Chapter 1
(A Dark Vampire–Witch Tale by Ravenwritesdark)
The rain hadn't stopped for three nights in Victoria Town. It dripped down the cobblestones like veins, slick and restless, as though the heavens themselves bled.
Irene kept her hood drawn low, the hem of her black cloak brushing through puddles. Her boots whispered against the street, and with each step, she murmured a spell under her breath—not for power, but for silence. Her kind wasn't welcome here. Not after what she'd done.
The townspeople called her the girl who cursed the moon.
If only they knew the truth—that it wasn't a curse, but a promise.
A promise to a man who wasn't quite a man anymore.
---
Demian watched from the shadows of the old bell tower, his eyes like cold glass under the lightning. He could smell her before he saw her—honeysuckle and stormwater, threaded with something darker. Magic.
He hadn't felt that scent in a hundred years.
"Witch," he whispered, tasting the word as if it might burn his tongue.
The oath bound around his throat pulsed, an invisible chain forged by the vampire council. He had sworn never to drink the blood of her kind, never to speak to one, never to crave one. The punishment was death—slow, burning, eternal.
Yet here he was.
Watching her.
Wanting her.
---
Irene reached the door of the apothecary, the only place still open this late. The bell above the frame jingled softly when she entered. The scent of herbs filled the room—lavender, rosemary, and something metallic.
"Evening," she murmured to the old woman behind the counter.
The woman only nodded. Her eyes flicked to the symbol burned faintly into Irene's wrist—a crescent moon with a drop of blood at its center.
The mark of a witch.
Irene tugged her sleeve down. "Do you still have wolfsbane?"
Before the woman could answer, the door behind Irene creaked open again. The wind rushed in with the faintest scent of iron.
And death.
She didn't have to turn around to know someone was watching her.
Demian stepped inside. The world seemed to still. His presence drew the air tight, pulled all warmth from the room. Every flickering candle leaned toward him as if in reverence—or fear.
The old woman backed into the corner, whispering prayers to saints long dead.
Irene turned slowly. The moment her eyes met his, she forgot to breathe.
He was beautiful in the kind of way that ruined people—sharp jaw, black hair damp with rain, eyes like smoke and starlight. But there was something ancient in the way he stood, like time itself bowed around him.
"Leaving so soon, witch?" His voice was velvet and danger.
Her throat tightened. "You shouldn't call me that."
"And yet it's what you are."
"I could say the same, vampire."
The word struck him like a blade and a caress all at once. His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Then we're both damned," he said softly.
---
She brushed past him, but he moved quicker—faster than her spell could spark. His hand shot out, catching her wrist. The contact seared them both. Her magic flared, his curse burned, and the scent of smoke filled the air.
"Let go," she hissed.
"Tell me your name."
"You don't need to know it."
"I already do." His gaze darkened. "Irene."
Her pulse faltered. How did he—
"Your mark," he said quietly, brushing his thumb over the faint moon on her skin. "That's not witchcraft. It's blood-binding. Ancient magic. Forbidden."
She yanked free. "You talk as if you understand it."
"I do." His eyes flicked to his own wrist, where a faint scar mirrored hers—the same mark, hidden beneath centuries of guilt. "Because once, long ago, I made that same mark."
Irene froze. "You're lying."
"Am I?"
The air trembled between them.
---
Outside, thunder rolled like the growl of an angry god.
"You shouldn't be here," she said finally. "If your kind finds out—"
"They already have." His eyes glowed faintly red. "They sent me to kill you."
The words landed like ice in her chest.
"Then why haven't you?"
"Because," Demian whispered, stepping closer until her back met the wall, "I don't remember which side I'm on anymore."
Her heartbeat stuttered. He was too close—the space between them crackled, filled with the hum of forbidden magic and unspoken hunger.
"You're dangerous," she breathed.
"So are you."
Lightning flashed, painting them in white fire. His fangs brushed the edge of a smile, but his eyes… his eyes were soft.
She could feel his restraint, like a beast clawing at its cage. Every instinct told her to run. But her soul—her cursed, aching soul—wanted to stay.
---
He leaned in, voice low, trembling. "Do you know what happens when a vampire breaks an oath?"
She shook her head, unable to speak.
"Their heart burns to ash."
He lifted his hand, and she saw the faint smoke rising from his skin where it had touched hers. His veins glowed faintly crimson, veins of fire beneath cold flesh.
And still—he didn't pull away.
"I can't stop," he whispered.
"Then don't," she said before she could stop herself.
---
Their lips almost met when the bell above the door chimed again.
A shadow fell across the room.
"Demian," a voice hissed from the doorway. "What have you done?"
Another vampire stood there—eyes blazing silver, cloak soaked in stormwater, his fangs bared in fury.
Irene instinctively stepped back, but Demian moved in front of her, shielding her with his body.
"Go," he murmured.
"I'm not leaving you."
The other vampire drew a blade that gleamed red with spellfire. "You broke your oath. You touched her."
"Then I'll burn for it," Demian said, his voice steady. "But not before you die."
---
The room exploded into motion. The blade slashed through the air, and Demian caught it with his bare hand, blood spilling across the floor. Irene's spells erupted like lightning, shattering shelves and sending glass flying.
The old woman screamed and fled into the storm.
Demian roared, his eyes now full crimson, as he drove the blade into his attacker's chest. The vampire's body turned to ash before it hit the ground.
The silence afterward was deafening.
Irene's chest heaved. "They'll come for you."
"I know."
"And you'll die."
"Then I'll die knowing what it felt like to touch you."
He stepped closer, blood dripping down his arm, and pressed his forehead to hers. For a heartbeat, they were one—cursed, bound, burning.
Her magic pulsed in response, wild and alive.
"Demian—" she began.
But the words vanished as his eyes rolled back, his body collapsing into her arms. The mark on his wrist glowed once, then dimmed.
She screamed his name, holding him as the storm raged outside, knowing what it meant—
the curse had begun.
---
Outside, the rain finally stopped.
But the blood on the street didn't wash away.
And somewhere in the darkness, a dozen eyes watched from the rooftops, whispering:
"The Bloodspell has returned."
Chapter 2
ASH AND OATH
The third night after meeting him, the rain hadn't stopped. Victoria's sky bled silver and smoke, drenching the streets in a cold, endless whisper. I should've been resting. The potion candles were burning low, and the spellbook before me smelled of old dust and regret. But my mind wasn't here.
It was with him.
Demian.
Every time lightning tore the sky open, I saw his face — that still, unreadable calm in his eyes when he looked at me, like he'd seen centuries pass and yet found something he couldn't name.
I shook my head and shut the book. "You're losing it, Irene."
The words echoed against the silence of my small room. I'd spent my life running from creatures like him, hiding behind wards, pretending that being alone was safer. But since that night… the air itself felt alive. The shadows knew his name.
And so did my heart.
A knock broke through the storm.
Soft. Three times.
My pulse stumbled. No one came here — not this late. I reached for the dagger hidden beneath my bed and whispered a sigil of fire. The flame hovered in the air, small but alive.
When I opened the door, the rain greeted me first — and then he did.
Demian stood there, drenched, his coat clinging to him like liquid night. His pale skin shimmered faintly in the moonlight, his eyes darker than sin.
"Were you expecting someone else?" he asked, voice smooth but hoarse, like he'd been fighting the wind for hours.
I wanted to slam the door shut. Instead, I stepped aside. "Come in before the neighbors start whispering."
He moved past me without a word, the scent of rain and ash trailing behind. For a vampire, he was far too human — or maybe I was too foolish to see the danger anymore.
"You shouldn't be here," I said finally.
"And yet, here I am."
He turned, and in that moment the flame between us flickered. There was something in his gaze — hunger, restraint, and something else entirely. Fear?
"You're bleeding," I said softly, noticing the cut along his neck.
"It's nothing."
