Claimed by the Prince of Darkness

Moonlight threaded the branches, silvering in streaks on the damp ground, where Ruelle, Lucian, and the wolf stood. The wolf crouched low, its ears pinned back in submission, and it looked meek before its master as if it knew it had done something it shouldn't.

Ruelle wondered if the wolf might have once belonged to his mother. There was something almost inherited in the way it answered to him, as if loyalty and obedience could be passed down like blood.

"What is his name?" she asked at last.

Lucian watched the wolf before his eyes moved to her. "Zhenya."

Her eyebrows slightly rose as she asked, "Like the one who fought the invaders and protected the village of Hacklerens?" It was a name she had come across from a children's book she had read when she was small.

Lucian studied her with his dark eyes. Then, after a pause, he answered, "Yes."

Who would have thought that a pureblooded vampire had read a book meant for humans, Ruelle thought. Let alone have a wolf as a pet. She now saw the wolf nose the dead rabbit.

"I think he's hungry," she murmured.

"I would doubt that, considering he bit two Halflings," Lucian said. He had only just returned to the forest when Zhenya vanished into the thicket. It wasn't the first time. But then the scent of blood had reached him and he found two Halflings on the ground, whimpering with their flesh torn from arm and leg.

Ruelle heard him exhale and say, "Eat."

The wolf's head lifted at once, and it lunged at the meat. In a few tearing swallows, the rabbit was gone. Ruelle stepped back, heart hammering at the violence of it.

That was when her eyes caught his hands—knuckles not only bruised but smeared in blood.

"Your hands, they—"

"Do I want to know what you were doing here in the middle of the forest at this hour?" Lucian cut in, his eyes subtly narrowing on hers. "Unless you were rehearsing to be a frog in your next life, learning how to predict the rain."

"Of course not…" Ruelle answered awkwardly, unable to pull her gaze away from his bloodied hands. "It was nothing important."

She left the rest unsaid. He already knew how often she stumbled into trouble, and she refused to sound like the helpless thing he must think her to be. At least this time, she had pulled herself out—even if it was his wolf that had done the tearing.

Lucian didn't say anything for a few seconds. Then he remarked,

"At this pace," his gaze lingering on the torn edge of her sleeve, "your wardrobe won't survive the season."

Heat climbed her face. Her brown eyes lifted to meet his red ones, which held hers without flinching. She asked him, "What happened to your hands? It is the same as that day. You haven't been coming back, either…"

"Why?" Lucian's reply came without pause. "You should be glad—the bed is free in my absence. You may as well use it."

She shook her head and replied, "I am content with the couch."

Ruelle had seen him fight in the underground, had watched his ruthless precision—yet even then his hands never looked like this. Whatever he had been doing was no mere brawl. It was obviously something harsher, the kind that left its mark deep in the bone.

"Zhenya," Lucian called his wolf, receiving the animal's undivided attention. "Home."

The wolf, however, padded closer to Ruelle, bumping its head against her hand. As if letting her know it was leaving. Hesitant, she reached out and brushed her hand along its coarse fur.

"You were a good boy tonight," she whispered, noticing the wolf's tail swish. "Thank you," and the wolf then vanished into the shadows between the trees.

"Come." Lucian turned, footsteps crunching lightly against the forest ground. He did not look over his shoulder, yet she found herself following beside him, knowing he was heading back to the room this time.

Once they were in the room, Ruelle sat before the fireplace, watching the fire catch slow and low, smoke curling before flame licked the logs. She held her hands close to the warmth, letting it seep into her chilled skin. Having been drenched in the rain, she had freed her hair from its ribbon, letting her damp strands fall in waves past her shoulders, drying in the glow.

To think it was only an hour ago that she was walking on the ledge… A soft sigh escaped from her lips.

When she turned to look over her shoulder, she caught Lucian sitting at the edge of the desk. He was winding a strip of linen around his slightly wet knuckles, the motion precise and practised. With one hand occupied, the bandage slipped from his grasp.

Ruelle's feet lightly padded across the room to where he was. She offered softly, "I can help with that."

His eyes were trained on his hand as he continued wrapping. "Do you think me incapable of binding my own hand?" The words carried no sting, only a polite sort of dismissal.

