The Manor Bride

The East Wing

The morning after Elias touched me, I didn’t come down to breakfast. I stayed in my room, pacing between the bed and the tall windows that overlooked the fog-drenched gardens. I couldn’t stop replaying his words, his voice, the way his fingers had lingered on my skin like they had a right to be there.

There are things in this house that wake at the smell of blood.

Was he speaking metaphorically? Or had I already seen too much to keep pretending I didn’t believe him?

When a knock came just after noon, it wasn’t Elias. It was the butler, still nameless, still unreadable. He informed me, flatly, that dinner would be served at seven, and the master would be expecting me in the music room at six.

I hadn’t even known the manor had a music room.

I agreed, not trusting my voice, and closed the door again.

At six sharp, I made my way down the hall, my dress trailing over the polished floors. The air smelled faintly of old wood and something floral I couldn’t place — something sharp. My footsteps echoed in the long corridor. The manor always felt like it was holding its breath.

The music room was darker than I expected. Candles lined the walls, flickering against the black grand piano in the center. Elias stood beside it, one hand resting on the glossy surface, the other holding a glass of dark red wine.

Except… I wasn’t entirely certain it was wine.

“Eliza,” he said, with that same quiet heat that always curled under my skin. “Come in.”

I stepped into the room, trying to keep my voice steady. “I didn’t know you played.”

He turned to face me, a hint of a smile on his lips. “I used to. A long time ago.”

I moved closer. The room seemed to shrink as I did, or maybe it was just his presence—pulling everything else into shadow.

“Why am I here?”

He watched me for a long time before answering. “Because I want you to be.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I can give you. For now.”

He gestured to the bench, and I sat, the keys cool under my fingers. He stood behind me, so close I could feel the heat of him. Or maybe it was the chill.

His hand reached down, slowly, brushing mine.

“Play something,” he murmured.

“I don’t know how.”

“Then let me show you.”

He guided my fingers to a chord, then another. The sound was soft, haunting. Our hands moved together, and it felt like a dance, like he was inside my skin. My breath caught as he leaned down, his lips just above my ear.

“You feel that?” he whispered.

I nodded.

“That’s music. And tension. And want.”

His hand slid away, but the warmth stayed. My whole body was humming.

He walked around the piano and faced me again. This time, his eyes weren’t dark — they were glowing faintly, a color I couldn’t name. Something not human.

“You should leave this place, Eliza.”

“Then why don’t you let me?”

“Because I don’t want you to.”

His honesty was like a slap and a kiss all at once.

He stepped closer.

I stood, breath catching.

He reached for me—slowly, deliberately—and touched my face, his thumb brushing just beneath my lower lip.

“I told you not to tempt me.”

“And you told me to stay.”

This time, he didn’t move away.

He kissed me.

It wasn’t gentle. It was fire and ice, hunger and hesitation, lips pressed hard to mine like he’d been starving for this moment. His hands slid to my waist, pulling me flush against him. I felt every line of his body, every sharp edge of restraint.

When he pulled back, we were both breathless.

“Eliza,” he murmured. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

I looked up at him, heart hammering. “Then show me.”

He didn’t kiss me again.

He just looked at me like I was something he couldn’t quite believe was real. Something he’d dreamed of and denied himself for too long.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he whispered, eyes still locked on mine.

“Then why did you?”

His jaw tightened. “Because I’m weak.”

“You don’t feel weak.”

“I’m not.” His voice was lower now. “But around you, Eliza… I lose the edge I’ve spent centuries sharpening.”

I blinked. “Centuries?”

His expression faltered, like he’d said too much. He turned from me, running a hand through his hair — dark, disheveled, perfect in its chaos.

“You have questions,” he said after a moment. “I know.”

“Too many,” I breathed.

He nodded once. “But not tonight.”

I took a step toward him. “You kissed me.”

He turned to face me again. “Yes. And I will do it again if you don’t stop looking at me like that.”

I swallowed hard, but I didn’t drop my gaze. Instead, I closed the space between us and placed my hand on his chest.

His body tensed beneath my touch.

“I’m not scared of you,” I whispered.

“You should be.”

“Why?”

“Because the things I want from you aren’t safe.”

His hand rose, covering mine on his chest. I could feel his heart — slower than it should be. Or maybe not beating at all.

