A chilling touch on her skin roused Ella from her slumber. Her eyes opened slowly, and she momentarily struggled to recall her surroundings. As her vision cleared, she took in the stone enclosure of her cramped quarters, with only a thin beam of light seeping through the slim window. The duration of her sleep eluded her. Despite the lingering heaviness of fatigue, she knew rest was a luxury she couldn't afford.
A sudden rap on the door startled her.
Ella hastily rose from her bed, her pulse quickening as she hastily straightened her attire and rushed to answer. As she swung the door open, she found herself face to face with Mr. Hawke, whose demeanor remained as frigid and stoic as always.
“The Duke has summoned you,” he said simply, his voice devoid of emotion. “Here is the dress for you.”
Ella’s stomach twisted into a knot. Duke Adrian. Again. She had been hoping to avoid him after their unsettling first meeting, but clearly, that wasn’t an option.
“Is there going to be a different dress every time someone summons me?” she quietly asked. Would they be dressing her up like their doll every time?
This question clearly displeased Mr. Hawke. His brows furrowed tightly together above his nose and the corners of his mouth turned downward as he stepped toward the girl and menacingly said: "If that is the wish of any of the masters, you will appear before them at night barefoot, wearing nothing but earrings. So be grateful for the generosity shown to you and be ready to change into a dozen dresses in one evening if commanded."
He took a step back again, looked down into her scared gray eyes and ordered the maids: "Begin. And get rid of that damp smell from her."
The dress was a masterpiece of dark, seductive elegance. It was made of the deepest crimson velvet, rich and heavy, yet soft as a whisper against her skin. The gown's neckline plunged daringly, revealing the pale expanse of her collarbones and the curve of her shoulders. The bodice was tight, perfectly molded to her figure, cinching her waist and emphasizing her silhouette in a way that felt both sensual and imposing.
The sleeves were long and fitted, flaring slightly at the wrists with delicate lace that trailed like the wings of a raven when she moved. The skirt was full and sweeping, cascading to the floor in soft, flowing waves that whispered with every step. Subtle embroidery in black thread wove through the velvet, intricate patterns of roses and thorns that seemed to shimmer in the low light.
Around her neck, Adrian had placed a collar of black silk, simple yet unmistakably a symbol of ownership. There were no jewels, only the restraint of the design itself, but it was the perfect complement to the gown.
In this dress, Ella felt like a queen trapped in a cage — beautiful, but bound by something far darker.
After dressing was done, she silently followed Mr. Hawke out of the servants’ quarters and back through the twisting corridors of Blackthorn Manor. The halls were eerily quiet, save for the faint rustle of wind against the tall windows and the creak of the ancient floorboards beneath her feet. Shadows danced along the walls, flickering in the dim candlelight, creating the illusion of movement where there was none. Every step she took echoed in the silence, a constant reminder of the weight that now hung over her.
At last, they reached a heavy red oak door. Mr. Hawke knocked twice and, without waiting for a response, pushed the door open.
Ella stepped inside.
Adrian stood by the window, his back to her, the moonlight casting a silver glow over his figure. His dark hair, untied tonight, fell in soft waves down his back, and his high posture was one of perfect control, as though nothing in this world could disturb his calm. The room itself was grand but dark, with heavy velvet curtains and deep mahogany furniture that seemed to absorb the light. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the walls.
“You summoned me, Your Grace?” Ella said, her voice quiet but steady. She had learned not to let her fear show, not when it could be used against her.
Adrian didn’t turn around immediately. For a moment, there was only the sound of the fire crackling and the faint rustle of his clothing as he shifted slightly. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and measured. “Do you know what your purpose is in this manor, Eleanor?”
Ella hesitated. She had been told, of course, but hearing it spoken aloud always sent a shiver down her spine. “To serve,” she said quietly. “And to… sustain.”
Adrian turned to face her then, his icy blue eyes locking onto hers. “Yes,” he said softly, taking a step toward her. “To serve. And to sustain.”
He closed the distance between them with slow, deliberate steps, his presence commanding, almost suffocating. Ella stood her ground, though every instinct in her body screamed at her to run. But there was nowhere to go. She was trapped in this manor, trapped in this life.