"No," the word faltered from Ruelle's lips. "It is just easier with two hands… and I am free."

This time, he looked at her and she noticed the coolness behind those red eyes. Lucian murmured, "If this is your idea of repayment, you should aim higher."

Her breath steadied, and she answered softly, "Then…let me start here."

For once, she wanted to be able to help rather than take it. And if not for his wolf, her body might have been emptied of blood tonight.

When Lucian's silence lingered too long, it felt as if he was going to say something that would sting.

Her eyes lowered, the faint weight of dejection softening her expression, as though she had stepped out of line. And it was in that quiet drop of her gaze, his hand lifted—palm upward, the motion precise yet reluctant. His eyes did not waver, steady and unreadable, fixed on her as he offered his hand.

Ruelle turned surprised, with an emotion of triumph and warmth filling her. Not the kind that burned her cheeks, but steadier, quieter. She felt glad at finally being allowed to be of use to him.

She stepped closer. The wounds looked harsh, resembling injuries caused by something merciless. The linen already wound around his hand bore the red stain at its edges.

As she dipped the cotton into the alcohol he had poured in a glass, she gently touched it to his unbandaged hand, as if forgetting that he was a vampire. She lifted the fresh strip of linen and began to wind it slowly about his hand.

Lucian's eyes caught first her pale wrists, steady as they wound the linen with care. The line of his sight climbed, brushing against her collarbone, then catching in the loosened strands of damp hair where they clung near her shoulder. It lingered at the quiet shape of her mouth before halting at the faint tremor of her lashes.

It was more than detail, less than interest—yet the imprint remained, as though his gaze had caught on her without reason, an impression too stubborn to be dismissed.

Silence fell on the room until Ruelle felt his gaze. She dared look up and asked,

"Is there something you want to say?"

Lucian's head angled with the faintest shift. He remarked, "I was just thinking. How you seem to have not learnt that being helpful often brings more misfortune than thanks."

Earlier in the forest, he had overheard from the injured Halflings when he had gone looking for his wolf.

His remark struck, and Ruelle's hands hesitated before she answered, "I only wanted to be useful… But I could say the same to you."

For a second, something crossed across his face. His voice came low, more to himself than to her. "I am aware."

"Hm?" Her brows knit faintly, not quite catching what he said.

"Why do you need to be useful?" Lucian questioned.

Ruelle's hands paused at his words. The question pressed too closely. For a moment she faltered, then let a small smile appear on her lips. She replied,

"I suppose I don't know how not to."

Lucian watched her as she tied the bandage carefully. To him, it didn't look like kindness but conditioning—etched so deeply it no longer felt like choice. And the truth of it was probably that she carried it without even knowing.

But how could Ruelle know when it was the only way she had ever grown? Like a vine bending toward light without ever questioning why.

Praise had never been given freely, only scraped from effort. Her sister had been loved for doing less, but for Ruelle, worth came only through being useful. It was the kind of lesson that sank in too early, shaping her until she believed usefulness was the only way to hold her place in the world.

Once Ruelle tucked the final strip of linen in place, she drew her hand back and said quietly,

"Your hands have suffered more than when I saw you in the underground." Her voice was hesitant before the question escaped her lips, "Why?"

When she lifted her gaze, she found his eyes already on her. The glow from the fireplace cast across his face caught the stray strands of black hair that fell loose across his temple, soft against the severity of his features. His dark red eyes, however burned with no such softness.

"Better this," Lucian replied, voice even, almost detached. "than placing the anger where it shouldn't."

"If I may ask… What made you angry?" Ruelle's voice was as soft as the rain tapping against the glass. It seemed it was from training, not brawling. The sort that took blood and gave nothing back.

For a moment, he only stared. Then the faintest curve touched his lips—too fleeting to be called a smile, but close enough to unsettle.

"Shouldn't you be asking," Lucian murmured, tilting his head, "if I killed someone? Or how many?"

Her lashes trembled, but she didn't look away from him. Held in place by his gaze, she replied quietly, "Would you have answered if I asked?"

Lucian's eyes narrowed, not in anger but in something keener. A low sound escaped him, the ghost of a laugh that held no warmth.

"No," he said, as if the word itself were indulgence.