“What are you?” I asked, barely a breath.

He didn’t speak.

Instead, he brought my hand to his lips, kissed my fingers one by one, slowly, reverently. When he reached my wrist, his lips lingered there, and I felt the faintest press of his teeth.

Not enough to break skin.

Just enough to make my pulse quicken.

“Eliza,” he murmured, voice strained. “You make me forget what I am.”

“Then let me.”

His eyes darkened again, and for a moment I thought he would take me right there against the piano — not just kiss me, but devour me. And some part of me wanted that.

Needed that.

But instead, he stepped back, putting space between us like it pained him to do so.

“Not yet,” he said. “You’re not ready.”

“Then make me ready.”

He laughed — a low, broken sound. “You say that now.”

“I’ll say it tomorrow. And the day after.”

He shook his head, but there was a ghost of a smile on his lips. “You are a dangerous girl, Eliza Holloway.”

“You started it.”

He turned and walked to the far wall, where a single candle burned beside a narrow door I hadn’t noticed before. He paused, fingers grazing the doorknob.

“Go back to your room,” he said softly. “Lock the door tonight.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t trust myself.”

That stopped me cold.

He opened the door and disappeared into the shadows without another word.

I stood alone in the candlelight, pulse still racing, lips still tingling from his kiss. My skin felt too tight, my mind too full.

I didn’t want to go back to my room.

I wanted to follow him.

Instead, I sat at the piano bench, placed my fingers on the keys he’d guided me through, and let the music come.

Slow, broken chords. A song I didn’t know I knew. A lullaby for something wild inside me that had started to wake.

That night, I didn’t sleep.

I lay in bed with the covers pulled up to my chest, but the heat in my body had nothing to do with cold. I could still feel him — his mouth, his breath, his hands. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the flicker of something not human behind his pupils.

I shouldn’t have wanted him more for it.

But I did.

Sometime after midnight, I heard it.

Footsteps. Heavy. Purposeful. Not the quiet creak of wood or the random sighs of the old manor — this was movement. Real, close, just outside my door.

I rose and crossed the room, pressing my ear to the wood.

Silence.

Then something brushed past the other side — too fast for a person, too smooth. Like air suddenly alive.

I opened the door.

The hallway was dark, the candle sconces unlit. A draft kissed my bare arms. Somewhere down the corridor, a door creaked shut — the east wing.

I remembered his warning. Don’t leave your room. Lock the door.

But curiosity burned stronger than fear.

I padded softly down the hallway, barefoot, heart pounding. The silence was too complete. Like the manor itself was watching.

When I reached the end of the corridor, I saw the door — old, carved with symbols I didn’t recognize. It had been locked the night I arrived. Now it hung slightly ajar.

I pushed it open.

Inside: darkness. But not empty.

I could feel it — like walking into someone’s breath.

My eyes adjusted slowly. The room was wide, with tall windows covered in thick velvet drapes. A long table stood in the center, covered in books, old papers, vials of dark liquid.

And there, facing away from me, stood Elias.

Shirtless.

The muscles of his back were tense, his hands gripping the edge of the table like he was fighting something inside himself. His skin gleamed in the faint light — too pale, too perfect.

“Eliza,” he said without turning. “You shouldn’t be here.”

I didn’t answer.

I stepped closer. The air around him crackled.

Then he turned — and my breath left me.

His eyes glowed. Not gold, not red — something in between, like molten metal. His face was sharper, mouth parted slightly, lips darker than usual. And there, just barely visible in the candlelight, were the tips of two fangs.

Not long.

Not monstrous.

But undeniably there.

I froze.

He didn’t move.

“This is what I am,” he said, voice low and pained. “Still not afraid?”

I swallowed hard. “No.”

He closed the space between us in a breath.

“You should be.”

He didn’t touch me.

He hovered — lips inches from mine, breath unsteady.

“I want you,” he whispered. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

“Then take me,” I said.

His hands gripped my waist.

His mouth grazed my throat.

But he didn’t bite.

Not yet.

Instead, he pressed a kiss just below my jaw — gentle, trembling — and stepped back like it nearly killed him.

“Go,” he rasped. “Before I forget what mercy feels like.”

I left the room with my pulse in my throat, my skin on fire, and one thought in my mind:

This wasn’t over.