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No. Nope. This is just a dream. A very detailed dream where I float and drink blood and have a brother who looks like he walked off the cover of a men’s magazine.

I rounded another corner at Mach speed and slammed straight into a wall.

Or what I thought was a wall until I bounced off and landed on my butt with a very undignified “oof.”

I blinked up at the ceiling, watching little cartoon wolves dance around my head like the world’s most specific concussion hallucination. The last thing I saw before darkness claimed me was a crystal chandelier.

When I wake up, I thought hazily,I’ll be back in my cramped apartment. Mochi will be yowling for breakfast. No penthouses, no vampire powers, no unfairly attractive adopted brothers…

Just plain old Luca Bennett, who definitely doesn’t drink blood or float or have family who actually wants him…

The chandelier blurred, crystals spinning like stars, and then everything went black.

At least, came one final delirious thought,I didn’t get any blood on the sleep shirt. That cotton definitely needs gentle washing…

Chapter 3

Darkness swirled like ink in water, memories bleeding into dreams…

He was eight again, his sleep shirt catching the summer breeze as butterflies danced through the garden. The air smelled of roses and safety, Grandfather Alexander’s deep laugh rumbling like distant thunder as he chased the delicate creatures.

“Look, Grandfather! They’re not afraid of me!” His small hands reached toward the sky, where crystal wings sparkled in sunlight.

“Of course not, little one,” the old wolf said, his massive frame somehow gentle as he knelt beside him. “Beautiful things recognize their own kind.”

The garden blurred, colors dissolving like stained glass in twilight. The butterflies turned to moths, dark wings beating against windowpanes as screams shattered the night. Red splashed across his parents’ living room floor—so much red. The closet walls pressed close, his small hands sealed against his mouth, trying to be quiet as heavy footsteps passed by. Dark Haven’s politics had no mercy for minor clans like theValentines. They called it a “territory dispute,” but everyone knew the truth—the strong consumed the weak.

But none of that mattered to a child who’d lost everything.

The darkness swirled again, softer now. Grandfather Alexander’s study materialized, all leather books and ancient wood, his gruff voice somehow tender. “You’re family now, little one. The Whitlock Clan protects its own.” A stuffed bunny appeared in his hands—his first gift in his new home. The first time he’d smiled since That Night.

Years melted like snow in spring. The hospital walls were too white, too clean, making Grandfather look small in his bed. “It’s terminal,” floated on antiseptic air. Luca retreated deeper into his sanctuary after his funeral, building walls with books and manga, safer inside where nothing could hurt him again.

Zane’s voice drifted through those walls, year after year, patient as the tide. “I’m here, little bat. Always here.”

But the walls stayed up. They had to. You can’t lose what you never let in.

The memories swirled one last time—a lonely young man in his cramped apartment whispering, “I just want to belong somewhere,” while another in his sanctuary wished only to disappear.

Dreams faded like morning mist, consciousness returning slowly, cautiously, like a shy cat testing unfamiliar ground.

The first thing I noticed was the silk sheets, still impossibly soft against my skin. Still lavender. Still definitely not my clearance bedding. A concerned face hovered above me, features blurred until I blinked away the lingering dreams.

“Luca?” Zane’s voice was careful, gentle, like he was coaxing a spooked animal. He kept his distance—just close enough to watch over me, but far enough not to crowd. The practiced movements of someone used to dealing with a shut-in brother. “How are you feeling?”

Memories—both old and new—swirled in my head. A little boy chasing butterflies. Parents’ blood on hardwood floors. Grandfather Alexander’s kind eyes. Years of isolation in this very room.

“I’m…”Like I body-slammed a marble wall at supernatural speedseemed too honest.Like I inherited a lifetime of trauma along with these cute fangsfelt worse. “…here?”

Something flickered in Zane’s eyes—hope, maybe? He shifted slightly, and I caught that intoxicating scent again.No. Bad Luca. No snacking on siblings, adopted or not.

A cough drew my attention to the doorway, where a man hovered uncertainly. He wore what looked like a formal uniform straight from a butler manga, complete with silver buttons and—was that acravat? He clutched a silver tray to his chest like a shield, clearly unsure if he should enter.

“It’s okay, Benedict,” Zane said softly. “Luca’s having a good day.”

A good day.The words carried weight, history. How many bad days had Luca—hadI—had in this room?

Benedict glided in with a bow that belonged in Versailles, setting down a silver tray with what was unmistakably a blood bag. With abendy straw. Lavender, with little hearts.