The following morning, the dining hall filled itself with chatter, the scrape of forks and the clatter of spoons filling the air. The smell of fresh bread and porridge pulled every Groundling out of their beds.

Yet, Ruelle's mind had not cleared from the memory of last night. Looking at the Elite's table, she found Alanna sitting there with distant eyes. Her eyes then shifted to the Halflings' table, where the women who had chased her last night were nowhere to be seen.

Kevin said around his toast, "One of these weekends, we should meet off the Sexton grounds."

"It would be fun. Not this weekend though—how about next?" Hailey asked. "Ruelle?"

Ruelle dragged her gaze away from the Elites' table and replied, "Next is fine."

Finishing their breakfast, Ruelle and her friends stood up and headed towards the door. Ruelle walked a step behind Kevin and Hailey. It was then that Leslie cut across her path. The young woman wrung her hands, as if any more than that, the skin might come off with all her fidgeting.

"Can I… can I speak with you?" Leslie pleaded, her voice pitched low. "Alone."

Ruelle's lips pursed before she said, "You can say it here. I have class."

Leslie's head dropped, her shoulders small. "I—I'm sorry. For what happened. I didn't mean… she threatened to break my arm if I didn't bring you."

Ruelle gave a small nod. "I understand."

"You do?" Leslie's eyes glimmered with unshed tears.

"Yes. I know how persistent they can be…" Ruelle replied.

"I'm so glad," Leslie whispered, with a look of relief passing through her face. "I've felt guilty since yesterday. It won't happen again."

Ruelle returned a faint smile, enough to soften the air. Leslie then said, almost eagerly, "Then I'll see you this evening. We can continue—"

"No." Came Ruelle's firm response and the smile on Leslie's lips faltered with guilt. "I won't be able to teach you anymore. Some of the Elites won't like you mingling with me. You'd be better off finding a senior to tutor you."

Ruelle caught the pang of hurt on Leslie's face, and she tried hard not to soften. Feeling someone's eyes on her from the Elite's table, her gaze moved to meet Lucian's eyes, who wore a blank expression.

Without another word, she turned and joined her friends at the door.

At the Elites' table, Alanna sat rigid, the blood in her glass untouched, her reflection rippling faintly in its surface. Her lips curved in displeasure. Last night had been nothing short of failure. Every attempt to strip that lowborn Groundling from the human's place seemed only to leave her with more loss.

"Attacked by a wolf?" Mr. Mortis repeated, pushing his spectacles higher on the bridge of his nose as though the matter were hardly worth the interruption.

"That's right!" Alanna snapped with agitation. "What business does a wolf have roaming so close to Sexton's grounds? It should be hunted down and killed. I was almost bitten by it!"

"Wolves belong to the forest," Mortis replied with a clipped voice. "For a pureblood to feel alarmed in such a trivial thing—one would expect better."

"You aren't going to do anything?" she demanded, incredulous, her hands curling against the desk he sat behind.

"If you step into the forest of your own free will," Mortis said, his gaze already dropping back to the stack of parchments before him, "the consequences are yours to bear. Sexton does not involve itself in the affairs its students so willingly invite. You should know that by now."

Remembering it, Alanna gritted her teeth as she moved from the dining room to her classes.

Normally, she would have written to her father, and he would have solved the matter with a single word. But ever since Ruelle Belmont had dragged her name through humiliation over the stolen pendant, her father's patience had worn thin. He was furious with her—furious enough that he didn't want to talk to her right now.

With every escape Ruelle managed, Alanna's anger deepened. It wasn't enough to see the Groundling stumble. She wanted the human brought down further—humiliated, writhing, begging. She hadn't forgotten the sting of pencil driven into her palm.

But what made Alanna angry was the thought that Lucian was helping the lowly human woman. Why was he, of all people, shielding her? He, who loathed humans more openly than any of them. Why her?

Chalk scraped the board while a hush-ward thrummed in the room, turning whispers into harmless noise. Alanna didn't hear a word that the instructor spoke. Across the rows, Lucian sat straight-backed, the light catching the sharp line of his cheek. She had fallen for him before attending Sexton.

"Heard two of your Halflings crawled into the infirmary at noon," Gwendolyn breathed, who sat beside her.

Alanna scowled at the interruption of her gaze. "I didn't know you were the academy's housekeeper."

