Page 4 of Vampire Bite

One of them spat in a disdainful hiss. “We’ll find her soon enough. The Council wants results. A few more humans, and our ranks will be complete.”

Their footsteps faded into the fog, leaving nothing but a vile chill in the air.

I glanced down at her, unconscious in my arms, her face softened in sleep, and that surge of protectiveness, of pure fury, surged through me again. They wanted to use her, to break her. I’d seen what happened to those who fell into their hands, the hollow look in their eyes, the shells left behind.

I waited again for what seemed to be an entire eternity. Then, I knew I had to move. I didn’t have a moment to spare. The streets grew quieter the further I moved from the heart of the city. Shadows thickened, the fog curling around us like a shroud as I made my way toward the outskirts. There was only one place I could take her, one place that was safe enough to keep her hidden. It wasn’t much—barely even a shelter, really—but it was mine. And no one knew about it.

The path wound through darkened alleys and narrow passageways, and eventually, we came to the edge of town where twisted trees and thorny undergrowth loomed, half-forgotten by the city’s light. I scanned the area, making sure no one had followed. The place was concealed by more than just shadows. The door was nearly invisible, camouflaged into the stone wall beside a decaying stretch of forest.

Unless you knew where to look, you’d think it was just another abandoned corner, swallowed by ivy and shadows. I glanced around one last time, then slipped my hand into my coat and pulled out the key. It was heavy and cold, an artifact from another time, its weight grounding me as I slid it into the hidden lock.

With a quiet click, the door opened, and I ducked inside, carrying her with me. The air here was cooler, the faint scent ofold stone and dust filling the small space. It wasn’t much to look at, but it was safe—reinforced walls, heavy locks, a refuge in the dark where I could disappear when I needed to. Nowadays, there were very few places you could hide… if any.

I laid her down on a worn leather couch in the corner, my hand lingering at her cheek for a moment longer than I intended. Her skin was cool, her breaths shallow but steady. The fierce, protective pull toward her tightened its grip on me, every instinct screaming to stay by her side, to keep her close.

But the need to remain awake was stronger. I needed coffee.

At the far end of the room was a small, battered stove that I’d found on one of my more questionable ventures, hauled it here, and fixed it up. It was an odd luxury in a life like mine, the taste of hot coffee, even if I barely felt its effect anymore. I pulled the kettle from the stovetop, filled it with water from a tin jug, and set it back over the heat.

The walls were old stone, heavy and solid, reinforced over the years with metal bars and locks—one layer of security stacked on top of another. Shelves lined one wall, filled with a few worn books, a set of weapons, and scattered relics I’d collected over the years. Each item held a memory, a story, but there was no time to dwell on them. They were tools, like everything else in this place.

Stories were meant for a time of peace. These were times of war.

The couch where I’d laid her was old but sturdy. Its leather was worn and cracked. I kept it draped with a faded, threadbare blanket I’d scavenged ages ago. She looked almost peaceful there, asleep and vulnerable in a way I hadn’t often seen. I’d spent years being cautious, choosing my battles carefully, striking from the shadows, but she brought out somethingdifferent in me—a recklessness that felt as dangerous as it was inevitable.

The smell of coffee began to fill the air, dark and bitter. The room wasn’t exactly warm, but it was safe. A stack of maps lay strewn across the table, routes and plans sketched out with precise, dark lines. Scouting paths, attack plans, escape routes. I’d spent years studying this city from every angle, knowing it as well as I knew myself.

In one corner, hidden behind a pile of spare weapons, was an old photograph. The edges were worn, the colors faded. It was one of the few reminders I had of my past—a past that was long buried, but one that still clung to me in quiet moments. I didn’t allow myself to look at it often; too many memories had no place in the life I led now.

I poured the coffee into a chipped mug, one of the few items I hadn’t replaced in centuries. It was a reminder of what I used to be—a good someone with flaws, ambitions, and a thirst for justice that hadn’t dimmed despite the years. Sometimes I had to make choices that weighed heavy on me, choices that a better man might have walked away from. But I wasn’t that man, not anymore. I did what was necessary to survive, to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. Even if it meant becoming something darker than I’d ever imagined.

I took a long sip of the coffee, letting the bitter warmth settle in me, grounding me. Then, I glanced back at her, lying there in the fragile, flickering light. She’d risked everything to save me, to trust me. She had no idea what kind of life she’d stepped into. But she’d made her choice—and so had I.

If protecting her meant embracing the shadows again, I’d do it. I’d be the monster they feared, the weapon they couldn’t see coming. For her, I’d be whatever was needed.

Chapter Three

Annika

When I opened my eyes, I was greeted by the dim glow of a flickering lantern. Shadows danced across rough stone walls, their shapes twisting and shifting in the dim light. My head felt heavy, and my body ached as if I’d been dragged through miles of fog and darkness. It took a moment to remember why—then, it all came rushing back. I’d given him my blood. I’d saved him, risking everything on a split-second decision I didn’t even fully understand.

I bolted upright, my heart pounding, and glanced around. The room was sparse, cold, and unfamiliar. The couch beneath me creaked, the leather worn and cracked, and I felt the weight of my situation settling over me like lead. Panic clawed at my throat, and for a moment, I considered running. But there was only one door, heavy and bolted, and I knew I was too weak to stand, much less make an escape.

Then I heard a quiet sound behind me. I turned, and there he was, watching me from across the room. His gaze was steady, cautious. He stood near an old stove, a mug in his hand, his expression unreadable. In the dim light, he seemed almost… human. Almost.

A tremor ran through me, and I shrank back, pressing myself against the edge of the couch.

He noticed. Of course he did.

His eyes softened, and he set his mug down, raising his hands slowly, like he was trying to calm a frightened animal.

“It’s alright,” he said, his voice a low murmur, as if he could see the fear in my eyes. “You’re safe here. No one knows you’re here but me.”

I swallowed, the dryness in my throat making it hard to speak. His words should have reassured me, but my mind was racing with images of that night, of his eyes wild with hunger, of my blood spilling from my wrist to save him. The memory sent a chill through me, and he seemed to sense it. His gaze was sharpening, steadying me with an intensity that was almost hypnotic.

His hair, raven-black and thick, framed a face etched with sharp, chiseled lines, each angle casting shadows that gave him an air of mystery and danger. His eyes were a striking, intense shade of dark grey, nearly black. His skin was pale, a shade that almost seemed to glow against the night, highlighting the contrast of his features. There was a faint scar just above his right eyebrow—a small, silvery line that added to his ruggedness, hinting at the battles he’d endured and the life he led in the shadows. His jaw was strong, with a slight roughness where stubble framed his mouth.

“Thank you,” I managed, though my voice was barely a whisper. I wrapped my arms around myself, instinctively drawing my knees up. “But… where am I?”

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