He Bleeds Me Dry for His First Love

A hundred years ago, that curse was meant for him. I'm the one who threw myself in front of it.

It cost me my elven heart, shattered on the spot—and a name I could never wash off. Traitor.

I never argued. Because the moment I speak the truth, the curse goes straight back to him.

So I stayed. I became his blood servant and let him drain me, one bottle at a time, to feed the woman he'd waited a century for. I told myself that if I endured long enough, someday he'd see my heart for what it was.

Then the healer told me my heart had thirty days left.

And he walked in, knife in hand, to say his beloved needed more of my blood.

This time, I'm not enduring anything.

Old Oswin drew back his hand. He looked at me, and there was pity in his clouded eyes.

"Lady Elowen. Your elven core is shattered. Completely."

I said nothing. I just watched the hourglass on the table.

"How long?" I asked.

"Thirty days at most." He sighed. "A shattered core cannot be mended. Your magic and your life will drain away until there is nothing left of you but ash. Are you truly not going to tell Prince Kazimir?"

I shook my head. "There's no point."

"My lady." His voice cracked. "Then let me tell him. Let me tell the prince what really happened at the gate that night—"

I pressed my hand over his. "Oswin. You swore an oath."

His lips moved. Then he bowed his head.

I couldn't say it. The moment I spoke the truth, the Abyssal curse would leave my body and return to its original target.

To Kazimir.

I pulled my sleeve down over the needle scars that covered my arm.

A hundred years ago, the vampire capital fell. When the curse came crashing down out of the Abyss toward Kazimir, I was the one who threw myself in front of it. My core cracked on the spot; my hands were charred black. By the time reinforcements arrived, what they found was the city gate standing wide open—and beside it, the only living soul in sight. Me.

So the whole world decided that I, the half-elf, had opened that gate. That I had killed Kazimir's father and left Isabeau gravely wounded, locked in a century of sleep. I never defended myself. I stayed with Kazimir of my own free will and became his blood servant.

In the first year, he simply banned me from his sight. I obeyed. By the tenth year, he was draining my blood. I held out my arm. I told myself that every inch of ground I gave would carve away a little of his hatred. I told myself that if I atoned long enough, someday he would see my heart.

It took me a hundred years to admit the truth. To someone who doesn't love you, even breathing is a crime.

The door burst open, and cold air poured into the room. Kazimir strode in, black coat swinging, trailing the cold that clings to his kind. He didn't look at Oswin. He didn't look at my bloodless face, either.

"Isabeau is awake." There wasn't a trace of warmth in his voice.

My fingers curled, just slightly. Isabeau was awake. The woman he had waited a hundred years for.

"She's weak. She needs elf blood." He stopped in front of me and looked down from his full height.

I raised my head. His eyes were a deep red, and there was nothing in them but cold disgust.

"How much?" I asked evenly.

He frowned, as if my calm annoyed him. "Until she doesn't need any more."

Oswin couldn't hold back. "Your Highness, my lady's health is already failing. If you drain that much—"

"Quiet." Kazimir cut him off. "She owes Isabeau this. If she hadn't turned traitor, Isabeau would never have lost a hundred years to that sleep."

Oswin dropped his gaze and didn't dare say another word.

I stood up. Too fast—the room went dark for a second. I caught the edge of the table and steadied myself.

"Let's go," I said.

Kazimir watched me, his mouth curling into a sneer. "What game are you playing now? The pity act doesn't work on me."

"You've been bleeding me for a hundred years." I looked at him. "When have you ever seen me beg for pity?"

His face went hard. He said nothing else, just turned and walked ahead. I followed him down the long corridor to Isabeau's room.

The room was warm. Isabeau lay in a huge velvet bed, pale and delicate, the very picture of fragile innocence. Two maids stood in attendance at her bedside. The moment she saw Kazimir, she reached out a hand.

"Kazimir. I'm so cold."

He crossed the room in three strides and took her hand. His voice came out gentler than I had ever heard it. "Don't be afraid. I'm here."

I stood at the door like a piece of furniture nobody needed.

"Come here." He turned to me, and his voice froze over again.

I walked over. He produced a thick silver needle. Vampires never use numbing draughts when they draw blood. Least of all for me.

"Go ahead." I rolled up my sleeve.

The needle sank into the vein. It hurt, but I didn't flinch.

The two maids at the bedside traded a glance and giggled under their breath. Everyone in this room was laughing at me. Honestly, I wanted to laugh at myself too. I had taken a death curse for a man who hated me, and now I was draining my life away, one bottle at a time, to feed the woman he loved.

You couldn't write a better joke.

Bright red blood ran down the clear tube into a crystal bottle. My body grew colder and colder. With every ounce of blood that left me, the pain of my broken core multiplied, and cold seemed to rise from the marrow of my bones. My vision began to blur.

When the bottle was full, Kazimir pulled the needle out. He made no move to stop the bleeding—just let my blood drip onto the carpet as he carried the bottle to Isabeau.

"Drink. You'll feel better soon," he coaxed, his voice low.

I pressed a hand over the wound, turned, and made for the door.

"Stop." His voice came from behind me.

I stopped.

"Clean the blood off the floor," he said coldly. "Don't foul Isabeau's room.