Page 17 of A Touch of Darkness (Chronicles of the Cursed #1)

I’m standing in a place that makes no sense—like a corridor but also somehow a meadow, the walls and ceiling shifting in and out of focus and flowers are floating in the air. My lungs feel leaden, my steps weighted, as though I’m moving through water. Somewhere far off, I hear a dull roar, like the crashing of ocean waves, but maybe something else. The noise comes in and out, muffled. The air shimmers, crackling with an energy that prickles over my skin to the point of pain. Like being shocked by static electricity.

Suddenly, my eyes land on her. On Lara. She’s suspended in midair as if she’s floating on her back. Her head is slightly tilted back, her long dark hair fanned out in a ghostly halo. A faint glow surrounds her—I can’t begin to describe the color; it’s unlike anything I’ve seen. Pale gold, tinged with specks of silver. It flickers and pulses like a heartbeat, making her look both angelic and hauntingly fragile. It’s almost as if invisible wires are holding her up, like a puppet caught between two realities.

I call her name, and my voice echoes strangely, as though it’s been engulfed by distance before it can reach her. She doesn’t respond. Her eyes are closed, her lips parted, as if she’s on the verge of speaking. But no sound comes out.

I try to move forward, every muscle in my body coiled with a sense of urgency. I have to reach her. With each step, the scene ahead of me warps, like I’m pushing through layers of impenetrable glass. My breath comes in ragged puffs. The glow around Lara intensifies with each faltering step I take, strobing in my vision. It physically hurts to look at her, but I can’t tear my gaze away.

In the half-light, I catch glimpses of something else—a shape in the corner of my eye. A presence that stands just beyond my line of sight, as if waiting. My heart thuds harshly against my ribcage. The corridor-meadow around us darkens and the flowers fall to my feet, the edges fraying like burned paper. I try again to call out to Lara, but the words stay lodged in my throat.

I watch as she slowly turns her head toward me, and her eyes suddenly flutter open, but they look distant—like she’s not really seeing me. Her mouth moves, trying to form words. I think I see my own name on her lips. A single tear slips down her cheek, suspended in that same eerie glow. Instinct takes over; I reach out, straining to touch her hand, to pull her out of this suspended nightmare and bring her back to me. The moment my fingertips brush the edge of that glow, a jolt of energy surges through me, paralyzing my arm with a cold, electric sting.

“Lara!” I scream, though the sound feels muffled, like I’m underwater. My cry is swallowed by the swirling darkness that rushes in from every corner. In that split second, Lara’s body jerks as if she’s seized by an unseen force, or as if her heart is being shocked back to life. Her eyes lock on mine, filled with terror and helplessness, and a flash of golden-silver light erupts around her.

The brightness blinds me. My vision whites out, and for a breathless second, there’s nothing but the rumble of blood rushing in my ears. When it clears, Lara’s gone—vanished from the air as though she were never there at all. The glowing residue lingers in the empty space, drifting like embers in the wind, before flickering out.

I stagger, collapsing to my knees. Confusion and dread roar through my veins. The corridor-meadow around me glimmers violently—walls melting into grass, grass warping back into cold stone. I’m cold, suddenly, like my body just realized how unnatural this dream is. Hot tears pool in my eyes, and I try to scream again, but no sound comes as I look at the dying flowers under my feet.

The dream—or vision, I can’t tell which—lingers as I wake in a cold sweat. It’s vivid, too real to brush off.

I sit up in bed, the image of a suspended Lara burning in my mind. My heart races, the cold sweat clinging to my skin like a damp second layer. This can’t just be a nightmare. I know it’s something more—or I’m just crazy enough to believe it after everything. My chest tightens as I think of her, of what the Solstice Society might have done. They said she’s dead. The authorities said she’s dead. Yet somehow, I know she’s not fully gone…especially after last night and what was revealed at the police station.

Someone is lying to me.

And I’m starting to feel like multiple forces are working together, conspiring for something greater. It makes sense that the Solstice Society would be behind it. But do I have blinders on?

I swipe my phone off the nightstand beside me and the screen illuminates my face, making me squint through the pain of brightness. There’s only one person I care to talk to right now.

Professor Draedon.

He left me with his number the last time I saw him, and though I hadn’t planned on using it, at least not yet anyways, I’m grateful for it.

Me: Can you meet with me?

I glance at the time. Two in the morning.

Vampires are up all night, aren’t they?

Then, I take a moment to really think about it and realize that has to be part of their lore, too, although he didn’t mention it. He’s awake all day in classes, so he’s clearly not nocturnal like the books describe vampires.

Me: Sorry it’s so late…early. I need to talk to you about what I found out last night.

Me: And some new developments. I need to learn more about what’s happening.

Me: Please. It can’t wait.

There’s something about him that gives me feelings of both safety and fear, and I still haven’t been able to put my finger on it.