"Mmm." Gwendolyn's smile broadened. "And yet you look…displeased."

"Find a new pastime, Gwen. Picking at me is dull," Alanna responded. The instructor didn't dare to call her or any other Elite out who didn't listen to the class.

Gwendolyn leaned back, watching Lucian as if admiring a painting. She commented in a small whisper, "Prince Edward arrives soon. Most of the women are trying to move upwards rather than throwing themselves at ice walls. Lucian hasn't blinked in your direction in months. Or should I say years?"

Alanna's mouth twitched in distaste. "Keep offering advice and I'll pour you a cup of poison to swallow it with."

Gwendolyn's laugh was soft. "I only mean—you could have a prince. But then again, we all hope to get his attention."

"I intend to have what I have wanted." Alanna adjusted the cuff of her glove, her eyes back on Lucian.

Beneath the smoothness of her posture, a thought settled in her mind. Ruelle Belmont was an inconvenience, nothing more. There were other routes to the same door. And when finally an idea appeared, a smile rose to her lips.

When the bell released the classrooms, Alanna was the first one to stand up and step out of the room.

She made her way straight to the library.

With everyone packing their things to leave Sexton for the weekend, the library was sparse of students. She headed through the restricted shelves, which were to be accessed by Elites and the faculty only. But she couldn't find the book she was looking for.

"Miss Beckett," the librarian appeared with a bowed head. "May I help you find what you are looking for?"

Impatient, Alanna's gaze left the stack of books and asked the librarian, "Are these all the books Sexton holds?"

"All we hold here," the woman nodded. "A few are on loan. But students return within a week for rotation."

"Is there anything… off-record?" The vampiress drew a small folded slip from her glove and laid it on the side of a shelf. A gold coin followed it.

The librarian's eyes moved to what was written in the slip, then to the coin. When she spoke, her voice was neutral. "That subject is not in the public catalogue. It is usually held with the faculty. If I am not mistaken, the book was recently requested for instruction."

"By whom?"

"Ms. Gemma Gilbert," answered the woman, smoothing the slip flat with the side of a finger. "For her class."

Alanna handed over another coin and murmured, "This conversation never took place." The librarian bowed deeply in response.

The Seduction Technique's wing was quiet when Alanna knocked and entered a room. She then slipped a hairpin into the lock of Gemma Gilbert's office, turning the knob, and let herself in. Frantically, she scanned the titles of the books, hoping to finish before anyone arrived.

After five minutes, she finally found the book sitting at the corner desk of the room. The desk was a sticky mess, and the stickiness had touched the book. The vampiress opened the book and turned the pages before pausing on one.

She whispered, "There you are."

'Love Potion'

She picked out a piece of parchment from the room and noted down the ingredients:

Siren bone powder — 1 measure

Charred rose petals — 4 embers

Sablethorn root — 2 curls (4 deepens the pull)

Fawn's blood — 20 drops, no more

Ether-wine — 5 measures

Hart (stag) musk — 1 vial

Gloaim-salt — a single grain

Instructions: Seal the mixture in a glass jar and store it in a cool, dark cupboard. Each evening, gently invert the jar once and set it upright again. Do not shake. The brew changes from deep garnet to clear dusk-amber in three weeks. When clear, strain through white linen and into a sterilised vial.

Alanna quickly closed the book, placing it where she had found it before closing the door and leaving the room. Not two minutes after the young Elite slipped out, the door opened again. It was the instructor, Gemma, who sighed upon seeing the mess on the corner desk.

"I forgot about the sealant. I should clean it," the vampiress muttered. As she tidied up, she picked up the book on the desk. "You,"—she picked up the faded book—"are going back to Mr. Mortis before he starts sending notes."

She noticed the cover was stuck to the first page and wouldn't part. "Lovely."

She worked a fingernail along the edge, easing it open. Several pages had stuck themselves together. She teased one free, then another. Halfway through, she hit a torn page—only the title 'Love Potion' remained and the rest of its body was ripped out. She muttered, while trying to free it,

"Must have been misused for it to be torn out."

She peeled the torn Love Potion page loose. Beneath it, the next title stared back at her. She tapped the heading with a fingernail and said,

"Shame that this one isn't in the syllabus. A demonstration would have made the class lively," and she snapped the book shut.