After the massive doors of the castle closed behind them, Beatrice stood motionless for a few moments in the middle of the hall, unable to stop her gaze from wandering through the place she had been brought to. Everything was so different from the world she came from that her mind needed time to understand what she was seeing.
The hall was enormous, with ceilings so high their shadows vanished somewhere above. Heavy crystal chandeliers hung from them, casting warm light over the dark walls. The windows were tall and framed in gold, and thick curtains of deep red fell almost to the marble floor.
The furniture was rich, carved, baroque — with rounded arms and gilded details that glimmered faintly in the light of the fires burning in the fireplaces scattered through the rooms.
For someone who had spent her entire life living on the edge of survival, stealing or hunting for every scrap of food, the sight was almost unreal.
Beatrice felt a knot tighten in her throat.
Everything was so rich. So much. Far too much.
As she walked behind Azarie, her eyes drifted over every detail — the polished wooden tables, the thick carpets, the large paintings in gilded frames. Passing through a wide archway, she caught sight of a vast room that seemed to be the dining hall.
At its center stood a table so long it looked made for dozens of people.
And yet the house was strangely empty.
No footsteps echoed. No voices could be heard.
The place was so large it almost felt abandoned. And yet, strangely, it was not cold. Even though the night air outside was sharp with frost, inside the air was pleasant, warmed by the fires burning in the fireplaces.
Azarie said nothing as he walked ahead, and Beatrice followed him in silence, instinctively keeping the same distance.
After they crossed several rooms and climbed a spiral staircase that curled elegantly toward the upper floors, the vampire stopped in front of a large door made of carved wood.
He opened it.
The room they entered was spacious and elegant, but in a way that felt more intimate than the rest of the castle.
At the center of the room stood a large bed made of dark wood, its tall headboard carved with ancient patterns. Thick sheets, a deep red almost like wine, spilled heavily over the edges. Near the tall window, hidden behind heavy velvet curtains, there was a small sitting corner with two deep armchairs of dark leather and a low table of polished wood, the place seeming made more for quiet reading than for receiving guests.
Along one wall rose a tall bookcase, filled with old books.
A fireplace burned quietly in a corner, and the light of the flames flickered against the walls, making the room feel dark, yet strangely welcoming.
Beatrice also noticed two smaller doors, likely leading to a bathroom and a closet.
But her gaze suddenly stopped on something else.
In one corner of the room stood a cage.
Very similar to the one she had been kept in the night before.
Above it lay several objects: a whip, a muzzle, and other instruments she recognized far too well.
Her heart began to beat faster.
Azarie stepped closer before her thoughts could carry her too far.
Without warning, he cupped her face in his cold hands and gently turned her head to the side.
The movement was so sudden that Beatrice froze.
He could feel the chill of his skin against her cheeks, and the closeness of him to her neck made her pulse race wildly. And yet his fingers held her with an unexpected care, as if she were something fragile.
His gaze lowered to her neck.
"That will have to be fixed," he murmured.
Beatrice didn't know whether he meant the wound left by the old collar or the fact that she had never been bitten.
Azarie released her and stepped back a few paces.
"Dinner starts in thirty minutes," he said calmly. "Take a bath."
He turned slightly toward the bathroom.
"I will prepare clean clothes for you by the time you finish. Throw the old ones away."
Beatrice blinked in surprise.
His tone was calm, almost attentive in a way that confused her, because nothing she knew about vampires matched the way he behaved. He had not asked her to undress in front of him, he had not touched her brutally, and perhaps strangest of all, he had not drained her blood yet.
"Thank you, Master…"
The words slipped out almost instinctively, but Azarie interrupted her immediately.
"Don't call me that when we're here."
Beatrice looked up at him, visibly confused.
"Call me Azarie."
For a moment, she was left speechless. In the world she came from, a master would never allow a pet to call him by name.
In the bathroom, Azarie turned on the water in the bathtub and pointed to the faucet with a brief gesture.
"Turn it off when it fills."
Then he left without saying anything more.
Beatrice remained motionless for a few moments.
This vampire was strange.
When she began to undress, her gaze fell upon the large mirror in the bathroom.
For the first time in a long while, she saw her reflection and almost didn't recognize herself.
