The Vampire Duke’s Forbidden Mate

first light of dawn crept through the cottage’s crooked shutters, painting thin golden stripes across the wooden floor. Maren sat at the edge of her bed, fingers tracing the raised edges of the mating mark just above her collarbone—a delicate, swirling pattern of deep crimson, like spilled wine against her pale skin. It had appeared three nights ago, burning like a brand before settling into something permanent, something *inescapable*. She exhaled slowly, her breath unsteady. The Selection Ball was tonight. Downstairs, Bryn’s voice carried up the stairs, bright and relentless. *"Maren, did you hear? The capital has *fountains* that spray perfume instead of water! And the vampire nobles—oh, you should see the harem portraits, they’re all so *beautiful*—"* Maren pressed her palms to her temples. Bryn had been talking nonstop since the summons arrived, her excitement a living thing, buzzing in the air like a swarm of bees. She hadn’t even developed a mark yet, but she acted as if the Selection was already hers—as if she were already halfway to being claimed by some dashing vampire lord with a taste for human playthings. *"And the clothes!"* Bryn continued, undeterred. *"The ladies in the capital wear silk that *moves* like water, and their jewels are as big as eggs—"* "Bryn," Maren cut in, sharper than she intended. The words came out clipped, tired. "The capital isn’t some fairy tale. It’s a *court*. And courts have rules." A beat of silence. Then, quieter: *"You’re not excited at all, are you?"* Maren didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. The truth was, she *was* excited. Terrified, too. The idea of a fated mate—someone who would *want* her, who would see her and *choose* her—it was everything she’d ever dreamed of. But dreams had edges. And the edges of this one were sharp. She stood, smoothing the front of her dress—a simple thing, homespun linen, the color of wheat. It would do for the journey, but tonight, she’d wear something finer. Something *worthy* of a vampire’s notice. Downstairs, the scent of fresh bread and herbs wrapped around her like a familiar embrace. Their mother stood at the stove, stirring a pot of porridge, while their father sat at the table, sharpening a knife with slow, methodical strokes. He didn’t look up when she entered, but she saw the way his shoulders tensed, just slightly. "Eat," their mother said, ladling a bowl for her. "You’ll need your strength." Maren sat, the wooden chair creaking beneath her. The porridge was warm, thick with honey and butter, but it sat heavy in her stomach. She forced herself to take another bite. "You’ll write to us," their mother said, not a question. "If anything happens. If you need us." Maren nodded. "Of course." Their father finally set the knife down. "The capital’s not like here. Vampires… they’re not *men*." His voice was low, rough. "They don’t think like us. Don’t *feel* like us." Bryn scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Oh, please. They’re just people with fangs." Their father’s gaze snapped to her. "They’re *nobles*. And nobles don’t *share* what’s theirs." A chill ran down Maren’s spine. She knew what he meant. Knew the stories—the humans who’d gone to the capital and never come back. The ones who’d returned… *changed*. The sound of hooves on dirt cut through the tension. A carriage. Maren’s breath hitched. *It’s time.* She stood, her chair scraping against the floor. Bryn was already at the door, bouncing on her toes, her own dress—borrowed from a neighbor, too big in the bust—swishing around her ankles. Their mother caught Maren’s wrist as she passed. "Don’t let her be a burden," she murmured, her grip tight. "You watch out for *yourself* first." Maren swallowed hard. "I will." The carriage waited outside, black and gleaming, the horses stamping their feet as if impatient to be gone. The driver, a gaunt man with hollow cheeks, barely glanced at them as they climbed inside. Bryn immediately pressed her face to the window, watching their cottage shrink in the distance. "We’re *really* doing this," she breathed, her voice hushed with awe. Maren didn’t answer. She closed her eyes, the rhythm of the wheels against the road lulling her into something like calm. *Please,* she thought, though she didn’t know who she was asking. *Let it be kind.* The carriage rolled on.