Chapter 10
524words
In the fireplace lay his protection rune—deliberately shattered.
I'd destroyed it intentionally, refusing to carry any trace of my past captivity.
Under the bed was my sketchbook—torn to shreds but meticulously reassembled with careful hands.
He saw my soul laid bare—the humble, hurting girl who loved despite everything, the bloody needles, the caged birds desperate for flight.
For the first time, he truly saw me—my pain, my longing, my silent screams.
Only then did he realize what he'd lost—something irreplaceable.
Damian unleashed the full might of his resources, hunting me across continents for years.
He scoured half of Europe but found nothing—I'd erased myself completely.
Years later, I'd built a new life in a small Italian coastal town as an ancient book restorer.
As Elena, I lived quietly, freely—lonely sometimes, but peacefully.
I found contentment in knowing I belonged only to myself—no longer property, no longer prey.
Until that damned masquerade in Venice.
When Damian removed his mask, revealing that face I knew better than my own, my carefully constructed world collapsed.
He'd found me.
His overwhelming presence filled the room, leaving no escape route.
His grip on my arm was iron—my struggles as effective as a butterfly fighting a hurricane.
Before his power, I was nothing—a mere insect.
His face remained unchanged—eternally young—but something in his eyes had hardened, grown more dangerous.
But I'd changed too. For the first time, I faced him not as a victim, but as an equal with my own power—the power to say no.
We fought viciously, words like weapons.
As he left, his parting shot: "This isn't over. I won't give up."
I immediately began planning another disappearance.
Desperate to escape, I relocated to a notoriously dangerous small town—figuring he'd never look for me somewhere so beneath him.
Predictably, one night a rogue vampire cornered me in a dark alley.
He wore no clan insignia—just another predator surviving in society's shadows.
My scent had drawn him—that cursed sweetness that marked me as special.
As fangs descended toward my throat, a blur of movement sent my attacker flying.
Damian stood between us, power radiating from him like heat from fire.
But the attacker was clever—he grabbed me, using me as a shield.
In a lightning move, the "rogue" plunged a silver dagger into Damian's chest—a professional strike.
No random attack—this was a hunter, specifically targeting Damian.
With the poison spreading, Damian somehow managed to get us both away.
In an abandoned cabin, he finally collapsed, black blood oozing from the wound.
Silver poison coursed through his veins, killing him by inches.
In that moment, years of fear and resentment vanished. Only one thought remained: I couldn't let him die.
Without hesitation, I grabbed a sharp stone and slashed my wrist open.
Blood welled up immediately—warm, fragrant, powerful.
I pressed my bleeding wrist against his lips, my other hand cradling his head.
"Drink, damn you!" I commanded. "DRINK!"
For the first time, I offered my blood freely—my choice, my gift.
Not from obligation or fear, but from something deeper I wasn't ready to name.
