Prologue

TORRIN

Three centuries of night, and still mortals find new ways to surprise me.

She appears through the evening fog like a dark angel, her black dress stark against the cemetery's grey stones. A blood-red rose is woven into her hair – an unconscious echo of the flowers she carries. Her grief wraps around her like a cloak, but there's something else, something that makes my ancient blood sing.

Darkness sleeps in her veins. Not the crude, violent darkness of common vampires, but something older. Purer . The same shadow-touched power I've been searching for through centuries of endless night.

I keep to the shadows as she makes her way to the Monroe family plot, my presence cloaked by powers older than this graveyard. She moves with unconscious grace between the headstones, as comfortable among the dead as I am. No hesitation, no mortal fear of death's domain. She belongs here as few humans do.

"Hey Mom, Dad," she says softly, kneeling before the twin graves. "It's been a year. Though I guess you know that, wherever you are."

Her voice carries clearly to my enhanced hearing. There's pain there, yes, but something more – a strength that makes my predatory instincts perk up with interest. This is no ordinary grieving daughter. This is someone who feels the depths of darkness.

"The new book is doing well," she continues, arranging roses between the headstones. "First week on the bestseller list. Dad, you'd probably say something about how your little girl is finally making it big. Mom, you'd just smile that quirky smile, like you always knew I'd find my path."

I drift closer, drawn by the mix of sorrow and power emanating from her. She's beautiful in a way that transcends mere physical appearance – her soul shines with potential, with barely awakened power that calls to the vampire in me.

"I still can't believe you're gone," she whispers, and fresh tears track down her cheeks. "Everything feels... wrong. Like I'm living in a story where the ending got changed without warning. Nothing makes sense anymore."

Oh, little ghost , I think as my heart shatters for her, watching her shoulders shake with suppressed sobs. If you only knew how right things are about to become.

The rose in her hair comes loose, falling to the damp earth between the graves. When she reaches for it, her fingers brush the soil and... yes. There it is. A flicker of power, a moment where shadows reach for her unconsciously. She doesn't notice, but I do.

I see everything.

Shadow-Kissed. The term whispers through my ancient memories. Mortals born with darkness in their blood, their souls remembering nights older than time. So rare I'd thought them extinct, yet here she sits, her power calling to mine like a siren's song.

I could take her now. End three centuries of waiting with a single bite, a single transformation. My fangs ache with wanting it, wanting her . But no. The timing isn't right. She's too raw with grief, too unstable. Claiming her now would risk breaking her, and I've waited too long to rush this.

"I started writing again," she says to the graves, unaware of my presence or her own gathering power. "It's... different from my usual stuff. Darker, maybe. I don’t know. My editor's worried about me, but these stories... they make me feel connected to you. I know it’s not possible, but sometimes I convince myself it feels that way."

Of course they do. Her blood is remembering, preparing her for what's to come. Every dark tale she writes brings her closer to her true nature, closer to being ready for me.

She takes out a small notebook, its pages dog-eared and well-loved. "I wanted to share something with you. It's probably silly, but..." She opens to a marked page and begins to read aloud.

The words that flow from her lips make my breath catch. She's writing about creatures like me, about the hunger and the power and the terrible beauty of eternal night. But not as a human imagines us – no, she writes with the bone-deep understanding of one who knows. Who remembers, even if she doesn't know she's remembering.

Soon , I promise silently as she reads. Soon you'll understand everything. Soon you'll see that these aren't just stories – they're prophecies. Your blood remembering what it was always meant to become.

A gust of wind stirs the cemetery, carrying with it the scent of approaching rain. Elena closes her notebook, touching the headstones one last time before standing .

"I miss you both," she whispers. "So much it feels like dying sometimes. But I'm trying to keep going. Trying to find my way through the dark."

The dark will welcome you , I think, watching her gather her things. It's already reaching for you, claiming you as its owner.

She pauses suddenly, her head tilting like a prey animal sensing danger. Some primitive part of her knows she's being watched, knows a predator lurks in the shadows. But she's not ready to see me yet. Not ready to know how completely her life will change.

I draw deeper into the shadows as she scans the cemetery, her heart rate picking up slightly. Already she's more attuned to supernatural presence than most humans. Already she can sense things she shouldn't be able to sense.

"Hello?" she calls out, her voice steady despite her obvious unease. "Is someone there?"

Not yet, little ghost, I admire her courage. But soon. Very soon.

A drop of rain hits her cheek, followed quickly by another. She turns to leave, her black dress swirling around her legs as she navigates between the headstones. I follow at a distance, watching her make her way back to the iron gates.

Just before she reaches her car, she pauses again. Turns back to look at the cemetery one last time. For a moment – just a moment – her eyes seem to meet mine through the gathering dark. Something passes between us, some recognition that makes her breath catch and my blood sing.

Then she's gone, leaving me alone with the night and the certainty that everything has changed in a matter of minutes.

I approach the Monroe plot, studying the graves of her parents. "You created something extraordinary," I tell their spirits. "A daughter touched by shadow, born with ancient night in her veins. Rest well, knowing she'll never truly be alone again."

The wind carries the scent of her grief, her power, her untapped potential. Three centuries I've waited, watching countless humans live and die, searching for one who could match me. One who could understand the beauty in darkness.

And now I've found her. My Shadow-Kissed queen-to-be, still wrapped in mortal grief but already reaching for her true nature. Already writing stories that are really memories, already calling to powers she doesn't yet understand .

I pick up the rose she dropped, inhaling its scent mixed with lingering traces of her presence. One year she's been coming here, mourning her dead while unconsciously drawing closer to her destiny.

Someday she'll be ready to see me, to know me, to understand what she's truly meant to become. She'll trade grief for power, mortality for eternal night, human limitations for supernatural grace.

She'll be mine in every way that matters.

For now, though, I will watch. Guard. Ensure no lesser creatures interfere with what's mine. Let her write her dark stories, not knowing they're really prophecies. Let her feel the shadow in her veins stirring, not knowing it's answering my call.

The time will come when she's ready. When grief has hardened into strength, when loneliness has prepared her for a different kind of connection, when the darkness in her blood can no longer be denied.

Until then, I will hunt her carefully, perfectly, drawing her deeper into shadow one subtle step at a time. I'll read every word she writes, watching her unconscious power grow stronger with each dark tale. I'll guard her sleep, her steps, her slowly awakening nature .

I can wait a little longer for her to be ready to embrace her true destiny.

As my queen. My equal. My Shadow-Kissed love.

My forever.