Chapter 3

Chapter Three

HAUNTED

Sleep eludes me. Every time I close my eyes, I see his face – those ancient, predatory eyes boring into mine, that cruel smile promising things I don't dare name. I've been lying here for hours, staring at my bedroom ceiling while moonlight paints silver patterns through the windows I triple-checked were locked.

Not that locks would stop him. I know that now, with a certainty that should terrify me more than it does.

You're mine now.

His words echo in my mind for the hundredth time tonight, sending another shiver through my body. The rational part of my brain insists I should be calling the police, reporting what I saw in the cemetery. But what would I tell them? That I witnessed a vampire disposing of a body? That an immortal creature has claimed me as his prey?

I roll over, punching my pillow in frustration. The clock on my nightstand reads 3:17 AM – the dead hour, as my characters would call it. A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat. How many times have I written scenes like this? The sleepless heroine, haunted by her encounter with darkness, fighting her forbidden attraction to the monster...

The monster . But that's not quite right, is it? Torrin isn't some mindless creature of horror. The way he moved, the way he spoke – there were centuries of refinement there, civilization wrapped around something ancient and predatory. Like a wolf in an expensive suit.

A cool breeze caresses my face, and I freeze. I distinctly remember closing the window. Sitting up slowly, I scan my moonlit bedroom. Nothing seems disturbed, but there's a scent in the air that wasn't there before – something like winter nights and aged wine.

His scent.

My heart begins to race. "Hello?" I whisper into the darkness, hating how hopeful my voice sounds. No answer comes, but the air feels charged, expectant . Like the moment before lightning strikes .

I slip out of bed, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. The window is indeed closed and locked, exactly as I left it. But there, on the sill – a single black rose, its petals gleaming like wet silk in the moonlight. I reach for it with trembling fingers, then snatch my hand back as a thorn draws blood.

A drop of crimson wells up on my fingertip. As I watch, mesmerized, the rose seems to shiver, its petals darkening impossibly further as if drinking in the sight of my blood.

"Jesus," I breathe, stumbling back from the window. This isn't happening. This can't be happening. But even as I try to deny it, other details in my room start jumping out at me. The stack of papers on my desk has been disturbed, the top pages rifled through. My laptop is at a slightly different angle than how I left it.

He's been here. Reading my work. Watching me as I drift in and out of restless sleep.

I should be terrified. Should be running from the house screaming. Instead, I find myself wondering what he thought of my writing. Did he laugh at how wrong I got the details of vampire mythology? Did he recognize himself in any of my fictional monsters?

"Stop it," I tell myself firmly. "This isn't one of your stories. This is fucking real, and you need to think clearly. "

But thinking clearly seems impossible when every shadow might hide his presence, when every breath of air against my skin might be him moving unseen through my room. The familiar confines of my bedroom feel different now – more intimate, somehow. More dangerous .

I pad downstairs to make coffee, knowing sleep is a lost cause. My home office welcomes me with its wall of books and comfortable writing chair, everything exactly as I left it. Almost exactly. There's something off about my desk, something I can't quite...

The manuscript . My latest work in progress was in a neat stack on the left side of my desk. Now it's centered, with certain pages dog-eared. Heart pounding, I approach to examine it.

Page 47 is marked – a scene where my protagonist first encounters the dark creature hunting her. Page 124 – their first kiss. Page 186 – the scene where she finally surrenders to her darkness. Each marked page grows progressively more intimate, more intense.

He's sending me a message. A preview of his intentions.

Heat floods my face as I imagine him reading these scenes, those arctic eyes taking in my most private fantasies. Did he smile at how close I came to the truth in some places? Did he make mental notes of my protagonist's weaknesses, planning to exploit my own ?

The smart thing would be to leave. Pack a bag, drive to a hotel, figure out my next move from there. Instead, I find myself sitting at my desk, fingers hovering over my keyboard. The cursor blinks at me expectantly as words begin to flow:

The monster who haunts these pages is nothing compared to the reality of you. I've written about darkness, but I never truly knew it until I saw your smile. What are you doing to me?

I save the document, knowing he'll read it. Wanting him to read it. This is madness – exchanging notes with a vampire like some kind of supernatural pen pal. But I can't seem to help myself. The writer in me needs to understand him, to peel back the layers of mystery and see what lies beneath.

The room suddenly feels colder. I wrap my arms around myself, but it does nothing to stop the shiver that runs down my spine. The air grows heavy with that same charged feeling from upstairs, and I know with certainty that I'm no longer alone.