Her dark hair was tangled and dirty, stuck in strands of dried blood, and her pale skin was covered in bruises and scratches. The freckles across her nose and cheeks stood out starkly against her tired, gaunt face.
Her neck was red and irritated from the collar that had been too tight.
Across her back, the pain still pulsed where she had been struck.
She was thin.
Exhausted.
When she stepped into the hot water, the warmth touched the wounds on her back and thigh and pulled a short, almost uncontrollable sigh from her, as the sensitive skin reacted instantly to the contact with the water. For a moment she had the impulse to step out of the tub, but she remained still, gripping the edges of the bathtub with her fingers, reminding herself that water cleans and that wounds heal faster when they are washed.
After a few minutes of breathing deeply and letting her body adjust to the heat, the pain slowly began to fade, turning into something bearable.
Beatrice washed her hair and then her body with the scented products she found on the edge of the tub, using them carefully, as if they were precious things she did not want to waste.
The scent was strange and deep, unlike anything she had ever known before — calm, warm, and dark at the same time, like a mixture of burned wood, fine leather, and something sweet, almost like warmed honey — it smelled like the vampire.
That fragrance filled her chest with every breath and seemed to sink through her body in a strange way, both soothing and unsettling at the same time, settling somewhere deep in her stomach.
For the first time in a very long time, Beatrice felt clean.
Almost reborn.
After finishing her bath, she untangled her hair with her fingers and let it dry freely down her back, where the soft curls were already beginning to take shape.
Near the door she noticed the clothes Azarie had left for her: simple white underwear and a long cotton dress, also white.
The fabric was soft and light against her skin, and Beatrice felt an unexpected relief when she put it on, because it didn't hurt her wounds or irritate her already abused skin.
After dressing, Beatrice opened the bathroom door and stepped into the room, moving slowly, almost cautiously, as if she feared that any sound might break the heavy silence that ruled the place.
Azarie was sitting at the desk, bent over several documents scattered before him, and the warm light of the fireplace touched only half of his face, leaving the other half hidden in shadow.
When he heard the door open, he lifted his gaze.
For a moment he remained completely still, as if the sight of her had caught him by surprise.
Then he cleared his throat softly, returning to his usual calm.
"You may use the bathroom whenever you wish."
Beatrice blinked, surprised.
His words sounded nothing like those of a master, and the tone in which he had spoken them was so natural that it made her wonder once again if she truly understood the situation she was in.
At that moment, Azarie closed his eyes for a brief second and drew a deep breath, as if savoring something invisible.
Then his gaze slowly dropped to her thigh, where the blood had begun to flow again after the hot water.
"Come."
His voice was calm, but it left no room for doubt.
Beatrice felt fear tighten in her stomach, yet she stepped closer anyway.
"On the bed."
She obeyed without protest.
When she sat on the edge of the bed, Azarie stepped closer and gently lifted her dress to her thighs, his movement so calm that the contrast with the storm inside her chest became almost dizzying.
Her heart was pounding wildly.
No one had ever touched her there before.
Azarie slowly lowered his head toward the wound on her thigh, and his closeness suddenly made the air around her feel heavier. He blew gently over the injured skin, and the coldness of his breath made Beatrice flinch at once, a shiver running up her spine.
The next moment, she felt the unexpected touch of his tongue against her skin.
The contact was so sudden and intimate that a wave of sensation rushed through her entire body, and her breath caught for a moment, as if her chest had forgotten how to move.
Azarie let out a short laugh, almost amused, as though her reaction entertained him.
Then he ran his tongue over the wound again, this time more slowly, and once more after that, his movements precise and deliberate.
When he finally lifted his head, the blood was no longer flowing at all.
Beatrice blinked several times, stunned, trying to understand what had just happened.
"Come to the table," he said simply.
Then he turned and headed toward the door with the same calm assurance, as if nothing unusual had occurred in those few moments.
Beatrice remained on the bed for a few seconds longer, staring down at her thigh.
The wound was gone.
The skin was smooth, untouched, as if it had never been injured.
Then she remembered the stories she had heard as a child, whispered during cold nights in the human enclaves.
It was said that vampires powerful enough did not only wound—some of them could also heal.
And Lord Azarie… was clearly one of the powerful ones.