Adrian stopped just in front of her, his gaze piercing. He reached out and for a moment, she thought he might touch her, but his hand hovered just above her cheek, close enough for her to feel the cold radiating from him. “You are a smart girl,” he said, voice soft but laced with steel. “I can see it in your eyes. You think you can survive here, don’t you? That you can endure whatever we throw at you.”
Ella swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “I will survive,” she said quietly. “I have no choice.”
A small, cold smile tugged at the corner of Adrian’s lips. “No choice, indeed,” he murmured, his voice almost a whisper. He lowered his hand, but the chill lingered in the air between them. “But survival comes at a price, Eleanor. And here, in Blackthorn Manor, that price is obedience. If you wish to live, you must do as you are told. No questions. No defiance. Only then will you be allowed to endure.”
Ella clenched her fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. She hated this. Hated the way he spoke to her, like she was nothing more than an object, a tool to be used and discarded. But what could she do? She was powerless here, at the mercy of these creatures. She could only nod.
“Yes, Your Grace,” she said through gritted teeth.
Adrian’s smile widened slightly, though there was no warmth in it. “Good,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “I knew you were not foolish.”
He turned away from her, walking back toward the window, his gaze fixed on the moonlit landscape beyond. “You will begin to serve tonight,” he said over his shoulder. “Mr. Hawke will provide you with instructions. And Eleanor…”
Ella looked up, her heart pounding in her chest.
“Do not disappoint me,” he said softly, his voice carrying a quiet threat.
Without waiting for her response, Adrian turned his back to her again, dismissing her as if she were nothing more than an afterthought. The weight of his words hung in the air, heavy and oppressive, as Ella stood frozen in place, unsure of what to do or say.
Finally, Mr. Hawke’s cold voice cut through the silence. “Come,” he said, gesturing for her to follow. “Your duties await.”
Ella forced herself to move, her legs heavy as lead as she turned and followed Mr. Hawke out of the room. Her mind raced with a whirlwind of emotions — fear, anger, frustration and a growing sense of helplessness. She had known this would be difficult, but the reality of her situation was far worse than she had imagined.
As they walked through the dimly lit corridors, Mr. Hawke spoke in his usual cold, detached tone. “Tonight, you will begin your service to the masters of this house,” he said. “Your duties are simple — attend to their needs, whatever they may be. You will do as you are told, without questioning.”
Ella nodded, though the knot in her stomach tightened. “What… what do you mean by their needs?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly. Indeed, she understood exactly what they were talking about, she had been told this more than once, but each time she wanted to believe that it was not real, just her imagination, that this time she would get a completely different answer.
Mr. Hawke’s gaze flicked toward her, and for the first time, there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. “You are here to sustain them, Eleanor,” he said softly, his voice almost mocking. “Your blood will keep them strong. Your obedience will keep you alive.”
Ella could feel the color drain from her face at the moment. She had known, of course, that this was her fate, but hearing it spoken so plainly made the reality of it all the more horrifying. She was nothing more than a vessel to them. A means to an end.
As they descended a narrow staircase into the lower levels of the manor, the air grew colder, and Ella’s breath came out in small puffs of mist. The stone walls seemed to close in around her, and the oppressive weight of her situation pressed down on her chest.
They stopped in front of a heavy iron door and Mr. Hawke produced a large key from his coat pocket. He inserted it into the lock and turned it with a loud, grating sound that echoed through the hallway. The door creaked open, revealing a small, dimly lit chamber beyond.
“This will be your first task,” Mr. Hawke said, gesturing for her to enter. “One of the masters awaits you inside.”
Ella’s heart pounded in her chest as she stepped into the chamber. The air inside was thick with the scent of blood, sharp and metallic, and she could feel her stomach twist with nausea. Her eyes scanned the room, and then she saw him.
Lucien sat in a high-backed chair near the hearth, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he read from a large, leather-bound book. He looked up as she entered, his expression unreadable, though his eyes gleamed with something she couldn’t quite place — curiosity, perhaps, or maybe hunger.
