Veena

3- NEVER SEEN A HELL SO COLD

I had never felt so weak in my life, and never would I have thought I’d end up in a confinement cell.

My father was a Shadow Hunter—strong, agile, relentless, tenacious, brave, and resilient. He was everything a warrior should be. But I suppose everyone has their own path, their own personality.

From early dawn till late dusk, we trained in the fields. And despite all my effort, he still called me a weakling—and I believed him.

He wanted me to fight like him, and since I couldn’t, I was nothing but useless in his eyes. I was never the child he wanted. He had hoped for a son. But Artemis, the goddess of children, gave him me—a girl.

I got used to his words. I believed his words. I lived by them. Weakling. I accepted that title, wore it like a second skin. But right now, I knew I was even worse—feeble, lethargic... a coward. If my father were alive to see me in this state, he’d curse the day I was born. To him, being captured, confined—and possibly executed—was the lowest disgrace. Dying on the battlefield was an honor. Ironically, that wasn’t how he died.

I heard the door creak open, but my eyes remained closed. They were too heavy to keep open. Still, I knew it would be a bloodsucker.

My hands were bound in chains that stretched from the ceiling down to my wrists. My feet, however, were left free—and that was the greater punishment. For the past two days, I’d been forced to stand. No food. Only drips of water—barely enough to survive, just enough to crave more. Another reason for my growing weakness.

Footsteps echoed into the cell, growing louder. I forced my eyes to flutter open, just barely. A blurry figure stood in front of me, and as the light from the small square window above filtered in, it fell on him.

When my vision cleared, I saw him—pale and elegant.

He wore dark trousers and a deep red shirt, fitted perfectly to his slender frame. Draped over his shoulders was a lavish cloak, embroidered with golden lacing, and just below his collarbone sat an eagle’s head, intricately stitched.

I couldn’t see his feet, but I imagined his shoes matched the elegance of the rest of him. My eyes moved upward, meeting his gaze—already fixed on me. Intense. As if he could read every inch of my soul.

His eyes were pitch-black, with dark circles etched beneath them. His nose was long and straight, almost like it had been sculpted into perfection. His lips were pale, parted slightly, with sharp fangs peeking through.

He was far too pale—deathly so. It clashed starkly with his raven-black hair, which fell just above his furrowed brows.

“Where did you find her?” His cold voice echoed through the silent cell.

“At the border,” someone answered from behind him.

“And my father?” he asked.

“I was just about to go inform him.”

He walked closer to me, and without warning, my heart lurched and began to beat wildly. There was something about his presence—an aura so heavy it made my stomach turn. I felt sick just standing near him.

As he approached, instinct took over. I bowed my head.

Then I felt his hand on my chin, lifting it gently but firmly. His touch was cold—almost freezing. My eyes met his, and my stomach twisted again—not from attraction, but dread.

The chill from his hand traveled from my chin up to my head and down through my fragile, aching body. He studied my face as though it were an ancient scroll, something strange and fascinating.

His hand left my chin but moved behind me, tangling in my hair. He twisted a few strands around his fingers, forcing my head up again. My eyes were too weak to stay open for long.

"Just like a wildflower," he murmured, his breath brushing against mine. His face was mere inches away. "And your eyes..."

He paused, staring.

"What is your name?" he asked, his voice low and accented.

I looked at him, but my voice wouldn’t come. I was too faint. My breath came in short gasps, and my throat felt raw, like it would tear if I tried to speak. So I just stared at him—blankly, dully.

"Don't be silent with your prince, darling. What is your name?" he demanded, this time sharper. When I didn’t answer, he yanked my hair harshly from behind.

Pain sparked at my scalp, and I forced myself to whisper, “Veena.”

The name came out croaky, and fire seemed to blaze through my throat.

He gave a chilling smile and leaned in closer, his mouth brushing my ear. "Beautiful," he murmured—but he didn’t pull away. His cold breath fanned across my neck, sending shivers through every inch of my body.

"The smell of your blood, I mean."

I went completely still.

Then he kissed the spot just below my ear. His tongue—cold and damp—brushed against my skin.

Before I could even take a breath, he sank his fangs into my neck.

I gasped, my hands tightening around the chains as a sharp, searing pain shot through me. It was as if my very life was being drained from my body. I moaned—a broken, pained sound—and in response, he bit deeper.

If I had been weak before, I was dying now. Numbness curled around my limbs, dragging the breath from my lungs, until I felt like I was fading.

"Prince Evan, you're going to kill her," someone whispered from the doorway.

Evan kept drinking for a moment longer before finally letting go. He licked the remaining blood from my neck, then kissed the bite gently before stepping back.

"No one knows. Understood?"

"Yes, Prince Evan."

Footsteps retreated. Then the door slammed shut behind them with a loud, final bang.