Lucien stepped back, his boots hissing in the snow as steam rose beneath his heels.
His red eyes flickered—wild, fighting between instinct and restraint. For a moment, the calm he wore like a shroud cracked open. His fangs, long and gleaming like ivory daggers, had pushed through his control, betraying the hunger pulsing just beneath his skin.
Amelia froze, her breath caught like frost in her lungs. Her heart thundered—loud enough, perhaps, for him to hear.
"Go," he rasped. "Now."
But she didn't.
The fear was there—yes, cold and real. But so was something else. Something stronger.
Curiosity. Connection. An ache that made no sense.
He turned his face from her, jaw clenched, veins darkening beneath his pale skin. "I can't hold it back much longer."
"Then don't," Amelia whispered before she could stop herself. "If it means lying to yourself… don't."
His head snapped back toward her, faster than any human could move. His eyes were no longer just red—they were glowing, alive with a light born from something ancient.
He took a step closer. Then another.
Each footfall melted the snow beneath him in sizzling silence. Amelia stood her ground, though every instinct inside her told her to run.
He reached her—close enough for her to feel the cold radiating from his skin. His hand lifted, trembling slightly, and hovered beside her cheek. He didn't touch her.
"I haven't fed in days," he said quietly, voice thick with restraint. "I don't know what part of me is speaking to you right now—the man I once was, or the monster I became."
Amelia swallowed. "Maybe they're both still in there."
Lucien blinked slowly. As if her words pulled him from a cliff he hadn't realized he stood upon.
His hand fell.
"I need to go," he said. And before she could reply, he was gone—vanished into the snow, leaving only melted footprints and silence behind.
Three nights passed.
Amelia waited.
She didn't tell anyone what she'd seen. Who would believe her? In their village, vampires were stories told to frighten children. Myths.
But she'd seen his eyes. She'd heard the hunger in his voice.
And she missed it.
Not the danger—but him.
She found herself sketching him in the corners of her notebook. His sharp features, his cloak, the way his presence made the air still. She hated herself for it.
Then, on the fourth night, she returned to the forest.
He was there.
Sitting beneath a frost-covered willow, cloaked in shadow, as still as death. His eyes were closed.
She didn't speak. Just approached, slowly.
When she stepped into the ring of melted snow that circled him, his eyes opened.
He looked... different. Not weak. But quieter. The rage in his gaze was dimmed, as if the hunger had finally been silenced.
"I fed," he said flatly, before she could ask.
She flinched.
"Not on a human," he added. "There are ways."
She nodded, though her chest ached with confusion.
"Why do you keep coming back, Amelia?" he asked, voice low.
She hesitated. Then said, "Because something about you feels… unfinished."
Lucien let out a cold laugh. "You have no idea how true that is."
They began meeting more often.
Never planned.
Always silent at first.
Sometimes they walked together. Other times, they sat beneath the same trees and said nothing. Lucien rarely spoke of the past—but when he did, his voice was tinged with regret and ice.
He told her about the Blood Court—a council of vampire lords who once ruled the northern kingdoms. About the night he defied them to protect a mortal queen… and how that defiance cursed him.
He told her about the Frostbrand, the magic that ran through his blood and made the snow itself obey him. A gift that turned to poison.
And slowly, she began to understand him—not just as a vampire, but as a man who had lived too long with the memory of pain.
One night, he spoke of music. Of how he used to play the violin before his hands became weapons.
"I still hear the notes in my dreams," he said. "But I can't remember how to feel them."
Amelia reached for his hand.
"I don't believe that," she said. "I think you've just forgotten how to listen."
He didn't flinch when she touched him.
For the first time, his skin wasn't icy. It was... cool. Barely. But it was something.
But peace never lingers long for the cursed.
That same week, Lucien felt it—like a shadow stretching over the forest.
The Hunters had returned.
A secret order, older than kingdoms, sworn to track and destroy vampires. And they weren't far.
Amelia noticed his tension. The way he moved faster. The way his eyes scanned the darkness behind her.
"You're leaving," she said one night. Not a question.
Lucien didn't deny it.
"If I stay, I bring them to you. They'll burn this forest to the roots to find me."
"Then I'll go with you," she said.
He stepped back, eyes wide. "No."
"I'm not safe here either."
"You're safer without me."
"But I don't want—" she stopped herself, breath catching.
Lucien looked at her—truly looked. "Say it."
Tears burned in her eyes. "I don't want to lose you."
Silence fell. Only the sound of snow brushing against branches filled the space between them.
Then, quietly: "You already have," Lucien whispered. "I was lost long before you were born."
He turned and disappeared into the frost.
That night, the dream came.
Amelia stood in the forest, snow falling gently, and heard the sound of a violin. The melody was tragic, beautiful, full of longing.
She followed the sound and saw him—Lucien—playing beneath a tree of ice. His eyes were closed, the bow steady in his hand.
But behind him, shadows moved.
And she could do nothing to warn him.
She woke up screaming.
The next morning, she found blood at the edge of the woods. Dark. Almost frozen.
And a rose.
Crimson. Frost-covered.
She clutched it to her chest, heart pounding.
He was in danger.
And she knew—no matter what he'd said—she had to find him.
Even if it meant following the frost into darkness.