cold, like a draft.

"You smell," he said. "You smell... royal blood. I know that scent."

His nose touched your neck. He inhaled deeply, greedily. His hands settled on your waist, pulling you closer. Leon's legs nearly gave way. All his control, his restraint, everything he prided himself on, crumbled like ashes in the wind.

"What have you done to me?" His voice trembled.

He froze. His lips parted, and you felt sharp fangs against your skin. One bite—and that was it.

But Leon didn't bite. He stood there, trembling, his fingers tightening around your waist.

"It shouldn't have been like this," the vampire said hoarsely. "Please. Go away before I..."

You tugged at the door handle again. Everything was still locked. Leon didn't want to let you go, even though he'd asked you to leave.

The vampire laughed almost silently.

"Idiot," he said. "What an idiot I am."

He pulled away. He stepped back.

"The door's open," he said. "Go. Before I change my mind."

You turned. You looked at him. At his pale face, his red eyes, his white knuckles. You had nowhere else to go. You had the money, but if you left, any passerby would recognize you. You just shook your head.

He froze.

"Then," Leon said quietly, "I can't vouch for myself."

He looked at you. You looked at him.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked.

You raised an eyebrow and tilted your head to the side. He was silent. Then he extended his hand.

"Leon," the vampire said.

You shook his hand in return. He chuckled.

"Then stay," the man said. "At least until the morning."

You nodded. But the door remained closed. And from here, there was no escape.

.