Love story between a woman with broken ring finger and a man with six fingers

Élise Beaumont staggered on the stone road in the eighth arrondissement of Paris in ten centimeters of Jimmy Choo. The heavy rain poured her Burberry windbreaker soaked, and the documents in the platinum bag had already been stained with rain to form an abstract painting. She had just finished her 72-hour M&A meeting and was just trying to throw herself into the small loft apartment on the left bank of the Seine. A sharp brake sound pierced the rain curtain. The black Bentley flipped over the street corner of Rue de Rivoli like a chess piece overturned by an invisible giant hand. Élise's pupils reflected splashing glass fragments, but his body was like a butterfly specimen nailed into a rain curtain. Until the cold cedar suddenly wrapped around her waist - someone pulled her away from the arc of the Grim Reaper's sickle at a speed that surpassed the laws of physics. "Vous avez l'odeur du sang dans la pluie." The low male voice trembled against his auricle, and then he realized that the man who saved her had no body temperature. His pale fingers were buckled against her naked carotid artery, his nails glowed with a cold weapon-like blue-gray luster. The rainstorm strangely avoided him, as if afraid of some invisible force field. "Lucien de Montfort." His name was like reading a medieval edict, and a golden family emblem tattoo was faintly visible under his black silk shirt. "The next time I saw a double B logo running a red light, I suggest jumping directly into the Seine - at least the water ghost is more gentleman than a human driver." Élise's Chanel No.5 perfume exploded with a strange chemical reaction on the tip of his nose. For the first time in three hundred years, the fangs of the Montfort family heir appeared uncontrollably in front of humans. When the girl's soaked chiffon shirt exuded rose-colored skin, he realized that the ancient legends about "destined blood" might not be metaphors. A sirens whimper came from a distance. Lucien suddenly pressed Élise on the remains of Bentley, and his canine teeth rubbed through her clavicle with blood-seeking abrasions: "Remember, Mademoiselle Beaumont, your life is now owned by Dracula's descendants." *************************************************************************************************************** Élise struggled to move her right leg, the crumpled parchment paper whispering wetly against her stocking. The merger and acquisition clauses, soaked in rain, curled like medieval manuscripts at her ankle, their ink bleeding into the Dior nude stockings in gothic script—like a devil's contract crawling over sacred flesh. Lucien loosened his grip just enough for his cufflink to brush past her jawline. The Enochian text, written backward, glowed faintly under the police cruiser's blue light: "...and the blood of stars shall flow in the veins of the accursed..." Though Élise's business French training had never encountered such ancient conjugations, the letters seemed alive, crawling into her retinas. The rainbow colors from the gasoline spreading in the pooled water suddenly twisted. Anotherworldly fragrance emanated from Élise's elbow wound—truffle oil from Perigord's 45-meter-deep rock layer mingling with the metallic tang of O-negative blood. Lucien's Adam's apple moved against his pale skin, like a beast chained and restless. His family ring, never removed during three centuries of hunting, began to burn the bone; the emerald gemstone bore fractures radiating like Élise's iris. "Stay silent," he commanded, the words laced with the tannins of Burgundy wine. When the police flashlight pierced the rain, Élise saw his eyes—vertical pupils, like those of an Egyptian scarab beetle, with cold-blooded iridescent clouds swirling within. The golden patterns pulsed in sync with her heartbeat, like the teeth of a longdead clock's escapement gnawing at time itself. The sound of tires crushing glass made Lucien's lips tense. As the first officer's boot entered the bloodstained puddle, all rain droplets suspended mid-air, forming thousands of prisms. Élise counted each suspended drop in front of her nose, each holding an image: reflections of Lucien's bat wing shadow unfolding behind him, and within her own pupil, a starburst pattern mirroring the ring's fractures. "You've just awakened a countdown, my dear," he said, breaking the frozen moment by removing his glove. His fingers traced the blood on her wound. The truffle scent intensified, solidifying into an entity that drove the nearest officer back, staggering. The parchment contract spontaneously combusted, with Enochian text rising in the flames mirroring Lucien's cufflink design. Élise finally understood one phrase: When the blood of Eve carries stars flows crimson over Cain's fangs, the rose from the seventh circle of hell will bloom in sacred blood. ****************************************************************************************************************** Élise stirred slightly, her eyes fluttering open to the dim glow of the hospital room. