A knock echoed through the quiet room. Eleanor stirred, blinking at the sound.
Her first thought was that it was the maid bringing her breakfast, as usual. But when she opened the door, she was met with an unfamiliar face.
The butler. He was a middle-aged man, tall and composed, with a well-trimmed beard and a polite but unreadable smile.
"Good morning, Miss Eleanor," he greeted. "Master Silas has requested your presence."
She hesitated. Of all the brothers, Silas had been the most unpredictable. He hadn’t treated her with cruelty, but he also wasn’t kind. She couldn’t decide whether he was an enemy or… something else.
Still, refusing was not an option. She gave a short nod and stepped forward—only to realize that she wasn’t just being summoned.
Behind the butler stood a maid, carrying a tray draped in dark velvet. The fabric shifted slightly, revealing a glimpse of deep crimson and gold embroidery.
A dress.
Eleanor frowned. "What’s this?"
"The master requests that you wear it," the butler said smoothly, stepping aside as the maid moved forward. "She will assist you in getting ready."
Her fingers twitched. She wanted to ask why she needed to dress up, but she knew better. The Valerian brothers didn’t give explanations—they gave orders.
The maid, a small woman with quiet eyes, stepped inside. Eleanor let out a slow breath, following her back into the room. She stood still as the maid unwrapped the gown, revealing a masterpiece of silk and lace. It was stunning—too stunning for someone like her.
The maid wasted no time. She worked with quiet efficiency, dressing Eleanor in layers of smooth fabric, tightening the bodice just enough to mold to her shape without suffocating her. Then, she worked on her hair, brushing and twisting it into elegant waves.
By the time Eleanor looked at herself in the mirror, she barely recognized her reflection.
She looked… expensive. Like she belonged in this world of dark luxury and cruel kings.
And she hated it.
The maid stepped back, inspecting her work before giving a small nod.
"The butler will take you now," she said softly.
Eleanor swallowed hard, her pulse quickening.
She followed the butler through the endless corridors, the hem of her dress brushing against the cold stone floors.
She expected him to lead her to a sitting room or a dining hall, but instead, they stopped in front of a set of heavy double doors.
Silas' room.
Eleanor’s stomach twisted.
The butler opened the door for her without a word.
She stepped inside cautiously.
The room was massive—masculine and dark, decorated with deep shades of gray and black. The walls were adorned with paintings that seemed older than time itself, and the air carried a faint scent of cedar and something faintly metallic.
But the room was empty.
Her brows furrowed. Was she in the wrong place? She turned back toward the door, ready to ask the butler if there had been a mistake—And then, he stepped out of the bathroom.
Silas.
Water dripped from his wavy, ink-black hair, sliding down his sculpted chest before disappearing beneath the towel wrapped loosely around his waist.
Eleanor’s breath hitched.
She wanted to look away, but her body betrayed her, her eyes trailing over the hard ridges of his torso, the flex of muscle as he ruffled a hand through his wet hair.
His gaze met hers.
Something flickered in his silver eyes—amusement, perhaps.
"You’re early," he murmured, reaching for a smaller towel to dry his hair.
"I—I was sent here," she said quickly, struggling to sound unaffected.
He smirked. "So obedient."
Heat crawled up her neck.
She clenched her fists. "Why am I here?"
Silas didn’t answer right away. Instead, he moved toward her, his footsteps slow, deliberate.
"You look good," he said casually.
Eleanor’s heart skipped a beat.
It wasn’t just the words—it was the way he said them. Low, smooth, like a secret slipping past his lips.
She swallowed hard, nodding shyly. "Thank you."
Silas stopped a few inches away, his gaze steady.
"Sit," he instructed.
Eleanor hesitated but obeyed, perching on the edge of a velvet chaise.
Silas lowered himself beside her, close enough that she could feel the residual warmth of his skin.
"Tell me," he murmured, tilting his head. "Would you prefer that I take what I want like the others do? Or would you rather I ask?"
Her breath caught.
What?
Her fingers tightened around the fabric of her dress.
He was asking?
None of them had asked before. Lucien had bitten her without hesitation. Dorian had taken his share as if it were his birthright. Cassius had fed from her purely for amusement.
But Silas…
He was giving her a choice.
Her lips parted, but no words came out.
Silas leaned closer, his voice a whisper against her skin. "So?"
Eleanor’s heart pounded.
Against her better judgment, she gave a small nod.
"Go ahead."
His lips curved slightly, as if pleased.
Then, without hesitation, he leaned in.
She tensed, waiting for the pain—waiting for the sharp, brutal sting of fangs sinking deep.
But it never came.
Instead, there was only warmth. A gentle, almost teasing graze of his lips against her skin before his fangs finally broke through.
She gasped.
It was different.
The others had fed on her with raw hunger, but Silas…
Silas tasted her.
It was slow, deliberate—like he was savoring every drop.
And then—
A strange, foreign sound slipped past her lips.
A moan.
She stiffened immediately, horror washing over her.
Silas didn’t pull away. If anything, he seemed to smirk against her skin.
Her pulse fluttered wildly, shame mixing with something she couldn’t name.
When he finally withdrew, his tongue flicked out, sealing the wound before he lifted his gaze to hers.
"That," he murmured, his voice velvet-soft, "was quite the reaction."
Eleanor’s cheeks burned.
She wanted to deny it.
Wanted to say something, anything—
But the words never came. Because Silas was still watching her. And the hunger in his gaze had only deepened.