"Sit down."
He hesitated, then obeyed. When I touched his skin, I felt the faintest tremor beneath my fingertips — not a heartbeat, but a vibration of something… ancient. My magic stirred, reacting to him again, the same way it had before.
"You risk too much coming here," I whispered, tracing the healing spell along his wound. "If they find out—"
"They already know."
My hand froze. "What?"
"The council," he murmured. "They know about the witch who healed a vampire in the open street. They're watching you now."
My breath caught. "Then why warn me?"
"Because…" He looked at me, and for a heartbeat, his mask slipped. "Because I can't stand the thought of them touching you."
My stomach tightened. I wanted to speak — to push him away, to tell him we were impossible — but my body betrayed me. I could feel the pull again, the invisible thread that tied us together since that first night.
"Demian…"
He stood, closing the space between us until his breath was a ghost on my lips.
"You have no idea what you've done to me, witch," he whispered. "And I'm not sure if I want to be free of it."
My throat went dry. The rain outside grew louder, a steady rhythm matching the storm inside my chest.
"I don't want this," I lied.
He smiled faintly, eyes burning with something darker than desire — something dangerous, like he wanted to burn the world for a single touch.
"You think I do?"
The air between us thickened, pulsing with unspoken truths. I wanted to step back, but his hand brushed my jaw — featherlight, reverent, as though he'd been waiting centuries to memorize the shape of my face.
"Demian," I breathed. "Don't."
"If you tell me to stop," he murmured, "I will."
Silence.
The thunder broke. And I didn't stop him.
His lips didn't reach mine, but they hovered close enough to make me forget my name. His breath carried the faintest scent of iron and winter. I could feel the restraint in his trembling — the beast inside him clawing to break free.
Then he pulled back, jaw tight.
"I can't," he said, almost broken. "If I stay… I'll ruin you."
"Maybe I was ruined long before you came."
He looked at me, eyes glinting like glass cracked under pressure — and then he was gone, the door swinging open to the night.
The rain swallowed him whole.
And I stood there, trembling, the spell candles flickering out one by one — each whispering the same thing through the smoke:
He's not coming back.
CHAPTER 3
THE PULL OF SHADOW
The night after Demian left, I couldn't sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him — the way he looked at me before vanishing into the storm. That moment where he'd almost kissed me but didn't. The kind of restraint that hurt more than the act itself.
The candles had long melted, their smoke lingering in the corners of my small room like ghostly reminders. My magic pulsed restlessly under my skin, whispering his name even though I refused to answer.
But magic never lies.
By dawn, my mirror began to fog on its own, though no spell caused it. In its misty surface, I caught flickers — flashes of him standing near the old cathedral, blood on his hand, eyes haunted. The image faded as quickly as it came, leaving me breathless and shaking.
"Demian…"
I shouldn't have cared. I shouldn't have felt this. Vampires and witches were never meant to touch fates. Our magics corrupted each other — his thirst, my power — like a spark thrown into oil. And yet, something ancient had tethered us.
And I needed to know why.
By evening, I found myself walking through Victoria's narrow streets, the mist curling around my boots. Every shadow seemed alive, whispering, warning, watching. My magic guided me toward the cathedral at the edge of town — a place the living rarely visited.
The air inside was cold enough to bite. The pews were empty, the candles burned low, and the scent of rain mixed with iron.
And there he was.
Leaning against the altar, coat half torn, eyes distant — a fallen god in mortal form.
"You shouldn't have come," he said without looking at me.
"Then stop calling me," I answered quietly.
He finally turned, and for a moment, the world forgot how to breathe. His eyes weren't their usual storm-gray — they glowed faintly red, a sign he hadn't fed in days.
"You saw it, didn't you?" I whispered. "The reflection in my mirror."
His silence was confirmation enough.
"What's happening to me, Demian?" I demanded. "I feel you — even when you're not near. I hear your thoughts sometimes, and I can't sleep without—"
He moved so fast I didn't see it happen until his hand was on my wrist, his touch cold but trembling.
"Because your blood called to mine," he said, voice rough. "You weren't supposed to heal me that night, Irene. You spoke an ancient spell — one even you didn't understand."
My lips parted. "The Binding Oath."
He nodded. "An oath older than death. You tied your soul to mine."
The words shattered something inside me. "You mean I— I'm bound to a vampire forever?"
"Until one of us dies."
The echo of those words filled the cathedral like a tolling bell. My heart lurched painfully — not in fear, but something worse. The kind of ache that came with knowing you could never walk away again.
I stepped back, shaking. "You should've told me."
"I tried. But every time I look at you…" His voice broke. "I forget what's right."
He reached out, brushing a tear from my cheek with the back of his hand. His touch burned — not from heat, but from everything unspoken between us.
"I can't lose control around you, Irene," he whispered. "If I taste your blood, the bond will complete. There'll be no undoing it."
My heart pounded. "And if you don't?"
"Then it'll slowly kill us both."
I swallowed hard. "So, either way, we burn."
He smiled faintly, bitterly. "Yes. Together."
A distant thunder rumbled outside. The stained-glass windows glowed faintly red as lightning flashed across the sky. And for the first time, I saw fear in his eyes — not for himself, but for me.
"Leave Victoria tonight," he said, stepping back. "Forget me. Break the circle. Live."
I shook my head. "You already know I can't."
He looked at me — truly looked at me — and whatever restraint had been holding him together snapped. In two strides, he was in front of me, his breath cold against my skin, his hand sliding behind my neck.
The tension was unbearable, every second stretched thin between fear and need.
"Irene," he whispered, voice trembling. "If I kiss you, I may never stop."
"Then don't stop," I breathed.
The moment hung suspended in the storm. His lips brushed mine — barely — and for one heartbeat, the world shattered into light and shadows.
Then he tore himself away, fangs bared, eyes glowing crimson.
"You have no idea what you've done."
And before I could speak, the candles blew out — every flame extinguished in an instant.
When I reached for him through the darkness, he was gone.
But his voice lingered, a whisper carried by the wind:
"The binding has begun."
CHAPTER 4
THE HUNGER BETWEEN US
The night after the cathedral, my sleep was no longer mine.
Every time I closed my eyes, I fell into him — into Demian's shadowed world. His hunger, his rage, his loneliness. I could feel it, every pulse of thirst tearing through his veins. And beneath it all, the echo of my own heartbeat answering his.
The Binding had begun.
I woke with blood under my nails and a whisper in my ear that wasn't my own. The candle beside my bed had melted into the shape of two faces — one screaming, one silent. The air stank faintly of iron.
When I touched my throat, I found a faint mark — not a wound, not quite — but a burn shaped like the edge of fangs.
Demian hadn't bitten me. But his hunger had found me anyway.
By dusk, I could no longer tell where my emotions ended and his began. I would feel a wave of fury for no reason, or grief so sharp it drove me to my knees. My magic, once steady, now flickered like dying embers.
And through it all, I heard him whisper:
"Don't look for me."
I ignored him.
Victoria Town was different at night now — colder, emptier. People whispered of strange deaths, of figures moving through alleys, of eyes gleaming in mirrors. The shadows seemed to stretch further than they should.
I found him where the town met the forest — standing beneath the weeping willows, drenched in moonlight. His shirt was torn, his eyes a feverish red, veins dark against his throat.
"You shouldn't be here," he rasped.
"You keep saying that," I said softly. "But I always am."
He turned sharply, and I saw what he'd been hiding — blood smeared across his hands. My chest tightened.
"Tell me you didn't—"
"I didn't," he snapped. "Not human blood. Not tonight."
The way he said tonight sent chills down my spine.
He took a step closer, the scent of rain and iron swirling around us. His control was cracking. Every breath he took seemed to cost him something.
"You're feeling it too, aren't you?" he murmured. "The ache in your throat. The burning behind your ribs. It's the bond, Irene. My hunger becomes yours."
