The rain clattered against the stained glass
windows like a lover desperate to be let in.
Thunder rumbled in the distance echoing
through the forest like a warning.
In the dim candle light of the master
bedroom, Aristarkh Mikhailov was at the edge
on the bed, sweat glistening on his back, his
silver hair clung to his neck, a cigarette in hand,
he took a long drag, his breathing heavy — it
was not from satisfaction, but irritation and
disappointment.
Behind him laid Vivika Dragunova, on the
crimson sheets, her red hair fanned over the
pillow like blood spilled across snow.
"why didn't you cum" she asked, her voice
annoyed and breathless
Aristarkh stood up slowly, took a long drag and
picked up a red robe, tied it around his waist
and walked to the window, looking at the dawn.
"You faked it," he muttered, taking a long drag
of his cigarette.
"I did not!" she snapped, sitting up, her
breast heaving. "You're just insatiable. No one
can please you."
He took another drag of his cigarette and
exhaled the smoke towards the high ceiling.
"No," he said coldly. "They just don't lose
control."
Vivika sneered. "Maybe you're the one that is
broken"
He didn't flinch, just stared at the window,
taking a long drag of his cigarette and exhaling
it.
He walked up to her.
"You can go"
"Go?" She hissed. "You drag—" before she
could finish her sentence, he wrapped his hand
around her neck and slammed her against the
wall. "How dare you question me? How dare
you talk back?!" She gasps for air, struggling
against his grip.
"I-im sorry." she whispered
He took the cigarette and stubbed it on her left
breast.
"Ahhh" she screamed.
"Shh, what did I say about apologies, you know
that I hate that word."
He says coldly and fling the cigarette with his
finger across the room. He released her, letting
her fall to the floor.
"I didn't cum."
the words sliced sharper than any blade.
"Why?"
Vivika asked, confused, rubbing her neck in a
soothing manner, her hands on her left breast
where he stubbed his cigarette
"You didn't squirt"
He pulled out another cigarette, lighting it and
exhaled smoke towards the ceiling
"Don't tell me you're still obsessed about that
thing."
She muttered, annoyed.
He took a long drag of his cigarette
"I want someone who will fall apart in my arms,
who will squirt like a fountain, whose pleasure
is real!" he muttered angrily.
"They're rare, very rare," she said jealously.
"I know," he muttered angrily, taking another
drag of his cigarette.
"I've waited a century, I'm not stopping till I find
her."
"What will happen when you find her?" she
asked curiously with a slightly jealous tone.
He chuckles darkly.
"She won't be able to walk again."
"Leave" he muttered, quietly.
"I hope you don't find her."
She stood up, picking up her clothes and
leaving the room quietly.
Aristarkh walked to the window, took one
more drag of his cigarette— then froze.
A scent.
Not roses. Not blood. Not perfume.
Warm milk and rain. Innocence. Need— a
virgin.
His cigarette fell from his fingers.
He pulled open the cotton quickly. A car had
just arrived at the gates. Through the window,
he saw a girl stepping out, dragging a small
bag behind her.
She looked— young. Nineteen maybe or even
eighteen.
Wet long white hair clung to her cheeks. She
clutched her arms to her chest. One foot
forward into the estate— and his body burned.
His pupils dilate, his body reacts. His fangs
ache, his claws pulse beneath his skin.
She smells like everything he's been hunting.
Innocence. Surrender. Real pleasure.
He wants to taste her— no. He wants to ruin her.
"Mine" he whispered.
His fangs extended.
Downstairs, in the darkness, Anastasia Mireille
stepped through the gates of hell with no idea
what beast she had just awakened.
The entrance hall looked like the belly of a
cathedral, its shadowed walls whispering
secrets in languages long dead. Anastasia
stood there, water dripping from her coat onto
the polished marble floor. Her small fingers
trembled around the handle of her small
suitcase.
A tall woman approached. Grey hair pulled into
a light bun. Cold eyes.
"You're late"— she snapped. "The head maid
doesn't tolerate tardiness"
Masha kazakova. Her reputation had reached
Anastasia even before she entered the estate.
The woman who once slapped a girl for
coming one second late to work.
"I–I'm sorry," I whispered.
"Sorry won't clean the floors."
Masha turned. "Follow me. And don't drag your
feet."
I obeyed, my steps echoed through the long
hallway. The mansion was cold. Silent. I
trembled. It felt less like a home and more like
a den. It felt like the chandelier craft was
watching me. Like someone was watching me.
We passed maids dressed in black, some
stared, others whispered. I caught some
whispers from other maids: "new girl," "pity."
and something else I didn't understand.
Masha stopped in her tracks. "You'll sleep
here."
The room was small, clean, and freezing.
There was a bed, a small bathroom, a small
wardrobe, and an exposed window with no
bars. I bowed my head.
"Thank you," I said quietly
Masha's gaze narrowed. "Your shifts begin at
dawn. You're to do as you're told. You never
enter the West Wing. And you never speak to
Mr. Mikhailov unless spoken to. Understand?"
"Y-yes."
The door closed behind me. I let out the breath
I didn't realize I was holding.
I peeled off my wet coat. Rain was still on my
skin. My white hair clung to my back, curling
slightly from the damp. I removed my clothes
and changed into soft silk wear. I walked to the
small mirror on the wall.
"It's just a job," I whispered to myself. "Three
months, just three months. Just enough to pay
for Anya's treatment."
Lightning cracked outside. I jumped. It's
one of the things I'm scared of.
From the third floor, a shadow moved. Aristarkh
leaned against the wall, his eyes glowing red.
His fangs extended.
He had felt her the moment she crossed the
threshold. Her scent was still in the air. It
disturbed him, it made him
mad, curling around
him like a forbidden melody.
He gritted his teeth, his claws ached to grab
her soul. His fangs craved her blood.
"Control yourself," he muttered.
But the beasts inside him growled with hunger.
She had no idea what she was walking into
and he had no intention of letting her walk out.