“Come closer, Eleanor,” he said softly, closing his book and placing it aside.
Ella hesitated for a moment, but Mr. Hawke’s presence behind her left with no choice. She stepped closer, her hands trembling at her sides as she stood before him.
Lucien’s gaze roamed over her, and she felt a shiver run down her spine. “You seem frightened,” he murmured, his voice almost gentle. “Do not worry. I won’t hurt you… unless you give me a reason to.”
Ella swallowed hard, her mouth felt like a dried-up lake. “I’m here to… serve,” she said quietly, forcing the words out.
Lucien smiled then, though there was no warmth in it. “Yes,” he said softly. “And serve you will.”
Without warning, he reached out and grabbed her wrist, pulling her closer. His grip was cold, his fingers like iron around her arm. She gasped, trying to pull away, but he held her fast, his eyes locking onto hers with a predatory gleam.
“Do not resist,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “It will only make things worse.”
Ella froze, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts as she felt his cold lips brush against her wrist. She could feel the sharp tips of his fangs pressing against her skin, and for a moment, time seemed to stop. Her heart heavily pounded in her chest once again and she squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for the pain.
But it never came.
Lucien hesitated, his fangs hovering just above her skin, and then he released her wrist, pushing her away with a look of disgust. “You reek of fear,” he said, his voice filled with disdain. “It’s… unappetizing.”
Ella stumbled back, her heart racing as she clutched her wrist to her chest, her eyes wide with shock.
Lucien stood, his gaze cold and calculating as he looked down at her. “You will have to do better than that if you wish to survive here,” he said softly. “Your fear will not protect you.”
Ella stared at him, her mind racing. What had just happened? Why had he stopped?
Before she could even begin to process it, Mr. Hawke stepped forward, his expression as impassive as ever. “Come, Eleanor,” he said. “Your task here is finished.”
Ella nodded, her legs trembling as she followed Mr. Hawke out of the chamber. Her mind was a whirlwind of confusion and fear. She had been prepared for pain, for the worst, but instead… she had been spared.
But why? And for how long?
As she walked through the darkened halls of Blackthorn Manor, Ella couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. The brothers were dangerous, that much was clear, but there was something else at play here — something darker, more sinister than she had imagined.
And she was right in the middle of it.
Ella’s mind reeled as she trailed behind Mr. Hawke, her thoughts a tangled mess of fear, confusion, and bitter frustration. She had expected Lucien to feed on her, to take what he wanted as casually as one might pluck a ripe fruit from a tree. Instead, he had pushed her away, disgusted by her fear. It was humiliating, but also terrifying. What would happen the next time one of the brothers summoned her?
All these thoughts occupied her mind during the next hours spent cleaning, but they were eventually pushed out by the endless task of wiping down all the windowsills and completing various other chores that Mr. Hawke assigned her one after another as soon as she finished the previous one.
At some moment Ella wondered if he was angry with her, though it was unclear why. That thought didn’t linger long though, because after all, now she was just one of the very few servants in this enormous manor.
Her daily routine was fairly simple, just like that of the other of the household staff. With just one difference. Her day and morning time were dedicated to do all of the chores, in the evenings she could get some sleep and at night... Well, she didn’t even want to think about her nighttime duties.
"Rest," Mr. Hawke said after her last task had been done, his voice still flat, emotionless. "You will be summoned again soon. Be prepared."
After such a long and exhausting day, the corridors seemed to stretch endlessly as she walked by, the cold stone walls seemed to whisper secrets, taunting her with the knowledge that she was not just a guest here — she was prey. Each brother held her fate in their hands, and the smallest misstep could mean the end of her life.
Finally, she reached her quarters and collapsed onto the bed. Entire body was trembling with depletion and an overwhelming fear of the night ahead. She felt as if she had barely survived the night before, though she knew this was only the beginning. She thought of Vincent’s angry eyes, Sebastian’s playful cruelty and Raphael’s sorrowful smile. Each of them had a different way of looking at her and each of them posed a different threat.
Ella shivered, pulling her knees to her chest as she curled up. She needed a plan — some way to protect herself. But how could she protect herself in a place like this?