He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from my face. His hand trembled. "You should hate me for this."
"I don't."
That broke something inside him. His gaze softened, tortured. "You don't know what you're saying."
"Then show me," I whispered.
The silence between us was thick with want and danger. He stepped closer, his breath cold against my neck. For a moment, he just stood there, trembling. His lips brushed my skin, not biting — only breathing me in.
I could feel his restraint like a blade.
His voice was a prayer and a curse.
"If I take your blood, I'll damn us both."
I turned my face toward him. "Then what happens if you don't?"
He closed his eyes. "We'll die slow."
The words made me shiver — not from fear, but from something darker. A pull that felt older than choice.
I reached up and placed my hand against his chest. His heart — cold, yet somehow alive — stuttered beneath my palm.
"I'd rather burn with you," I said quietly.
His control shattered.
He kissed me then — not gentle, not safe, but desperate. The kind of kiss that tasted of sorrow and fire, the kind that stripped the world away until there was nothing but his mouth and my heartbeat and the ruin between us.
The air around us trembled, crackling with magic. My power flared — his hunger surged.
And for a moment, I swore I could feel eternity itself leaning closer to watch.
Then — pain.
White-hot and endless.
A searing pulse shot through the bond, throwing us apart. Demian staggered back, clutching his chest. I screamed, feeling something tear inside me — as though the bond had been struck by lightning.
When I opened my eyes, a sigil was burning faintly on the ground between us — a mark neither of us had drawn.
He stared at it, horror darkening his face.
"They've found us," he whispered.
"Who?" I gasped.
"The Council of Blood. They know a witch bound a vampire. And they're coming — for you."
He grabbed my arm, his touch trembling but fierce.
"Run, Irene. Now."
And before I could answer, something moved in the dark — eyes like silver knives watching from the trees.
The night around us broke open with a sound like wings.
CHAPTER 5
THE PULSE BENEATH HER SKIN
The forest had gone quiet—too quiet. Even the wind held its breath. Irene stood there, heart trembling against her ribs, her hand still pressed where Demian had touched her. She could feel it now, not just warmth… but something alive. His darkness was threading through her veins like a whispered secret she wasn't supposed to hear.
Demian watched her from the shadows. His eyes were no longer human—silver bleeding into black, like the moon drowning in ink. "You shouldn't feel it," he murmured. "Witches don't feel what vampires give."
"I'm not like the others," she whispered back.
He stepped closer—slowly, like a predator afraid to spook its prey. "That's what terrifies me."
When his hand brushed her jaw, the air crackled. It wasn't magic. It was them. Her pulse matched his unnatural rhythm. Every time he blinked, she felt it in her bones, like he existed inside her instead of before her.
"I should leave," she said, though her feet betrayed her, frozen in place.
"Then go," Demian breathed, though his voice broke slightly. "Before I forget what mercy feels like."
Irene tilted her head. "Would you hurt me?"
He smiled then, but it wasn't kind. "I already am."
For a moment, neither moved. The silence between them was a living, dangerous thing. Then she reached up, brushing her fingers across his throat—the place his heartbeat should've been. Nothing. And yet, she felt the echo of it in hers.
"What are you doing to me?" she asked, voice soft, breaking.
He stepped back like her touch burned him. "I told you not to come here."
"But you wanted me to," she said, eyes glinting with defiance and fear. "You called me here without words."
He froze. "How do you—?"
"I heard you," she cut in. "In my dreams. In my mind. You said my name before I ever saw your face."
Demian's expression fractured—half pain, half awe. "Then it's worse than I thought." His gaze dropped to her chest, to the faint silver light pulsing beneath her skin. "You're marked."
Before she could ask what he meant, he vanished—wind rushing past her, leaves swirling, her hair lifting as if the night itself gasped.
And there, in the sudden darkness, a whisper lingered in her ear—his voice, distant but near enough to feel:
> "Run, Irene. Before they find out what you've become."
The forest sighed around her, and when she looked down—her veins shimmered faintly silver, like moonlight had crawled inside her skin.
CHAPTER 6
THE SILVER VEIN
The storm had passed, but Irene woke to the echo of thunder still rolling in her chest. The candle beside her bed had burned itself into a puddle of wax, long forgotten. Her breath hitched as she pushed herself upright—her nightgown clinging to damp skin.
That's when she saw it.
The faint glow beneath her skin—threaded like silver lightning through her veins.
It pulsed softly in time with her heartbeat.
Her breath trembled. "What did you do to me, Demian…"
The whisper of his name felt like an invocation—half prayer, half curse. And even as fear crept up her spine, a strange longing followed it, warm and electric. She touched her wrist where the veins shone brightest and felt a pulse that wasn't entirely hers.
The room shivered. Shadows rippled on the wall, and for a heartbeat she thought he was there again—but it wasn't him. The air was colder, heavier. And then came the knock.
Three slow, deliberate taps.
Her body went still.
Nobody ever knocked at this hour. Not in Victoria Town, where night belonged to things best left unseen.
She wrapped her shawl tighter and moved to the door.
"Who's there?"
Silence. Then a voice, smooth as smoke:
> "You don't know me, but I'm looking for someone… a witch named Irene."
Her pulse stumbled. "Who's asking?"
The door creaked open on its own, and standing there was a man—tall, pale, with eyes that glowed faintly gold in the candlelight. Not Demian's cold silver, but warmer, stranger.
"I'm Ezra," he said softly. "Demian sent me."
The air left her lungs. "He—he left. He told me to run."
Ezra stepped forward, and the candle flickered violently. "You can't run from what's inside you now. He marked you, Irene. The bond is sealed."
Her throat tightened. "What bond?"
Ezra's gaze darkened, sympathy shadowing his expression.
> "The kind that kills one when the other breaks it."
The candle blew out. Darkness swallowed the room whole.
And in that silence, Irene realized something she hadn't before—
the pull she felt toward Demian wasn't just desire.
It was survival.
CHAPTER 7
WHISPERS IN THE BLOOD
The darkness pressed close, breathing with her. Irene's pulse was loud in her ears, frantic as she fumbled for another candle. When she finally struck a match, the light trembled against Ezra's face—half-illuminated, half-lost in shadow.
He looked older now that she could see him properly. Not in years, but in weariness. His golden eyes flickered, like they were hiding things too heavy to bear.
"I don't understand," Irene whispered. "Why would Demian do this to me?"
Ezra watched the flame between them. "Because he didn't have a choice."
Her breath caught. "You're lying."
"I wish I was." He stepped closer, the scent of rain and smoke clinging to his coat. "The bond was never meant to be made with a witch. It unravels the moment it's formed. But Demian—" he paused, his jaw tightening, "he's always been reckless with what he wants."
"And you?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. "What do you want?"
Something flickered in his gaze. Regret? Longing? "To make sure you survive the consequences."
Irene's heartbeat stumbled. "You're helping me?"
He smiled faintly. "Helping him. It's the same thing."
Her stomach knotted. "So you're one of his kind."
"Not exactly." His voice was low, careful. "Let's just say… I've been where he is now. Once, long ago."
The way he said it made her skin prickle. Once, long ago.
The air between them grew tight, charged.
"Tell me what's happening to me, Ezra," she demanded. "These veins—this pull—why can't I stop thinking about him?"
Ezra stepped even closer, until the candlelight caught on the faint shimmer of veins running along his wrist—the same silver glow as hers.
Her lips parted in shock. "You—"
He covered her hand gently, pressing her fingers to the mark pulsing under his skin. His touch was cold, steady, and heartbreakingly human all at once.
> "Because you're bound by the same curse that once destroyed me," he said softly.
"And if Demian doesn't break it soon, it'll destroy him too."
The candle sputtered and went out again, leaving them in thick silence—breath mingling, heartbeats trembling in sync.
