Chapter 4
375words
I was studying by the library window when movement on the lawn below caught my eye.
Genevieve glided across the grass with her entourage, Damian following like a dark shadow.
Suddenly, Genevieve swayed dramatically. In a blur of movement, Damian materialized beside her, catching her delicate form.
His lips moved in urgent whispers, his face a mask of concern.
His eyes held a tenderness I'd never seen—would never see directed at me.
The sunlight turned blinding, my book pages fluttering like wounded birds in the breeze.
I lowered my head, the words swimming before my eyes, meaningless.
After semester's end, they dragged me back to the manor like equipment being stored.
That frigid room with its clinical silver bench awaited me—my eternal destiny.
Damian himself performed the extraction ritual.
His white-gloved hands moved with clinical precision, his eyes never meeting mine.
My blood flowed through crystal tubing into ornate vials, while he stared through me as if I were merely machinery.
After the ritual, he unexpectedly knocked on my door—something he never did.
"Are you well?" He remained in the doorway, as though crossing the threshold might contaminate him.
I curled into myself on the bed, managing only a weak nod.
"Good." He paused. "Her condition requires consistent treatment. We need you… functional."
My heart plummeted like a stone in water.
Of course—he wasn't concerned about me, just ensuring his blood bank remained operational.
I buried my face in the pillow, whispering, "I understand, Lord Damian."
I couldn't help myself. When he next visited my room, I gathered every scrap of courage my fifteen years had afforded me.
"Do you… love her?" I whispered, eyes fixed on the floor, voice barely audible.
His silence filled the room like poison gas.
Seconds stretched into eternity.
Just as I thought he wouldn't answer, his emotionless voice sliced through the silence.
"That's not your concern, Ophelia." A pause. "Get some rest. We need you strong tomorrow."
He turned and left, the soft click of the door more final than a slam. I stood frozen, my blood turning to ice in my veins.
His non-denial cut deeper than any rejection could have.
I had clearly forgotten my place—a tool doesn't question its user.