Exhaustion began to pull her under, her body craving rest despite the terror that gnawed at her mind. Her eyes drifted shut and she allowed herself to surrender to slumber, if only for a brief reprieve from the nightmare that awaited her when she woke.
But as soon as she drifted off, she was pulled into another kind of darkness.
She was standing in a vast, unfamiliar chamber, the air thick with the scent of incense and blood. Tall, flickering candles lined the room, casting shadows that seemed to writhe like living things. In the center of the chamber stood an ancient, stone altar, and upon it lay a figure — a woman, pale and still, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Her neck was exposed, two fresh puncture wounds glistening with blood.
Ella stepped forward, her heart racing. She didn’t know why, but she felt drawn to the woman, as if some unseen force was compelling her to approach the altar. With each step, the air grew colder, and the shadows around her began to whisper — unintelligible, but unmistakably threatening.
When she reached the altar, she gasped. The woman’s face came into view and she realized with horror that it wasn’t a stranger lying there.
It was her.
Ella jerked awake, her body drenched in sweat, her heart pounding in her chest. The room was pitch dark, air heavy with silence, but something felt different. The shadows seemed to cling more tightly to the walls and the oppressive atmosphere of the manor weighed down on her like never before. She took a few deep breaths, trying to calm her racing heart. It was just a dream. Just a nightmare.
But then, she heard it. The soft creak of floorboards just outside her door.
Ella froze, her breath catching in her throat. She strained to listen, ears sharp in the silence. At first, she thought it might be Mr. Hawke, returning to summon her once more. But there was something different about these footsteps — softer, lighter, almost… hesitant.
They stopped just outside her door. And this someone started scratching on the door.
Barely audible and short at first, they almost immediately turned into furiously fast scratches on the wooden surface of the door. As if some beast on the other side of the door had smelled her fear and blood, trying to get to the sweet flesh at any cost.
Ella’s heart pounded in her ears as she stared at the door, every nerve in her body on high alert. She waited, her entire body tense, expecting the door to swing open at any moment. But instead, there was a faint scratching sound, as if someone was dragging their fingertips lightly against the wood.
Her blood ran cold.
Whoever — or whatever — was out there, it wasn’t Mr. Hawke or any other maid she might have known.
She swallowed hard, her throat tight with fear and slowly, silently, slid off the bed. She crept toward the door, every instinct screaming at her to stop, to back away, but her feet carried her forward. When she reached the door, she pressed her ear against it, listening closely.
The scratching had stopped.
There was only silence.
For a moment, she wondered if she had imagined it, if her mind was playing tricks on her after the nightmare. But then, just as she was about to step back, a soft, almost inaudible voice whispered through the door.
“Ella…”
Her blood froze in her veins.
It was a voice she didn’t recognize. Soft. Feminine. But filled with an eerie familiarity, as if it was someone she should know. She stared at the door, her breath coming in shallow gasps, and before she could stop herself, her trembling hand reached for the handle.
“Ella…” the voice whispered again, a little louder this time, a little more urgent.
She hesitated, her fingers hovering just above the handle. Every instinct screams to her not to open the door, not to let whatever was on the other side inside. But the voice… it called to her, pulling her forward, despite the fear gnawing at her heart.
Just as her fingers brushed the cold metal, the voice spoke once more, but this time it was a hiss — sharp, cold and filled with malice.
“Run.”
Ella’s heart lurched and she stumbled back from the door just as it rattled violently, as though something had thrown itself against it. The door shook in its frame, the wood groaning under the pressure. Ella let out a gasp, her back hitting the wall as she stared wide-eyed at the door, her mind racing with terror.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the rattling stopped.
Silence.
Ella stood frozen, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she stared at the door, waiting for something — anything — to happen. But there was nothing. The manor was silent once more, as if the disturbance had never occurred.
She remained there, pressed against the wall, too terrified to move. But as she stood there in the dark, the weight of what had just happened settled over her like a suffocating shroud.
Something was wrong in Blackthorn Manor. Something far worse than the brothers, worse than the fate that awaited her as their servant.
And it had just come to her door.