Chapter 1

CAERYN

The cold always found me first.

Before the light came through, before the bells tolled, before the soft shuffle of feet in the corridor outside my door, the cold would creep through the thin blankets and settle into my bones. I had learned long ago not to fight it. 

I opened my eyes to darkness. My room, if you could call it that was barely wider than the cot pressed against the wall, a converted storage closet in the servants' wing that I had called home for all nineteen years of my life. No windows or candles, just four walls, a wooden cross hanging above my bed that my grandmother had carved before she died, and the faint, ever-present smell of iron and old stone.

The cross was the only decoration. The only thing that was mine.

I sat up slowly, the cot groaning beneath me, and reached for the clothes I had laid out the night before. A simple grey dress, worn soft from years of washing. 

My wrist throbbed as I pulled the sleeve over it. I paused and looked down. The bandage was still there, a clean white linen wrapped tight around my left wrist, hiding the two small punctures beneath. The wounds had not closed yet and the memory of teeth breaking skin never faded. It never did. I could still feel the cold press of Lord Balthazar’s mouth, the way he had held my arm so casually, I was nothing more than a cup he was drinking from. He hadn't even looked at me while he fed. His eyes had been fixed on the fire across the room, bored, distant.

I had counted the seconds until he was done. Sixty-three, I always counted. It helped me remember that I was still alive. That I was still me, somewhere beneath the blood and rules.

I finished dressing quickly, my fingers moving with practiced efficiency. The manor would be waking soon, and the servants' quarters had their own schedule, one that did not tolerate laziness. I smoothed my red curls back, braided it tight against my skull, and checked my reflection in the small, cracked mirror above the washbasin.

A pale face stared back at me. Gaunty blue eyes, too large for my thin features. Cheeks that had never quite lost their hollow look, no matter how much I ate. I looked like what I was, a girl who had been raised on obedience and rationed meals. 

I had learnt that following the rules meant I got food and did not have to share mother’s Keep your head down, never question an order, never look a vampire in the eyes for too long, never forget what you are.

The rules lived inside me like a second heartbeat. My mother had taught them to me before I could walk, had whispered them into my hair while she held me at night, had repeated them so many times that they had become the architecture of my mind. The rules meant I survived. The rules were the only reason I was still breathing.

I stepped out of my room and into the corridor.

The servants' wing was already stirring. I could hear the distant clatter of pots from the kitchen, the low murmur of voices from the laundry room, the soft pad of footsteps on the stone floor. The air smelled of bread, soap and the faint, metallic undertone that never quite left De Laurentis manor, it was the smell of old blood, soaked into the walls over centuries.

I made my way toward the main living area, following the narrow servants' passages that wound through the manor like veins. The walls were rough here, unadorned, nothing like the gilded halls above. The De Laurentis family had built their home on the backs of the Bound, and they had never bothered to hide it. The servants' corridors were a reminder: you are not one of us and you will never be one of us.

I passed the laundry room, where two women were already scrubbing sheets. They didn't look up as I passed. We didn't speak to each other much, the Bound. What was there to say? We were all taught the same rules and carried the same scars.

The kitchen door was ahead, a heavy wooden thing that swung open at my touch. Warmth spilled out, along with the smell of fresh bread and simmering broth. I stepped inside and let the door close behind me.

The kitchen was the heart of the servants' wing, a large, low-ceilinged room with stone walls and copper pots hanging from iron hooks. A great hearth dominated one wall, its fire crackling and popping, filling the space with golden light. Tables lined the center of the room, covered in flour, vegetables and half-prepared meals. And there, at the largest table, was my mother.

She stood with her back to me, her hands moving deftly over a pile of dough. Her hair was the same red as mine but less vibrant, braided just as tightly, and her shoulders were thin beneath her worn dress. She was humming, a soft, tuneless sound that I remembered from childhood, a lullaby she used to sing when I couldn't sleep.

"Mother," I said softly.

She turned, and her face lit up. "Caeryn."

I crossed the room in three quick strides and threw my arms around her. She smelled of flour, yeast and the faint, herbal salve she used on her wounds. Her arms came around me, tight and warm, and for a moment I was a child again, safe and loved.

"I was hoping you'd come down early," she murmured into my hair. "I made your favorite."

I pulled back, smiling despite myself. "You always make my favorite."

"Because you never eat enough." She cupped my face in her hands, her eyes, the same blue as mine, searching my features. "You look tired, little one. Did you sleep?"

"Well enough."

She didn't believe me. I could see it in the way her brow furrowed, her thumbs brushed gently over my cheekbones. But she didn't push. There were too many things we couldn't talk about, too many truths that would only hurt more if spoken aloud.

I glanced at her neck.

The bandage was fresh, cleaner than the one I had seen yesterday, but still there. Still hiding the marks. I felt my stomach tighten.

"Mom," I called carefully. "Your neck."

She touched the bandage instinctively, her fingers brushing the edge of the linen. "It's nothing."

"Who was it?"

She hesitated. "Lord Balthazar."

The name hit me like a slap. Lord Balthazar De Laurentis. The master of De Laurentis family. The vampire who had fed from me only days ago, who had held my wrist without looking at my face, who had drained my blood like it was nothing more than water from a glass.

And now he had fed from her too.

"He took too much," I whispered. "Didn't he."