And in the dark, Irene felt something deeper than fear—
something forbidden stirring between them.
CHAPTER 8
THE BLOOD BETWEEN US
The storm came without warning.
A crack of thunder split the night, shaking the windows so violently that the single candle on Irene's table toppled over and went out. She gasped, her hand still resting where Ezra had held it moments ago.
But he was no longer standing in front of her.
"Ezra?" she whispered.
No answer—only the heavy sound of rain pounding against the roof. Then, beneath the thunder, came something else. A low hum. The kind that crawled beneath your skin before you understood it was power—ancient, furious, and very, very close.
Her chest tightened. She knew that presence before she even turned.
Demian.
The door burst open, flung by an unseen force. The storm's wind spiraled into the room like it was bowing to him. His dark coat clung to his frame, rain dripping down his sharp jawline. His eyes glowed like wildfire in the shadows.
Ezra reappeared beside her instantly, his expression tense. "He's not supposed to—"
"Step away from her," Demian's voice cut through him. It wasn't shouted. It was deep, quiet—and more terrifying than a scream.
Ezra didn't move. "If you touch her in this state, you'll kill her."
Demian's gaze shifted to Irene. It softened—barely—but the fury beneath it trembled like something barely restrained.
"You think I don't feel what she feels?" he said, voice rough.
"Every pulse, every breath, every flicker of fear—it burns through me like poison."
He took a slow step forward, eyes never leaving hers. "You weren't supposed to leave the warded grounds."
Irene's throat went dry. "You think I wanted this?" Her voice broke, trembling but defiant. "You bound me without asking—"
Demian's hand slammed into the wall beside her, inches from her face. The air between them hissed—electric, alive. His eyes flickered red. "I bound you because I had to. Because you were dying."
"Then unbind me," she whispered.
For a moment, he didn't breathe. Then, lowly, "You don't know what you're asking."
Ezra moved forward. "Demian, stop. She's not ready to hear what happens if—"
"Stay out of this," Demian snarled. His hand shot out, faster than sight, grabbing Ezra by the collar. "You've interfered enough."
Irene's chest heaved. The candle rolled across the floor, sparks flaring as the flame returned for an instant—casting them all in trembling light.
"You think you're saving her," Demian hissed, "but you're only reminding me what I could lose."
And then his gaze snapped back to Irene—wild, pained, desperate.
"You don't belong in his shadow," he said softly.
"You belong to me."
The light blew out again.
And in that final moment of darkness, Irene didn't know what terrified her more—
the power in his voice…
or the way her heart agreed with him.
CHAPTER 9
TETHERED IN SHADOWs
Lightning split the sky again. For a heartbeat, Irene saw both men — one cloaked in rage, the other in light. Then the thunder rolled, swallowing the room into silence.
Demian's hand still gripped Ezra's shirt. His knuckles were white, jaw clenched. Irene could feel the air bending around them, charged with something ancient — like the world itself held its breath.
"Let him go," she said quietly.
Demian's crimson gaze flicked to her, and something in his expression fractured. He released Ezra with a low growl, turning away.
"Why do you keep following me?" Irene whispered. "Why can't you just—let me be?"
He turned slowly, his eyes glinting with something far too human to be rage. "Because when you're near, every instinct I buried claws its way back. You burn through my restraint like sunlight through ash."
Her breath caught. "And if I burn you to nothing?"
Demian stepped closer, the sound of his boots drowned by the storm. "Then I'll thank the fire for letting me feel alive again."
She should have stepped back. She didn't.
He reached out, fingertips brushing the side of her neck — just above the pulse that betrayed her fear and longing. His touch was cold, yet her skin burned under it.
> "You shouldn't want this," he murmured.
"You're a witch. I'm everything your blood was taught to destroy."
"And yet," Irene breathed, her voice trembling, "you're the only one who ever made me feel seen."
Demian's thumb paused against her throat. His eyes darkened, the red fading into something softer—something dangerous in its tenderness.
Ezra shifted behind them. "Demian—"
"Leave," Demian said, not looking away from her.
Ezra hesitated, then vanished into the storm outside, the door slamming shut behind him.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the rain and the uneven rhythm of their breaths.
Demian leaned closer, his voice a low whisper that trembled with restraint.
"If I take one more step, I won't stop. Not this time."
Her heart pounded, not in fear — but in the pull of something she couldn't name. "Then don't," she whispered.
His hand curled around the back of her neck, his forehead pressing against hers. His breath was cold against her lips, his voice breaking.
"You don't understand. If I claim you… your soul will no longer be yours."
"And if I already gave it to you?" she asked softly.
A flash of lightning illuminated his face — torn between agony and desire.
Then, just as his lips grazed hers, the candles in the room flickered to life on their own.
Every flame turned blue.
Demian froze. His eyes widened — not in lust this time, but in recognition.
"Irene…" he whispered. "What have you done?"
CHAPTER 10
THE TASTE OF DAMNATION
Demian had seen many kinds of fire in his long life — holy, cursed, and everything in between.
But never that blue.
Never hers.
The color was wrong — too alive, too aware.
It wasn't the witch's flame of destruction; it was the veil's fire, born only when two souls — one damned, one chosen — intertwined beyond redemption.
And he had just lit it.
Irene stood before him, her eyes reflecting that eerie glow, her hair whipping around her face like smoke caught in a storm. Her pulse was steady, unafraid. The power that radiated from her made even his immortal body tremble.
> "Demian," she said softly. "What is this?"
He swallowed hard. He'd forgotten what fear felt like until now.
> "It's a bond," he rasped. "Not one you can break."
Her brow furrowed. "You mean—"
"You've tied your soul to mine."
The words tasted like ash on his tongue. He had spent centuries running from this — from the curse that said the first witch to share her light with him would seal both their fates.
He'd thought it was just a prophecy. A lie whispered by the dead to torment him.
Until she came.
"You knew this could happen," she whispered, her voice trembling not from fear, but something darker.
"I did." He looked away, jaw tight. "That's why I tried to stay away."
Lightning flared again — the blue flames flickered with it, casting their shadows together on the wall.
Two silhouettes, bound by something older than life.
He stepped back, trying to resist the pull, but the bond yanked him forward again — a sharp pain searing through his chest. He winced, clutching it.
Irene rushed to him. "Demian!"
"Don't—" he warned, but she touched him anyway. The pain vanished instantly, replaced by warmth. Too much warmth.
His heart — long silent — beat once.
He froze. So did she.
The sound was faint but unmistakable — a heartbeat from a creature who had no right to have one.
"What did you do to me?" he breathed, staring at her as if she were both salvation and doom.
"I… I don't know," she said softly.
But he could see it now.
In the flicker of her eyes, in the glow of the flames, in the trembling of his cursed pulse —
She wasn't just a witch.
She was the one foretold to either end his curse… or awaken the monster he'd spent centuries burying.
And by touching him — by caring for him — she had already chosen.
CHAPTER 11
THE WHISPER OF THE FIRST WITCH
Demian didn't sleep that night.
Vampires rarely did, but this was different.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her — Irene — standing in that circle of blue flame, her power brushing against his soul like silk and smoke. Her voice still echoed inside his mind.
And worse — so did another voice.
One he hadn't heard in over three hundred years.
"You can't kill what was born for you, my love…"
He sat up, breath ragged, his chest aching. "No," he hissed under his breath. "Not her. Not again."
He rose from the chair, moving through the candlelit library of his manor. The portraits on the walls seemed to watch him — the ghosts of his past, painted in oil and regret. His hand hovered over one in particular: a pale woman with hair black as midnight, her lips painted in blood.
Seraphine.
The first witch. The woman who had cursed him with immortality — and damned herself in the process.
Her eyes followed him even now, cold and beautiful.
"You wanted eternity, didn't you?"
"You wanted power enough to destroy the gods who took me from you?"