When he finally replies, he does so with his address and tells me he has a free period in the morning, and I can meet him at his house. He says he has an extensive library with research material. I agree, thank him, and tell him I’ll see him in a few hours.

But then, I can’t fall back asleep.

It’s no use.

I toss and turn for a little while, and then I decide…if the professor is up, and I’m up, maybe we can just get started now. Sure, maybe he’s falling asleep. But maybe he does have some kind of supernatural ability that allows him to not sleep or something.

It’s worth a shot. Because I can’t turn my brain off.

If I get there and he doesn’t answer, I’ll just wait a few hours.

I type the address he gave me into my GPS app and am delighted to see it’s only ten minutes from Blackthorne. After waking both Nicole and Rebecca up—and feeling terrible about it—Nicole gives me her car keys in exchange for leaving her alone so she can sleep. She laughs, so I know she’s kidding, but I still feel bad. I just need answers.

I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve the two of them. It’s almost like fate…or maybe the universe…has conspired to provide me some kind of friendship, of help, because it knew I’d need it.

By the time I arrive at the house, I’m starting to wonder if it’s potentially the worst idea I’ve ever had. His home, hidden behind dense trees and wrought iron gates, looks more like a small castle than a home.

I pull past the iron gates, and the car’s headlights skim across the towering facade of Lucian’s estate. It’s enormous—like a medieval castle plucked straight from a storybook. Above me, stone gargoyles—much like those at Blackthorne—perch at the corners of the roof, their grim faces twisted in silent warning. The walls are built of dark, weathered stone, streaked with centuries of wear, and in the moonlight, they seem to shimmer.

Beyond the gates, a long, circular driveway winds through rows of ancient trees, their spindly branches knitting together overhead in a tangled canopy. The headlights flicker over shadows that stretch like clawed fingers across the cobblestones. Each bump in the path rattles me, as though the ground is protesting my arrival.

I roll to a stop in front of a massive set of double doors carved from solid oak. They’re framed by pointed arches and ornate carvings—floral motifs and mythical beasts swirling across the wood. Overhead, an ornate stained-glass window depicts some heraldic crest, maybe a family emblem. The glass catches the moonlight in fractured hues of crimson and violet, lending an eerie glow to the doorway below.

Stepping out of the car, I feel the chill of the night air instantly. The wind rustles through the dead leaves piled against the stone steps, sending them skittering like restless spirits. The estate’s towers and turrets loom high above, disappearing into the darkness. A single light in one of the upper windows flickers, casting a narrow beam onto the deserted courtyard. It feels like a watchful eye tracking my every move.

My heartbeat quickens as I ascend the steps and approach the massive front door. The entire place radiates a sort of austere beauty, the kind that makes you want to whisper instead of speak. I half expect to see robed figures gliding along the parapets. Everything is so still, as if even time itself moves cautiously here.

Once I make it up the steps, I notice the door is slightly ajar. My fingers hesitate on the brass handle before I push it open, calling out, “Professor Draedon?” My voice echoes into the silence.

Nothing.

Of course, he has to make things harder than they need to be. Not that he’s expecting me yet, but still.

I venture on, knowing it probably isn’t the best idea to walk into a vampire’s house without him answering the door, but the need to get the answers I’m looking for outweighs it.

Inside, the house is everything I imagined when pulling up the drive—ancient, ornate, oppressive in its grandeur. Dark wood panels stretch high along the walls, interrupted by tall windows draped in velvet curtains. Candlelight flickers from sconces, casting long, shifting shadows that dance across the floor. The scent of old books, wax, and something faintly…metallic…hangs in the air.

I shudder with an uncontrollable fear that I probably shouldn’t be here alone. But honestly, at this point, what do I have to lose?

“Professor?” I call again, my voice quieter this time. Still no answer.

My footsteps seem too loud, echoing as I move through the foyer, where a grand staircase curls upward like a serpent. I pause, drawn to a massive portrait hanging on the wall above the stairs. It’s of a man—Lucian—but he looks different, perhaps slightly younger, harder. His gaze pierces through the layers of paint, making my stomach twist. It reminds me of the bust portraits at Blackthorne.

I keep moving, my hand trailing the banister as I ascend. The further I go, the more oppressive the house feels, as if it’s alive and watching me. I pass rooms with doors slightly agape, catching glimpses of shadowy interiors—an opulent sitting room, a dining room with a table that could easily seat twenty, and a music room dominated by a grand piano—and a harp. I don’t believe I’ve ever even seen a harp in person.

Finally, I reach the second floor and pause. A faint sound reaches my ears—muffled, nearly rhythmic. At first, I think it’s music, which would explain why Lucian hasn’t heard me, but as I follow it, the sound sharpens into something else entirely.

