Chapter 12

Vivienne's POV:

I stood alone at the base of the grand entrance, staring up at the massive wooden door that hadn't been opened in what felt like centuries. The iron hinges were probably rusted beyond recognition by now, and I honestly couldn't remember where I'd put the key. Somewhere in this labyrinth of a manor, buried under decades of accumulated possessions and forgotten experiments, there was probably a dusty key ring with the proper tool for this job. But searching for it would take hours I didn't want to waste, not when that beautiful man was waiting upstairs in my bedroom, probably wondering what was taking me so long.

I reached up and unhooked one of my earrings, a thin but sturdy piece of gold wire. I'd heard somewhere that people could pick locks with things like this, and in a moment of inspiration, I figured it was worth trying. My fingers worked the wire into the ancient lock mechanism, fumbling awkwardly as I tried to feel for whatever was supposed to give way inside. Nothing happened. I adjusted my angle, applied more pressure, twisted the wire experimentally. Still nothing. The lock was either too corroded, too complex for my amateur attempt, or I simply had no idea what I was doing.

I could feel the minutes ticking by, imagining Lysander sitting on my bed upstairs, his white hair catching the candlelight, his pale skin practically glowing in the darkness. I'd told him to wait for me, promised I'd just be a moment, and here I was struggling with a door like some amateur who'd forgotten her own home's layout. Part of me worried he'd realize how long it had been since I'd actually used this entrance. If I could just get the damn thing open normally, it would look natural, like I used it all the time. He could come and go through the front door like a normal guest instead of having to climb through windows like some kind of burglar.

But the lock refused to cooperate, and I could feel my frustration building into something closer to rage. My fingers worked faster, more aggressively, the delicate gold wire bending under the force I was applying. This was ridiculous. I was a centuries-old vampire with strength that could snap steel, and I was being defeated by a rusty lock and my own complete lack of lock-picking skills. The absurdity of it would have been funny if I weren't so annoyed.

Finally, I gave up on subtlety. Lysander was upstairs in my bedroom anyway, far enough away that he wouldn't see how I actually opened this door. I could just force it, then tell him it was old and the lock broke when I pushed it. Simple. Believable. I braced my shoulder against the heavy wood and shoved, feeling the ancient mechanism give way with a satisfying crack. The door swung open with a groan of protesting hinges, and I allowed myself a small smile of victory.

That smile died the moment I heard the crash from inside the manor. Glass shattering, metal clanging against stone, the unmistakable sounds of destruction coming from what I immediately recognized as my laboratory. My head snapped toward the interior of the house, every predatory instinct I possessed suddenly on high alert. How had I not noticed? My hearing was acute enough to pick up a heartbeat from across the property, and yet I'd been so focused on this stupid door that I'd completely missed the sound of Lysander wandering through my home, apparently wreaking havoc on my carefully organized workspace.

I barely had time to process what had happened before I saw him. He came tearing through the open doorway like a man possessed, his green eyes wide with terror, his breathing ragged and panicked. He didn't even pause to look at me, just bolted past and into the darkness of the forest beyond, running as if his life depended on it. Which, given what he'd probably seen in my laboratory, he likely believed it did.

I stood frozen for a moment, watching his white hair disappear into the shadows, my mind trying to catch up with the sudden turn of events. He'd found the blood. Of course he had. I'd left tonight's batch sitting out on the counter, still in its mixing phase, the beakers and equipment arranged around it like some kind of macabre chemistry set. To him, it must have looked like the workshop of a serial killer. No wonder he'd run.

I shook my head slowly, torn between amusement and frustration. So much for keeping him comfortable and unaware. So much for the careful seduction I'd been planning, the slow reveal of what I was and what he meant to me. Instead, he'd stumbled onto the truth in the worst possible way and fled into the night, probably convinced I was going to murder him and drain his blood for my experiments.

Well, he wasn't entirely wrong about the blood part, I supposed.

I turned back toward the manor, making my way to the laboratory to assess the damage. The scene that greeted me was worse than I'd expected. Shattered glass covered the floor, fragments of beakers and test tubes scattered across the stone like crystalline confetti. Several of my more delicate instruments had been knocked over in his panic, their fragile components now broken among the wreckage. The metal rack that held my glassware had been completely toppled, explaining the cacophony I'd heard from outside.

But it was what I saw next that made me pause. The large beaker of synthetic blood I'd spent hours preparing was still intact on the counter, but floating in the dark red liquid was the candle I'd given him earlier. The one I'd handed him so he could see in the darkness of my manor. He must have been holding it when he stumbled in here, must have dropped it in his shock at discovering what I kept in this room. The wax was already beginning to melt and separate in the warm blood, creating an oily film across the surface that would ruin the entire batch.

I stared at the ruined mixture for a long moment, my jaw tightening with frustration. It would take me days to clean this up properly, and even longer to replace the equipment that had been destroyed. The blood itself was worthless now, contaminated by candle wax and probably glass particles from the shattered beakers. All those hours of careful preparation, wasted because a curious human had wandered where he shouldn't have been.