"Trying to understand me, little ghost?" His voice comes from directly behind me, rich with amusement. I don't turn around – can't turn around. If I see those eyes again, I might shatter completely .

"Trying to understand myself," I whisper. "Why I'm not running. Why I'm not afraid."

"But you are afraid." He's closer now, close enough that I feel the words stirring my hair. "I can hear your heart racing. Smell the fear rolling off your skin." A cool finger traces the line of my throat, making me gasp. "The question is... what else are you feeling?"

Heat blooms everywhere his finger touches, spreading through my body like wildfire. This is insane. He's a murderer, a monster, a creature that should exist only in fiction. I should be recoiling from his touch, not fighting the urge to lean into it.

"What do you want from me?" I manage to ask, proud that my voice only shakes a little.

His laugh is dark silk against my ear. " Everything ."

I close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. "Why me? Why now?"

"Because you understand the darkness." His hands settle on my shoulders, strong and possessive. "I've read every word you've written, Elena. Every story, every scene, every dark little fantasy. You don't just write about monsters – you long for us. Dream of us. And now..."

"Now? "

"Now you've caught the attention of a real one." His grip tightens slightly. "The question is, are you ready to step out of your fiction and into truth?"

Finally, I force myself to turn and face him. He's even more beautiful than I remembered, his pale features carved from marble and shadow. That expensive black suit fits him perfectly, making him look like some dark god descended from Olympus. But it's his eyes that capture me – ancient, knowing, hungry.

"What if I say no?" I ask, though we both know I won't.

His smile shows the edges of fangs. "Then I walk away. Leave you to your safe, ordinary life and fictional monsters." His hand comes up to cradle my face, thumb brushing across my bottom lip. "But we both know that's not what you want. Not really."

He's right, God help me. I've spent years writing about women who dance with darkness, who find freedom in surrendering to their monsters. Now that I'm living it, how can I possibly walk away?

"Tell me what happens next," I whisper.

"Next?" His smile grows wider. "Next, I hunt you properly. Court you with darkness until you're mad with wanting it. Until you're willing to give up everything – light, life, safety – just to know what it feels like to truly belong to a monster."

A whimper escapes me – fear or desire, I'm not sure which. Perhaps both. His other hand slides into my hair, gripping gently but firmly enough to tilt my head back.

"I'm going to take you apart piece by piece," he continues, his voice hypnotic. "Break down every wall you've built, every defense, every illusion of safety. And when you're completely undone..." His lips brush my ear, making me shudder. "When you're desperate and aching and begging for the darkness... that's when I'll make you mine forever."

"You're trying to frighten me," I manage to say.

He laughs softly. "No, little ghost. I'm trying to warn you. This is your last chance to run."

Instead of answering, I reach up and touch his face. His skin is cool and smooth under my fingers, impossibly perfect. He goes very still at the contact, watching me with those ancient eyes.

The words I know I shouldn’t be saying come out in a whisper. “Maybe I'm tired of running.”

For a moment, something wild and hungry flashes across his face. Then he steps back, breaking contact so suddenly I sway on my feet .

"We'll see," he says, and his voice has returned to that cultured smoothness. "Sweet dreams, Elena. Write well."

Then he's gone, leaving me trembling and alone in my office. Only the lingering chill in the air and the black rose on my desk prove he was ever here at all.

I sink into my chair, breathing hard. What am I doing? What game am I playing with a creature who could kill me without a second thought? But even as these questions race through my mind, my fingers are already moving across the keyboard, desperate to capture every detail of our encounter while it's fresh.

Hours pass as I write, the sun eventually rising to find me still at my desk. When I finally pause to flex my cramping hands, I realize I've produced nearly fifty pages of raw, intense material. It's some of the best writing I've ever done.

Of course it is , I think with a mixture of hysteria and resignation. You're not writing fiction anymore. You're living it.

I drag myself upstairs to shower, trying to wash away the lingering sensation of his touch. But as I'm drying off, I catch sight of something in the fogged mirror – words written in elegant script across the steamed glass:

Until tonight, little ghost .

A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with being wet and cold. As I watch, the words fade like they were never there, leaving me to wonder if I imagined them. But I know I didn't. Just like I know, with bone-deep certainty, that my life has irrevocably changed.

I've spent years writing about women who dance with darkness. Now it's my turn to learn the steps.