Once I edge closer, I can finally place it.

Moaning.

Low, breathy, and totally unmistakable.

Heat rises to my cheeks as I make my way toward the sound, heart pounding in my chest. The hallway stretches before me, lined with doors upon doors, but it’s the one at the very end that’s slightly open, light spilling into the dark corridor like a splintered beacon.

I push the door open just enough to see inside. A library. It’s massive, the walls lined floor to ceiling with books, interrupted only by a colossal fireplace and a smattering of dark leather chairs with ornate golden buttons. The smell of old parchment and leather fills the room. But it’s not the library itself that draws my attention.

It’s Lucian himself—and in a way that I’ve never seen him.

He’s there, near the fireplace as the flames crackle and shift—but he’s not alone. A woman—a vampire, judging by her pale skin and the glint of fangs—arches against him, pressing her chest to his face as she cries out in complete pleasure as he sucks one nipple into his mouth. I watch as her hands tangle in his dark, unruly hair, pulling his face to her neck, and the sounds she makes… they’re almost feral. Like a mixture of pleasure, bliss, and a hint of agony as he continues to suck on one erect nipple and grasp the other between his thumb and forefinger, causing it to amplify in size, hardening somehow even more.

I swallow past my complete shock, but I can’t move. My feet are rooted to the floor, breath caught in my throat as my own chest heaves. I don’t know why I stay, why I don’t turn and leave, give the pair the privacy they deserve—that they believe they have—but I can’t look away. He doesn’t notice me—and neither does she, thank God.

He pulls his face from her breasts and lets out a guttural moan of pleasure as she sinks further down on his shaft. When he throws his head back, I catch sight of his parted lips—and the elongated fangs that glint under the low light. They’re sharp, curving subtly like polished ivory, and for a beat, I’m captivated by the way his canines graze his lower lip. There’s a primal edge to them, an unmistakable signal of his nature, that stands in stark contrast to the smooth, sensual roll of his body against hers. Then he springs up again, giving me a fleeting glimpse of his rock-hard length sliding in and out of her, but my eyes keep returning to those fangs—eerie and fascinating all at once. The two of them seem to move faster, more quickly than I’ve ever seen two humans move. It’s almost as if time slows down for me yet goes in double time for them. The sounds coming from their bodies is unlike any I’ve ever heard. A sloppy, wet noise that somehow makes my stomach churn but also erupt in butterflies at the same time. She continues to work him, to pleasure him in a way I’ve never been privy to in real life, her ass rippling each time she allows him to bottom out inside of her. I clench my thighs together, needing the friction, desperately wanting.

Holy fuck.

I’ve never seen anything more erotic in all my life.

She arches her back again, leaning backward and resting her hands on his knees, continuing to take him at a voracious speed, and the sounds they make together are like a symphony of ecstasy. My eyes never leave the two of them as he roughly flips her over, an animalistic sound ripping from his throat as he gets on top of her, drilling into her like his life depends on it. She moans his name over and over again, sounding almost prayer-like as it spills from her dark red lips.

And then, just as he pumps into her one last time, they both come apart, a brilliant finale to a secret show I was never meant to witness.

I ache everywhere, every single inch of my body pulsing and thrumming and coming alive. Slick wetness and formidable heat coat the area between my thighs, and I need a moment to catch my breath—but I don’t get one.

“Enjoy the show, darling?” the woman calls out as she stands, revealing her pert nipples and full breasts. Her vagina has abundant hair covering it, but I can tell her lips are swollen and needy as Lucian’s cum runs down the insides of her thighs.

I immediately step backward, try to think of an excuse for why I stood there watching. Of fucking course, they knew I was there—how stupid am I? I stood around like a lost idiot who couldn’t take my eyes off them.

Moron.

“You aren’t a moron, darling. Merely a mortal with a kink for voyeurism.” She flashes a bright smile my way, her long, pin-straight blonde hair sticking to her slick, dewy skin. I’m drawn to the puncture marks on her neck, where blood slowly trickles down like a stream. “Who is your pet, Luc?” she asks with her eyes alight, almost glowing as she drinks me in. Her red lips are destroyed from their passionate affair, the color marring her pale skin, and she looks so amused by my meager presence.

“She isn’t a pet, Vivienne,” he grunts, pulling on a pair of dress slacks as he eyes me. “Get out of my house.”

With that, she swipes her clothes from where they lay strewn on the floor and saunters—naked—out of the library while I watch like a timid child. I can’t help but stare at Lucian without even the slightest restraint. His body is like something out of a dream.

Every muscle seems intricately carved with brutal content, a meticulous balance of strength and elegance that’s almost hypnotic. Each slope and line a testament to something ageless and untouchable. His skin gleams faintly in the dim light, pale but not sickly—more like marble, alive with subtle shadows that shift as he moves. Scars lace his torso, faint silver lines that map across his chest and ribs, each one a quiet testament to something I don’t think I’m meant to understand.