His hand clenched. "And you gave it, didn't you?" he murmured bitterly. "But you never said I'd carry your curse too."
He turned sharply, sensing movement. A ripple of energy brushed the air — not Irene's, but older, heavier, familiar.
He froze.
"Still brooding, my beautiful monster?"
The voice came from nowhere, yet everywhere. A whisper that slithered down his spine.
He didn't need to look to know who it was.
Seraphine.
The air thickened, and from the shadows behind him, her form began to take shape — translucent, but unmistakably her. The same cruel smile. The same eyes that once burned with forbidden love.
"You can't be here," he growled. "You were destroyed."
Her laugh was low, melodic, and venomous.
"Destroyed? No, darling. Bound."
"And you just freed me."
Demian's blood ran cold.
"The witch," he whispered. "Irene."
Seraphine's smile widened.
"She carries my lineage. My magic. My heart reborn in mortal flesh."
He stumbled back, horror flashing through his eyes. "No."
"Yes."
"And when your blood touched hers, the circle completed. You didn't just bind your souls…" — she stepped closer, her voice a purr — "…you woke me."
The candles around them flared blue, just like Irene's fire.
And for the first time in centuries, Demian realized —
he hadn't escaped his curse.
He had passed it on.
CHAPTER 12
THE WHITCH IN HER DREAMS
Irene woke to darkness.
Not the soft kind that follows sleep — this one breathed. It pulsed around her like fog laced with whispers.
At first, she thought it was another nightmare. The kind she'd had since she was a child, when shadows used to crawl beneath her bed whispering her name. But this time, the voice was different.
Familiar. Intimate.
Beautiful.
"Irene…"
She sat up sharply, heart pounding. "Who's there?"
"Don't be afraid, little flame."
"I've been waiting… such a long time to meet you."
Her breath hitched.
The air shimmered, and from the mirror across the room, a woman's reflection began to form — not hers, but someone else's. Pale skin, hair like spilled ink, and eyes that seemed to see through her.
"You carry my blood," the reflection said softly.
"And he carries my sin."
Irene stepped closer to the mirror despite the fear twisting in her gut. "Who are you?"
"The one who loved him before you did."
The voice made her knees weak. "Demian…"
The reflection smiled.
"He never told you, did he? How he begged for power — for me — and when I gave it, he destroyed me."
"No…" Irene whispered. "You're lying."
"Am I?"
"Tell me, when you touched him, did you feel it — the burn in your veins, the ache behind your ribs?"
Her chest throbbed as if invisible fingers gripped her heart.
"That's me, little witch. I live in you now."
The mirror cracked. The reflection fractured into a thousand pieces — but the voice didn't stop. It slipped into her mind, wrapping around her thoughts like smoke.
"He thinks he can protect you. He thinks love will save you."
"But love is what damns him."
Irene screamed, clutching her head — and that's when Demian burst through the door.
He didn't knock, didn't speak. He just felt it — the magic crawling across the walls like fire.
Her eyes lifted to his. They were glowing faintly blue.
Seraphine's color.
He froze. "No… Irene…"
She looked terrified, tears cutting down her face. "Demian… she's in me."
He crossed the room in a blur, catching her as she fell. Her pulse beat frantically beneath his hands — alive, human, but tainted.
"It's my fault," he whispered, voice breaking. "I should never have touched you."
Her fingers clutched his shirt, trembling.
"Then don't let go," she said weakly. "Not now."
But behind her words, another voice whispered through the room — sweet and deadly.
"Hold her close, my love."
"Because when the sun rises… you'll lose her."
The candles blew out.
And the manor fell silent, except for Irene's uneven breaths — and Demian's heart breaking for the second time in his immortal life.
CHAPTER 13
THE WHITCH BENEATH HER SKIN
The morning came gray and heavy, mist curling through the windows of Demian's manor like restless spirits. Irene sat by the cracked mirror, staring at her reflection.
Her face looked the same — pale, fragile, human.
But her eyes weren't hers anymore.
Faint traces of blue lingered beneath the brown, like a secret the light couldn't wash away.
Behind her reflection, she saw her again — Seraphine — standing half in shadow, half in memory.
"He'll never forgive himself when he finds out,"
the witch whispered.
"Do him a kindness, Irene. Keep it hidden."
"I'm not you," Irene said, her voice trembling.
"You will be."
The sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor — Demian. His presence filled every room before his body did, a coldness that always carried warmth only for her.
She hurried to her feet, forcing a smile as he entered.
He studied her face carefully, as if searching for something he couldn't name.
"You didn't sleep," he murmured.
"I'm fine."
"You're lying."
He reached out, brushing his fingers against her wrist. She flinched — not from pain, but from the sudden surge of energy that rippled through her. The mark where he'd touched her last night still burned faintly under her skin.
He noticed.
"You're cold," he said softly. "Let me—"
"I said I'm fine."
Her voice was sharper than she intended. His eyes darkened — not with anger, but hurt.
For a moment, she almost told him everything. About the mirror. The voice. The ache in her chest that wasn't her own.
But Seraphine's whisper coiled through her thoughts again:
> "He'll chain you. Like he chained me."
So Irene smiled — too quickly, too bright. "I'm just tired. That's all."
He didn't believe her, but he didn't press. Instead, he stepped back, his jaw tight, and turned away.
"I'll be downstairs," he said quietly. "There's something I need to find."
When he left, she sank to the floor, gripping her hair.
"Leave me alone," she whispered.
"You don't mean that," Seraphine breathed.
"You feel me, don't you? The power… the hunger."
Irene's hands shook. The air around her shimmered faintly — the curtains lifting without wind, the mirror humming low.
"Demian killed me for loving him," Seraphine said.
"You think you'll survive it?"
Tears blurred Irene's vision as her reflection smiled with her face.
"Soon, little flame," the witch whispered.
"You'll understand why I burned the world for him."
Downstairs, Demian paused mid-step — the faint scent of witchfire curling through the air again. His eyes flashed crimson.
"Irene…"
And upstairs, the witch inside the woman smiled.
CHAPTER1 4
THE TASTE OF HER SOUL
The manor was silent, but Demian could hear the heartbeat.
Her heartbeat.
It echoed faintly through the walls, a rhythm that didn't belong to one being anymore — two heartbeats woven in one fragile body.
He followed the sound to her room.
The door was ajar, the air thick with the faint scent of burned lavender and blood.
She was asleep — or pretending to be. Her hair spilled across the pillow like a dark river, her hand curled near her lips. But her aura was wrong.
Flickering. Splitting.
Demian stepped closer, kneeling beside her. He brushed his knuckles along her cheek — cold. Too cold.
His gaze drifted to her throat. The faint outline of a rune glowed beneath the skin, one he hadn't placed there.
A binding sigil.
Old. Forbidden.
He froze. "No…"
The mirror across the room rippled.
And in it, she smiled — not Irene.
"Hello again, my sweet monster," Seraphine purred from the reflection.
"Did you miss me?"
Demian's body tensed, his fangs flashing before he caught himself. "You're dead."
"You made sure of that once," she whispered. "And yet—here I am. Breathing through the girl you pretend not to love."
He clenched his fists, every muscle trembling with centuries of regret. "If you harm her—"
"Harm her?" The witch laughed softly. "She invited me in. You should have seen her—crying for strength, begging to be enough for you. I simply gave her what you never could."
The lamp beside the bed shattered.
Irene stirred, gasping awake — unaware of the storm raging inside her room.
"Demian?" Her voice was soft, frightened. "What happened?"
He turned to her, and for a heartbeat, everything inside him warred — fear, love, rage. "You… you called something, didn't you?"
Her lips parted. "I don't understand."
But her eyes flickered blue — not for long, just a flash. Enough for him to see Seraphine smiling back.
Demian's voice dropped to a whisper, broken.
"I swore I'd never lose you again. And now, I'm losing both of you."
