I Married a Vampire

Chapter 4 - A Stranger Touch

It had been another exhausting day—longer and heavier than most.

Unlike my usual duties—coordinating feasts, fielding court politics, training staff—I had been asked to oversee the preparation for a room I never wanted to exist. Not just any room, but the one being redecorated, repainted, reimagined—for her.

Agatha.

The one chosen by tradition, not love. A woman whose presence would split this family into two. A second Lady of the House. A second queen.

And I was the one asked to fluff her pillows.

Every thread of fabric chosen felt like betrayal. Every gilded frame, every vase of lilies and velvet drape I approved chipped away at what little dignity I had left. The bitter irony was almost poetic—I was making space for the woman who would tear mine apart.

Still, I reminded myself, again and again:

I am the wife.

The first.

The one who stood by Taylor when no one else did.

The one who carried the heir they now wanted to erase.

But titles do not always protect you. And crowns do not silence hungry wolves.

By nightfall, I found myself alone—again.

I wore my mint-green sleepwear, a flowing silk robe trimmed in lace. The fabric shimmered faintly in the dim light of our room, catching the soft glow of a single golden lamp. I had turned off the main chandelier hours ago. I couldn’t stomach its brightness tonight.

I sat on the edge of our bed, staring out at the tall arched windows of the eastern wing. Outside, the castle grounds were quiet—only the rustling of distant trees and the occasional flicker of a patrol torch reminded me I wasn’t truly alone.

But that was a lie. I was alone.

Taylor hadn’t come home yet. Not early, not like he used to.

Before, he would rush back after council meetings, eager to fall into bed beside me. To run his fingers through my hair and kiss the curve of my shoulder before sleep claimed us both.

Now, I get excuses.

"Sorry, love. The decorator needed approval for the chandeliers."

"There were delays in the headmistress selection for Agatha’s staff."

"We have to ensure the lineage is secure..."

I knew the truth. He was staying away because he didn’t want to face the guilt in my eyes. Didn’t want to answer the question I couldn’t bring myself to ask.

Would he sleep in her bed?

Would her laughter echo in these halls like mine used to? Would his touch forget its way back to me?

The thoughts spiraled, clawing at my ribs until tears spilled hot and silent down my cheeks. I didn’t sob. There was no energy left for sobbing. Just a cold ache, heavy in my chest.

My eyes lingered on the other side of the bed—his side. Still untouched.

The pillow was fluffed. The blanket was undisturbed. A place still reserved for a man who was quickly becoming a ghost in his own home.

Eventually, exhaustion overtook me. It wrapped around my grief like a veil, and I allowed sleep to drag me under. It was better than wondering what his hands were doing, or who he was whispering to in the quiet hours.

I don’t know how long I slept, but I stirred the moment he entered the room.

His scent arrived before he did—warm vanilla and cedar. A scent I used to find comfort in. Now, it only reminded me of his absence.

I kept my eyes closed as he moved through the space. He thought I was asleep. I heard him sigh softly, felt the weight of his regret as he hovered for a moment at the edge of the bed.

Then, gently, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to my forehead.

I wanted to turn away.

I wanted to hold him tightly.

I wanted to scream.

But instead, I lay still—waiting.

The water in the bathroom began to run. When he returned, the bed shifted slightly beneath his weight. He was careful, easing in with practiced silence. He always tried not to wake me.

But I turned anyway, facing him.

Our eyes met in the low light.

“Sorry,” he murmured, brushing hair from my face. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” I whispered. “How was your day?”

“Busy.” His voice was low, tired. “But productive. I’ve been trying to clear the schedule so we can take a day off soon. Just the three of us.”

Us. The three of us. Like a family. Like nothing had changed.

He reached out, his thumb grazing my cheek.

“Esme,” he said, more seriously now. “Please remember something.”

I nodded, barely breathing.

“You will always be my only choice. If there ever comes a day when it looks like I’ve chosen someone else… please know, that choice wasn’t mine. Not truly. Not willingly.”

I swallowed hard. “What if your words aren’t enough to protect me?”

His face hardened. “Then I’ll protect you with action.”

I didn’t ask what he meant. I didn’t want to know what he was willing to sacrifice.

His words rang true—sincere and full of anguish. And yet, doubt had already rooted itself in me. No promise, no matter how heartfelt, could erase the presence of her.

She was still coming.

Before I could respond, he kissed me. It wasn’t just a kiss; it was the kind of kiss that used to make my heart race and my body melt into his. He sucked gently on my upper lip, his tongue exploring mine with a hunger that once consumed me entirely.

I kissed him back, out of habit more than desire. I let him touch me, let him trace the paths he knew so well—the spots that once made me shiver. But tonight, something felt… off.

I couldn’t pinpoint it. Was it his touch that felt foreign, or was it me? Was it because of the thoughts swirling in my mind, poisoning the intimacy we shared?

His hands roamed over my body, fingers tracing my curves through the soft silk. He pushed the fabric aside, his lips trailing down my neck, over my collarbone, lower. A heat sparked inside me, but it was distant, muted, like a candle flickering in a storm.

“I need you,” he whispered against my skin.

I knew he did. I could feel his urgency, the silent plea in the way his hands gripped my hips, pulling me against him. His touch was as possessive as ever, but tonight, I felt more like an obligation than a lover.

He moved over me, sliding my thighs apart, positioning himself with practiced ease. His breath was hot against my ear, his voice rough as he groaned my name. And yet, as he filled me, as he moved inside me, all I could feel was the widening distance between us.

I closed my eyes, trying to focus, to ground myself in the moment. His hands grasped my wrists, pinning them above my head as he drove deeper, his pace quickening. I moaned, not out of pleasure but because I knew he needed to hear it. I arched into him, meeting his movements, giving him what he wanted, what he expected.

But I felt nothing.

His lips captured mine again, desperate, searching for something I wasn’t sure I could give anymore. His teeth scraped against my bottom lip, his hands gripping me tighter, his rhythm becoming frenzied. He was trying to pull me into him, trying to ignite something inside me that had long since turned to embers.

“Esme,” he groaned, his body shuddering as he reached his peak. He pressed his forehead against mine, breathing heavily, his hands still tangled in my hair.

I swallowed hard, forcing a small smile.

“I love you,” he murmured, his fingers tracing the side of my face.

I wanted to say it back. I wanted to reach out, to hold him, to let him believe that nothing had changed. But the words got caught in my throat, drowned by the overwhelming hollowness inside me.

So instead, I kissed him softly and whispered, “Sleep now, love.”

He pulled me into his arms, his grip firm, protective. But even as he held me, I felt like a ghost in my own bed, my body warm against his, but my heart froze in a place neither of us could reach.

Somewhere deep inside me, I knew.

Something between us had shifted.

And I wasn’t sure if we could ever get it back.