I swallow hard, feeling my pulse hammering in my ears as my gaze drifts lower. His shoulders are broad, tapering to a lean waist, and the way his muscles move—subtle, fluid—is insufferably distracting. My breath hitches when he exhales, the sound too loud in the otherwise quiet room.

His chest rises and falls with a slow, deliberate rhythm, each breath impossibly controlled. The sharp angles of his collarbones lead down to the planes of his abdomen, defined but not exaggerated. He moves slightly, and the faint sheen lingering on his skin glimmers, catching in the candlelight as it flickers, making him seem more ethereal than human.

But it’s his presence that keeps me rooted me to this spot. Even half-dressed, barefoot, and unguarded, there’s nothing soft or vulnerable about him. He radiates something ancient, something dangerous, like a predator biding its time.

His gaze meets mine, and my breath catches. There’s something in the way he looks at me—an intensity that burns through the space between us.

“You’re staring, Sylvie,” he says, his voice low, tinged with utter amusement.

“I’m sorry,” I manage to choke out. “I wasn’t?—”

He chuckles, and I believe it may be the first time I’ve ever seen amusement alive in his features. His smirk on his lips—sharp and knowing—makes my stomach flip

Shaking his head, he walks over to his desk and casually leans against it, seemingly unbothered, as if this is all perfectly normal. A student watching her vampire professor fucking another vampire in his Gothic castle. Watching the blood drip down her neck, the way he impaled her on his impossibly large cock…

He arches a brow, and the corner of his mouth tugs higher. “You were. But don’t stop on my account.”

His teasing makes it worse—if possible. My nerves are already frayed, and now my heart is racing like I’m caught in something very dangerous, something I can’t untangle myself from.

“I was just—” My words falter. What can I even say to move past this?

He doesn’t press me, though the way his gaze lingers feels more deliberate now, like he’s finding pure enjoyment out of watching me squirm.

“Relax, Sylvie. It’s just skin.”

His tone is light, but there’s something beneath it, something precarious that makes me feel like I’m standing on the edge of a steep cliff. I force myself to look away, my hands twisting nervously at my sides, but the image of his naked body, of his beautiful naked body, is burned into my mind.

“I really am sorry,” I say. Words continuing to fail me. “I just. I couldn’t sleep, and I thought maybe you’d be up. I?—”

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for, Sylvie. It’s okay. Although…” he stops himself and I look at him, confused. Unaware of where he was going with his sentiment.

“Although?” I edge closer to where he rests before I can stop myself, as if he’s calling me subconsciously toward him.

I have to force my gaze to stay on his, because it keeps wandering downward, toward his exposed chest, toward his cock that I never should’ve seen but did.

“I don’t think you’re actually sorry, are you?” he asks, and I flinch. Could it be that he actually is pissed? That he’s just holding back his anger with this lighthearted banter?

If I upset the vampire before me, there’s no telling what he’d do. Sure, he seems perfectly tame and even normal at school, but we’re in his world now.

I stumble backward, wishing like hell that I hadn’t come here at four in the morning and then stayed even when I wasn’t welcomed in. Who am I turning into?

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at, Professor, but I do?—”

A sly smile spreads across his face, and the words die in my throat.

“Is something funny about this? Anything at all? Because from where I’m standing, there is nothing comical about this situation,” I say, totally confused at what he’s playing at.

He chuckles again, this time looking at me from beneath long, black lashes, and for the first time, I can fully acknowledge just how beautiful the beast before me truly is. Sure, I’ve felt it. Thought it, yes, though haven’t had time to decipher it. But in this moment, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen any man as remarkable as Lucian Draedon.

He steps away from his desk and ambles to me, leaving only measly inches between us. He’s so close, I can feel his warmth radiating onto me. He smells of sex and violence and everything beautiful but damned in the world, and I am wholly intoxicated, enamored.

“Because I can smell you, Sylvie.”

At first, I haven’t the slightest clue as to what he means. Then, my brain catches up with his words and my cheeks warm with a ferocious, sweltering heat, and I shrink backward.

“You enjoyed watching me fuck that woman. It’s okay,” he says. “I’m not angry with you, quite the contrary; I’m actually very amused by it all. Unsurprised, even. And if you think I didn’t know you were there the entire time, then you haven’t studied enough about my kind.”

I don’t know if I should be appalled, grateful, or something in between.

He knew I was watching. The entire time. He knew.

I take a steadying breath and glance at my feet, trying to shake away the nerves as he reaches up and cups my jaw with a surprising gentleness to his touch, tilting my head upward so I can do nothing but focus solely on him.

And when I do, I see something different than I ever have before.

I see the past.

His past.

A past I shouldn’t be able to see at all.