She touched his face, her hands trembling. "Demian, what are you—"
And then she flinched, her breath catching as a whisper slid through her mind:
"Don't tell him, little flame. He'll end us both."
She swallowed the truth, forcing a trembling smile.
"I'm fine. Really."
Demian stepped back, his gaze hollow and haunted.
"No," he murmured. "You're not."
As he left the room, her reflection turned toward her again — Seraphine's smile sharper than before.
"He'll come for me," she whispered.
"And when he does, Irene… we'll see who he truly chooses."
The candlelight flickered once — and the witch's laughter echoed long after it died.
CHAPTER 15
WHEN SHADOWS LEARN TO BREATHE
The nights grew longer after that.
Demian stopped sleeping.
And Irene stopped being Irene.
It was in the way she moved — slower, deliberate, like each step was measured against a memory that wasn't hers.
The air around her pulsed with faint static, candles dimming whenever she entered the room.
Sometimes she hummed old melodies — ones only witches would know.
On those nights, Demian stood in the doorway and watched in silence, his heart aching as he realized he was falling for someone who might not even exist anymore.
Tonight was worse.
She sat by the window, her skin glowing faintly silver under the moonlight.
When Demian entered, she didn't turn.
"You shouldn't look at me like that," she murmured.
"Like what?" His voice was low, cautious.
"Like I'm still yours to save."
He froze.
The words weren't Irene's.
They were soft, velvet-edged — too knowing. Too ancient.
He stepped closer, his jaw tightening. "Seraphine."
She turned then, her eyes shimmering blue beneath Irene's lashes.
"I told you I'd find a way back to you, didn't I?"
He swallowed hard, forcing control. "Let her go."
"Why should I? You never loved me like this when I was alive."
Her lips curved — Irene's lips, but wrong. "But now… now you tremble for me."
"I'm trembling for her," he hissed, his voice raw.
Seraphine's laughter filled the room, low and soft. She rose, her fingers trailing along his chest — and for a second, Irene's soul flickered beneath the surface, crying out silently.
"Do you feel it?" Seraphine whispered. "Every heartbeat, every breath she takes, I'm inside it. And the more you touch her, the more of me you awaken."
Demian grabbed her wrist — not roughly, but as if trying to hold onto a ghost.
"I'll destroy you before I let you take her."
"Destroy me?" she whispered, leaning in close, her breath against his lips. "You tried that once, remember how that ended?"
And before he could pull away, she kissed him.
The world spun — not passion, but power.
He saw flashes — the old burning circle, the night Seraphine died, his fangs red with guilt.
When he pushed her back, Irene gasped, collapsing to the floor. Her eyes cleared for a brief, desperate second.
"Demian—help me—"
Then they rolled back, her voice replaced by a whisper that was not hers:
"She's mine now."
The windows shattered, throwing shards across the room.
Demian stood still, staring at the woman he loved — and the monster inside her.
And for the first time in a century, the immortal vampire felt powerless.
CHAPTER 16
THE WITCH OF ASH AND BONE
The forest outside Victoria town was a graveyard for the forgotten.
Twisted roots clawed through the earth like fingers trying to escape the soil.
Mist hung heavy, swallowing every step Demian took.
He hadn't been here in over a hundred years.
Not since the night everything went wrong — the night Seraphine burned.
And yet here he was again, walking straight into the jaws of the past.
He stopped before a crooked cottage lit by a single candle.
The air smelled of salt and blood — the scent of old magic.
"You shouldn't have come back, vampire."
The voice came from within, soft and mocking.
Demian stepped forward, his eyes glowing faint amber.
"Elarra."
The door creaked open on its own, revealing the witch who had cursed him once and vanished into legend.
Her hair was silver now, her face untouched by age.
And when she looked at him, her smile was cruel and knowing.
"Still haunted by your mistakes?" she asked.
"Or did you come to make another one?"
Demian's jaw tightened. "She's possessed."
"They usually are, when you fall for them."
He ignored her jab and tossed an amulet onto the table — blackened with blood. "Seraphine."
Elarra's eyes widened slightly. "Ah… so the dead queen of fire found her way back."
"She's inside Irene," he said, his voice low, edged with pain. "I need to separate them."
The witch chuckled darkly.
"Separation magic? You know the cost. One soul must break for the other to survive."
"I'll pay it."
Her expression shifted — not pity, but curiosity. "Even if it's hers that dies?"
Demian's silence was the answer.
"Then you haven't changed," Elarra murmured, walking around him like a predator. "Still willing to ruin everything you touch in the name of love."
He caught her wrist, his fangs barely visible. "You owe me."
She smiled faintly. "I owe you nothing, vampire. You took everything from me."
The room darkened, the candle flickering wildly.
Demian stepped closer, his voice trembling now — not from anger, but desperation.
"She's not like Seraphine. She's innocent. I can't lose her too."
Something in his voice made Elarra pause.
After a long silence, she spoke again — quieter this time.
"There is one way," she said. "But it will bind your soul to hers forever. If she dies, you die. If she falls, you fall with her."
Demian didn't hesitate. "Tell me what to do."
Elarra stared at him for a long moment, then whispered,
"You'll regret those words before the dawn."
She turned toward her shelves, the shadows deepening.
And in the far corner of the room, unseen, the wind carried a faint whisper — Irene's voice, weak and frightened:
"Demian… don't do this."
But he had already chosen.
And outside, the moon turned blood-red.
CHAPTER 17
THE AWAKENING
The world came back to Irene in fragments.
Smoke.
Whispers.
The taste of salt and blood thick on her tongue.
She was lying on a stone altar draped in torn velvet, her wrists glowing faintly gold — restrained by threads of ancient spellwork.
Her vision swam, and through the haze, she saw him.
Demian.
Kneeling in front of the witch, shirtless, runes carved deep across his chest — each one burning brighter with every breath.
A crimson mark pulsed over his heart.
Her name.
"Demian," she rasped, struggling to sit up. "What—what are you doing?"
Elarra didn't look at her. She was chanting in a language older than time, her voice low and smooth like a hymn for the damned.
The candle flames turned black.
The air was thick with something heavy — the scent of old, dangerous love.
Demian's head lifted, his eyes glowing amber.
"Irene," he whispered. "Don't fight it. It's the only way."
She shook her head weakly, tears slipping down her temples. "No… you can't—"
"You're dying," he said, voice breaking. "Seraphine's spirit is feeding on you. You'll be gone by dawn."
"Then let me go," she cried. "Don't trade your life for mine."
He smiled faintly — that quiet, ruinous smile she'd fallen for.
"Too late."
Elarra's voice rose sharply, the words echoing like thunder. The ground shuddered beneath them.
Demian gasped — the runes on his chest flared white-hot, the smell of burning flesh filling the air.
The magic surged from him, a torrent of light and darkness entwined.
It poured into Irene.
She screamed — not in pain, but in unbearable emotion.
Love. Grief. Terror. All colliding at once.
And then… silence.
Her bonds dissolved.
The witch stopped chanting.
Smoke curled around the room like a living thing.
Irene sat up slowly, shaking, her body glowing faintly gold.
Demian was lying still on the floor — pale, unmoving, eyes half-open as if staring into a dream he could never leave.
She crawled to him, her trembling hands cupping his face.
"Demian… please," she whispered. "Don't do this to me. You promised you'd stay."
His lips barely moved.
"I am… with you."
Then his body dissolved into mist — black, soft, curling into her palms — and sank into her skin.
Elarra's eyes widened, stepping back in horror.
"No… he didn't just bind you. He became you."
The witch's candle went out, leaving the room in darkness.
And when Irene looked up, her reflection in the window was no longer hers alone.
Amber eyes gleamed back at her — Demian's eyes.
"You're not alone anymore," his voice whispered inside her head.
"But now, we both belong to the curse."
