The Manor Bride

The Hunger Between Us

I woke up on silk sheets, heart pounding like I’d run for miles — but I hadn’t moved at all. My skin felt tight, too alive. Every sound in the manor called to me: the faint flutter of candlelight, a crack in the floorboards, the wind scraping against glass.

I was hearing everything.

Smelling everything.

And I was starving.

Not for food.

Not for comfort.

For him.

I sat up slowly, the red velvet blanket sliding off my body. The mark on my neck still throbbed — not with pain, but with memory. His mouth. His bite. My blood in him. His power in me.

I wasn’t human anymore.

Not fully.

I stood, legs a little unsteady, heart even less so. My reflection in the mirror stopped me cold. My eyes had darkened, not black, not red — something in between, like old wine catching fire. My lips were deeper in color, my skin ghost-pale with a warmth underneath. I looked… like temptation. Even to myself.

Where was he?

I threw on a robe and pushed open the door.

The manor was quiet. No staff. No sounds. Just the echo of me walking barefoot through stone halls. And the pull in my chest, guiding me like a string tied to something unseen — someone.

Elias.

I found him in the library. Standing by the window, arms crossed behind his back, the glow of the storm-dimmed sky casting shadows over his face. He didn’t look at me when I entered.

“I thought you left,” I said.

“I thought about it.”

That stung more than I expected. “Why?”

He turned finally. His eyes — glowing faintly again. Not the soft ember from before. No. This was darker. Hungrier.

“Because I can’t think when you’re near.”

“Then don’t think.”

“Eliza—” he started, but I crossed the room before he could finish. I placed my hand on his chest, over that quiet, unnatural heart.

“I can feel it,” I whispered. “The connection. The heat. The need.”

“So can I,” he said through clenched teeth.

He gripped my wrist suddenly — not to hurt me, but to stop himself.

“My blood is inside you now,” he said. “It’s not just passion. It’s power. If I give in again, I won’t stop. I won’t want to.”

“I’m not asking you to stop.”

He shook his head, jaw clenched. “You’re changing, Eliza. But you’re not like me. Not yet. I can’t control what happens if—”

“If what?” I challenged. “If you touch me again? If you take more of me? Or if I take something from you?”

His grip tightened, and I saw the flash of teeth behind his lips.

“You think you’re strong now,” he growled. “But you haven’t felt the true hunger yet. It will come, and when it does, it will hollow you out.”

“I’d rather feel something than keep pretending I’m fragile.”

He let go of me — too fast. Like I burned him.

“I need to put distance between us.”

“No,” I said.

He froze.

“You made me yours, Elias. Don’t walk away from me now.”

He turned to me slowly, the storm raging behind his eyes.

“Then don’t tempt me again.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” I said.

He laughed, bitter and beautiful. “You don’t have to try.”

We stood there, breathing like we’d run miles just to stand still. The hunger between us wasn’t just blood anymore. It was skin. Soul. Something deeper than either of us had asked for.

Finally, he whispered, “Tonight, you’ll dream of fire.”

Then he left the room.

And I knew: the worst hunger would come in the dark.