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and rain, a scent that clung to her senses like a ghost from the night before. She shifted her weight, wincing as her body protested against the stiff hospital bed. Her head throbbed dully, a reminder of the events that had led her here. Beside her, a chair creaked as someone leaned forward. The face of her colleague Julien hovered into view, his expression a mix of concern and relief. "Elise, you're finally awake," he said softly, his voice tinged with both relief and something else—something she couldn't quite place. "Mon dieu, vous avez eu une chance !" Celine, their other colleague, chimed in from the corner of the room, clutching a steaming cup of coffee. Her usual chic was somewhat ruined by the messy bun on top of her head and the faint smudge of sleep on her cheeks. "Merci," Élise murmured, her voice hoarse. She attempted to sit up, but a sharp pain shot through her side, forcing her to lie back down. "What happened?" Julien exchanged a glance with Celine before clearing his throat. "You were found in an alley downtown, near the old district. There was... there was some kind of accident. The police are here to ask you some questions." Before he could finish, auniformed officer entered the room, his expression serious. "Mademoiselle, if you can recall anything that happened last night, we need to know," he said, his voice calm but firm. Élise closed her eyes, trying to piece together fragmented memories. There was rain, a sharp smell of wet stone and gasoline, and the sensation of something cold pressing against her skin. But beyond that, everything was a blur. "Je suis désolée," she said slowly, choosing her words carefully. "Mon souvenir est très flou. Je ne me souviens pas clairement de ce qui s'est passé." The officer nodded, jotting down notes in his notebook. "Can you tell us anything about the man who was with you? The one who brought you here?" At the mention of "l'homme," Élise's heart skipped a beat. She could feel the familiar tightening in her chest, as if something inside her were trying to surface against her will. "Je ne me souviens pas de lui," she lied, her voice steady but her fingers involuntarily curling into fists beneath the sheets. Celine frowned, leaning forward. "Elise, tu es sûre ? Tu ne te souviens pas du tout ?" Her tone was laced with disbelief, as if she couldn't wrap her head around the fact that Élise could forget something so... dramatic. Julien placed a hand on Celine's shoulder, shooting her a warning glance. "Laisse-lui respirer," he said softly, his voice carrying an unspoken plea. "Elise, take your time." The officer stood, closing his notebook with a snap. "We'll be in touch if we need further information. For now, rest and recover." With a nod to the group, he turned to leave. As the door closed behind him, Celine let out a dramatic sigh. "Mon dieu, tu as eu une nuit passionnante !" she exclaimed, her earlier humor resurfacing. "Un homme mystérieux, des accidents, de la police—tu devrais écrire un roman avec ça !" Julien rolled his eyes, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward. "Celine, tu es incorrigible," he scolded, but there was a playful glint in his eyes. Élise remained silent, her mind still racing with fragmented thoughts and the lingering sense that something—someone—was missing from her memory. She focused on the steady beeping of the heart monitor beside her bed, trying to ground herself in the present. But deep down, she couldn't shake the feeling that Lucien was more than just a shadowy figure from the night before. There was something about him—a dangerous familiarity—that made her skin prickle with unease and... desire. As the minutes dragged on, the room grew quiet once more. Celine had returned to her coffee, muttering something about how she'd need a recount after this mess, while Julien busied himself with his phone, pretending to send messages to his contacts but clearly distracted. Élise watched them out of the corner of her eye, trying to gauge their reactions. She could feel the weight of what had happened pressing down on her, like an unwelcome guest who refused to leave. The memory of Lucien's voice—low and velvety, with a faint accent she couldn't place—echoed in her mind, overlaid with the smell of rain and something else... something metallic and sweet. She shifted again, wincing as pain shot through her side. "Est-ce que je peux avoir une aspirine ?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Celine jumped to attention, bustling over with a glass of water and a small tablet. "Mais bien sûr !" she exclaimed, handing them over with a flourish. "Et n'hésitez pas à appeler si vous avez besoin de quoi que ce soit." Julien smirked slightly, shaking his head at Celine's fussiness. "You're acting like she's your mother, instead of your colleague," he teased, though there was affection in his tone. "Je m'excuse," Celine said with a mock bow, her cheeks flushing pink. "Mais c'est une habitude difficile à perdre." As the two continued their banter, Élise felt a strange sense of gratitude wash over her. She wasn't alone in this—though whether that was a comfort or a burden remained tobe seen. But as she drifted back into a fitful sleep, the last thing she saw before darkness claimed her was the faint glimmer of Julien's smile and the memory of Lucien's eyes—apiercing green that seemed to hold secrets she couldn't begin to unravel.