Outside, thunder broke the silence — and the forest seemed to bow before the storm.
CHAPTER 18
THE VOICE BENEATH HER SKIN
The first night after the ritual, Irene couldn't sleep.
Every time she closed her eyes, she felt him.
Not just remembered — but felt.
A flicker of warmth along her pulse.
A voice brushing against the edge of her thoughts.
A phantom heartbeat that wasn't hers.
She sat up in bed, clutching the sheets to her chest, breathing unevenly.
The moonlight poured through the cracked window, silvering her tears.
Her body felt wrong — like she was half-herself and half-something else.
"You shouldn't cry," came the voice, low and familiar.
She froze.
"Demian?"
"Always you," he whispered.
"Always in you."
Her breath hitched.
She pressed a trembling hand against her chest — her heart raced, but underneath it pulsed another rhythm, slower, steadier, older.
His.
"What did you do to me?" she whispered.
"Saved you," he said softly. "And damned us both."
Her reflection in the mirror rippled — her eyes flashed gold for an instant before fading back to hazel.
She stumbled to her feet, shaking.
"You're not supposed to be here. You're dead."
A laugh, quiet and broken, filled the room.
"You think death could keep me from you? I gave you my soul, Irene. You carry me now — in every breath, every thought."
Her knees buckled, the room spinning.
"I can't— I can't live like this. Get out of my head!"
"If I leave, you die," he murmured. "Our lives are tied now. You burn, I burn. You bleed, I bleed. That's the cost."
Tears blurred her vision. "You should've let me go."
Silence.
Then, so soft it broke her:
"I tried. But the night doesn't let go of the stars it loves."
The candles flickered to life one by one, casting golden light over her trembling form.
She could feel his presence — circling her like a shadow that knew her heartbeat better than she did.
Every emotion, every secret, every memory.
Shared now.
The bond wasn't love anymore.
It was possession.
It was eternity.
And when she closed her eyes again, she saw through his memories — the first time he saw her, the hunger, the longing, the restraint that nearly destroyed him.
His love wasn't pure. It was obsession carved into forever.
She gasped and clutched her chest as his voice whispered from within, darker now, edged with something raw:
"You wanted to know what it means to be mine, little witch."
"Now you'll never have to wonder."
Outside, the night howled — and the world shifted around her heartbeat.
CHAPTER 19
WHEN MINDS BLEED TOGETHER
By morning, Irene couldn't tell which thoughts were hers anymore.
The quiet hum in her chest had turned into whispers — words not spoken, but felt.
Desires that weren't her own. Memories that weren't hers.
She stood by the cracked window, staring at the empty street below Victoria Town.
The fog moved like breath — slow, alive.
Her reflection blinked back at her, and for a split second, the eyes weren't hers. They were his.
You're trembling again, Demian's voice murmured through her mind.
Why do you resist what's already yours?
"Because it's not right," she whispered. "You're dead, Demian. You're not supposed to be inside me."
A low chuckle echoed in her skull, smooth and velvet-dark.
You said you'd do anything to keep me alive. Anything.
Her throat tightened. "Not like this."
You can't separate us now. Every thought you have brushes against mine. Every feeling you try to hide… I taste it.
Her pulse quickened. "Then you know I hate this."
You don't, he whispered, closer now. You fear it because you know what it means. No more loneliness. No more pretending.
His words brushed across her mind like the edge of fire — she felt his touch on her skin even though no one was there. Her breath hitched.
"Stop—"
Say it, he coaxed. Say you don't want me, and I'll fade.
But she couldn't. Her lips parted, trembling, no sound coming out.
The air between her ribs burned.
He sighed — a sound full of both sorrow and hunger.
That's what I thought.
Suddenly, her body moved on instinct — her hand rose and pressed against the glass.
She saw him there, faintly, reflected beside her — his tall frame, his dark eyes glinting like dying stars.
He wasn't really there… and yet he was.
"Why me?" she breathed. "You could've chosen anyone to curse with this bond."
Because no one else ever saw me like you did, he murmured.
You looked at the monster and called him human. You made me remember what it was like to feel alive.
Her chest ached.
And for the first time since his death, she whispered, "I miss you."
The candles in the room flickered violently, a gust of invisible wind swirling around her.
Don't, he said sharply, his voice cracking through her skull. Don't say that— it makes it harder to control—
"Control what?"
Silence. Then she felt it — a surge of heat, of him, crawling under her skin, threading through her veins like wildfire.
Her knees buckled. Her breath hitched as his presence pressed against hers — not body against body, but soul against soul.
And when she gasped, her voice wasn't entirely her own anymore.
It carried his echo.
Two voices, one breath.
She stumbled back, gripping the edge of the table, trembling.
"Demian—"
You're opening the door, Irene.
If you keep feeling me… I might not stop this time.
Her heart pounded as her vision blurred — his memories flashed before her eyes: blood, moonlight, her smile.
She felt his pain, his desire, his endless loneliness.
And in the space between them, something ancient and dark began to stir.
A whisper that wasn't either of them.
Something the bond had awoken.
CHAPTER 20
WHEN DESIRE DEVOURS
The bond had stopped whispering.
Now, it breathed.
Irene woke before dawn, her skin slick with sweat though the room was cold. The air shimmered faintly around her like smoke rising from a dying flame. She could feel him — not as a voice this time, but as a pulse. A heartbeat that wasn't hers, thrumming through her veins, tangled with her magic.
You opened the door, Irene, Demian murmured, his tone both reverent and ruined. Now neither of us can close it.
Her fingers trembled as she clutched the edge of the bed. "I can't— I can't stop thinking about you."
You don't have to.
His words brushed her mind, soft as silk, dangerous as fire. Every spell she tried to weave to suppress his essence only made him stronger. Flashes consumed her thoughts — his eyes in the dark, his mouth at her throat, the night he threw himself between her and Saraphine's curse. Each memory coiled around her heart, twisting longing into something unholy.
"Demian, please…"
Say my name again.
The candle flames surrounding her flared, feeding on the intensity between them. Her magic bent to his presence; her power recognized his essence as if it belonged.
She gasped as a hand — invisible, yet unmistakably his — brushed along her arm. It wasn't flesh, but energy — the press of his soul against hers.
This is what happens when you feel too deeply, he whispered. You blur the lines.
Her breath came ragged. "You said you'd protect me—"
I am.
"Then why does it feel like you're destroying me?"
He hesitated. For the first time, his voice trembled.
Because loving you is the only way I know how to die again.
Something inside her cracked open. Her resistance — centuries of control, her fear of losing herself — shattered.
Their souls didn't just touch. They collided.
It was pain and pleasure, light and shadow fusing together until the room spun and her body arched. Her vision fractured into both their lives — his hunger, her power, their shared death — until she couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
Irene…
Her voice trembled, but the word that escaped her lips wasn't hers.
"Demian."
Their voices overlapped — one breath, one being.
And from that union, the shadows awoke.
The entity they had unknowingly created — a consciousness born from forbidden magic and fractured souls — stirred within her chest.
We are one, it whispered — not Demian, not Irene. Something else.
The candles went out. The mirror cracked. Her spellbook caught fire, its pages curling like dying leaves.
And in the suffocating dark, she opened her eyes — no longer witch, no longer vessel.
Crimson and gold.
Alive and dead.
Human and not.
The birth of something new.
Something eternal.
Something that would change everything.
CHAPTER 21
THE HALLOW BETWEEN HEARTBEATS
The nights after the merging was silent.
Not peaceful— just hollow.
The candles had burned down to pools of wax, the scent of smoke and iron thick in the air. Irene sat in the center of the room, her palms resting on the old circle Demian had drawn— the one he'd bled into when he saved her life.
The floor still shimmered faintly where his blood had soaked through the runes. His final words still echoed inside her skull.
I won't lose you, Irene. Even if it damns me.
She thought it had been mercy.
Now, she wasn't so sure.
She touched her chest, trembling as she felt the faint, double rhythm beneath her skin. Her heart— and his.
"Demian?" she whispered.
Silence. Then, softly—
Still here.
Her breath caught. "You shouldn't be."
And yet you're breathing because of me.
She closed her eyes, tears slipping down her cheeks. "You gave your soul to save me. But now you're trapped."
Trapped with you, he murmured. Could there be a better prison?
She flinched, pain cracking through her ribs. "You don't understand— this isn't life. It's torment."
It's both. His voice lowered, gentle and cruel all at once. You were dying, Irene. Your blood ran cold, your magic fading. I had a choice— watch you vanish, or bind us together. I chose wrong for the right reason.
Her reflection in the cracked mirror flickered— her eyes burning faint gold before bleeding crimson. His color. His hunger.
The bond was meant to save you, he whispered, but it made you mine.
The candles flared— a desperate, final blaze before snuffing out.
The darkness pressed closer, thick with him.
"I can feel you," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Every thought, every breath. You move through me like fire, and I can't tell where I end anymore."
Then stop fighting it.
Her body shook. "I can't—"
You already are.
The room trembled. Books slid from shelves. The runes beneath her pulsed like a heartbeat. She gasped as his magic—cold, ancient, endless—rose from within her veins, wrapping around her like smoke.
"I didn't ask for this," she cried.
Neither did I. But fate doesn't ask permission, witch.
Lightning split the sky outside, washing her in a sudden flash of red light. For an instant, his figure appeared in the mirror behind her— tall, dark, his gaze full of longing and ruin.
You live because of me. You burn because of us.
And just before the vision vanished, she whispered, broken, "What happens when I can't contain you anymore?"
Then the world will burn with us.
The storm outside roared. Her power surged. The bond pulsed once— alive, unstoppable.
And when her reflection blinked, two sets of eyes looked back.
The witch.
The vampire.
Bound forever in one soul.
CHAPTER 2 2
THE FIRE BENEATH THE SKIN
The whisper in Irene's veins deepened into a pulse — slow, deliberate, and hot.
It was not her heartbeat anymore. It was his.
Demian.
She clutched the edge of the table, gasping as invisible heat unfurled beneath her skin. Her reflection trembled in the candlelight, her pupils dilating until the gold in her witch's eyes darkened into his shade of night.
You're slipping again, his voice hummed through her. You shouldn't fight what's already inside you.
"Get out," she whispered, though her voice cracked like melting glass.
"Please… not now."
You mean not yet.
His tone wasn't cruel — it was temptation wrapped in silk. Each word brushed against the edges of her mind like warm breath against her throat. The room itself seemed to bend with him, the candles stretching taller, the air thick with smoke and hunger.
"Demian," she gasped, pressing her palm against her chest as if she could cage him there.
But he was everywhere — in her pulse, in her breath, in every spark of her magic that refused to obey.
You called for me when you bled, he murmured. You begged me to stay alive. Now that I am, you tremble like you didn't mean it.
"I didn't know what it would cost!" she cried.
Lightning cracked across the sky outside, bathing the room in a pale flash that flickered across her face — his face — two souls warring for dominance in one fragile body.
And then she felt it — his desire, dark and consuming, twisting with her own.
Her power flared, wild and red. The room trembled. Books burst open, candles sputtered out one by one until only a single flame remained, wavering between them like a heartbeat.
You can't burn me out, he whispered. Because you are me now.
Her knees buckled as his essence wrapped around her like smoke — not a body, not a ghost, but something molten and forbidden. Every nerve in her body sparked to life, her breath catching between fear and yearning.
She tried to speak, to command him back, but her voice came out with his — low, aching, and filled with want.
"Demian…"
Yes, witch?
"Stop… before we both—"
We already have.
Her power erupted then — red ribbons of energy crackling across her arms, her veins lighting up like threads of fire. His soul pulsed through hers, and for a heartbeat, she felt what he felt — every ounce of his hunger, grief, and need for her.
It wasn't just magic anymore. It was a curse stitched from love and pain.
She stumbled back, pressing her hand to the wall as her magic scorched the air.
The scent of burning candles mixed with something sweet — blood and roses.
And then she saw him — not a vision this time, but a projection of his soul through hers.
Tall. Terrifying. Beautiful.
"Demian…" she whispered again, tears streaking down her cheeks. "You'll destroy me."
Then let me be the one who burns with you, he whispered back.
And as the final candle went out, their shared heartbeat filled the silence — two souls, one body, trembling at the edge of ruin.
CHAPTER 23
THE TASTE OF CONTROL
Morning crept in like an apology — soft, reluctant light spilling through the cracks of Irene's window.
She hadn't slept.
Her body trembled, her magic unsteady, and her reflection in the mirror felt like a stranger wearing her face.
She touched her neck, tracing the faint mark that had appeared the night Demian's soul fused with hers — a shimmering thread of silver that pulsed whenever he stirred inside her.
He'd saved her life.
When Seraphine's spell had burned through her veins, tearing her magic apart from the inside, Demian had done the one thing no vampire was ever meant to do — he'd given up his existence to keep her heart beating.
Now, that heart beat for both of them.
> You should rest, his voice drifted through her mind — softer this time, almost tender. You've been shaking for hours.
Her lips twitched into a small, bitter smile. "I don't know if I'm shaking because of you or because of me anymore."
> Both, he said simply. Our bodies are trying to remember what it means to share.
"Share?" she scoffed, pacing the room. "You're practically wearing me like a cloak."
A quiet laugh echoed inside her head — the kind of laugh that once made her chest tighten with warmth. Now, it only made her ache.
> You make it sound unholy.
"It is unholy, Demian. You shouldn't exist inside me."
> And yet here we are, he murmured. If I hadn't done it, your soul would've burned to ash that night.
She froze. The memory hit like lightning — the fire, the screaming, the flash of Seraphine's eyes before darkness swallowed everything. Then warmth.
Demian's voice.
His promise: "I won't let you die."
She closed her eyes, whispering, "And now I can't live without you."
> That was always the risk.
His tone carried something between sorrow and pride, and for a heartbeat, she almost felt safe.
Until the warmth turned heavy.
Her hands began to tremble again — her fingertips glowing faintly red as sparks of her magic lifted into the air like embers.
"Demian… stop."
> I'm not doing anything.
Her breath caught. His voice was calm — too calm. The energy twisting through her wasn't entirely her own anymore.
The air shimmered. The candles relit themselves.
And then she felt it — the rush of blood, the pulse that wasn't hers, the pull of power threading through her muscles.
"Demian," she said again, this time firmer, "I said stop."
But his voice came lower now, close enough to feel against her skin though he had no body.
> You think I want this? I'm trying to control it, but your heartbeat keeps calling to mine.
"Then—"
> Then don't think about me, he interrupted, his tone darkening. Don't whisper my name when you dream. Don't crave me when you breathe.
Her chest rose sharply. "I don't—"
You do, he whispered, the words laced with fire. Every time you try to push me away, you pull me closer. Every fear you feel feeds the bond. Every touch you imagine brings me closer to breaking through.
Her knees weakened as heat rolled through her — desire tangled with dread, light and shadow bleeding together beneath her skin.
"Demian…" she whispered. "If you keep doing this, I'll disappear."
Then hold on tighter, he breathed. I'll keep you alive, even if it means losing myself.
The last candle flickered. Her reflection wavered again — her eyes glowing with both their colors, her lips parting in a breath that carried his sigh.
And when the wind moved through the room, she swore she felt his fingers ghost down her spine — gentle, desperate, haunted.
Her pulse echoed with his, soft but defiant.
"Don't fade," she whispered.
I never will, he murmured. Not as long as you keep remembering me.
And somewhere, deep within her — something ancient shifted, responding to their union like a shadow drawn to flame.