Chapter 2 An Invitation Written in Shadow
I didn’t sleep.
That was the first thing I noticed when dawn crept through the thin gap in my curtains—how my body felt wrung tight, like a wire pulled too far and left humming. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying the night in fragments. Whiskey-colored eyes. A voice that sounded like it had lived through wars. Cold fingers hovering just shy of my skin.
Vampire.
The word should have snapped me back to reality. Instead, it settled into me with unsettling ease, like it had been waiting there all along.
By seven a.m., I gave up on sleep and dragged myself into the shower. Hot water beat against my shoulders, steam fogging the mirror as I tried to convince myself that exhaustion had made me hallucinate. Stress. Too much caffeine. A vivid imagination fueled by gothic novels and late nights.
But when I lifted my wrist under the spray, my pulse leapt—fast, insistent—as if remembering his gaze.
I dressed for class on autopilot. Jeans. Sweater. Hair pulled back. My reflection looked the same as it always did: twenty-three, tired eyes, mouth set in a line that suggested determination more than confidence. No sign that my entire understanding of the world had tilted off its axis.
Campus buzzed around me, normal and grounding. Students arguing over coffee. Professors rushing between buildings. Life continuing, indifferent to the fact that I’d been propositioned by an immortal creature of the night.
I almost believed it hadn’t happened.
Then my phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
My stomach flipped violently.
I stopped walking, earning an annoyed look from a guy behind me, and stared at the screen. Every instinct screamed at me not to answer.
I did anyway.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Then—
“Good morning, Isla.”
His voice slid straight under my skin.
I closed my eyes.
“How did you get my number?” I demanded, even as my pulse betrayed me.
A soft exhale, almost amused. “You gave it to the catering company. I own the catering company.”
Of course he did.
“That feels invasive,” I muttered.
“Everything about last night was invasive,” he replied calmly. “I wanted to be certain you were well.”
I swallowed. “You vanished.”
“Yes.”
“That didn’t exactly help my sanity.”
“I imagine not.” His tone softened. “Did you sleep?”
“No.”
A pause.
“I’m sorry.”
The sincerity in those two words startled me more than the admission of vampirism.
“You don’t sound sorry.”
“I am,” he said. “But I would do it again.”
My grip tightened on my phone. “Why?”
“Because you walked away alive,” he said quietly. “And because I needed time to regain control.”
That word again.
Control.
“What would have happened if you hadn’t?” I asked.
The silence that followed was heavier this time.
“Nothing I would allow,” he said finally. “But the margin was thinner than I like.”
A shiver traced my spine despite the midday sun.
“You asked me to dinner,” I said, changing the subject before fear could take over. “Was that a joke?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because there are questions I need answered,” he replied. “And instincts I do not trust without understanding.”
I leaned against the brick wall of the humanities building, heart racing. “You’re talking like I’m a puzzle.”
“You are,” he said. “One I have never seen before.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“It shouldn’t,” he said honestly. “But I promise you this—if at any moment you wish to leave, I will not stop you.”
I hesitated. “And if I don’t?”
His voice dropped. “Then I will spend the evening pretending I am still the man I once was.”
The words stirred something deep and aching in my chest.
“When?” I asked.
“Tonight. Eight.”
“I have class.”
“I have already spoken to your professor.”
My head snapped up. “You what?”
“You will receive an email within the hour granting you an excused absence,” he said smoothly. “I do not abuse power lightly, Isla. Only when something matters.”
“And this matters?”
“Yes.”
The certainty in his answer stole my breath.
“I don’t even know where you’d take me,” I said weakly.
“I know,” he replied. “That is why you will allow me to take care of the details.”
I should have said no.
I should have hung up.
Instead, I whispered, “Okay.”
The silence that followed felt charged—like a held breath.
“I will send a car,” he said.
“I can meet you—”
“No.” His tone gentled, but the refusal remained. “Tonight, you will let me protect you.”
From what?
From who?
“Fine,” I said. “Eight.”
“I look forward to it,” he replied. Then, softer, “Try to eat something today.”
The line went dead.
I stared at my phone long after the call ended, my reflection warped in the dark screen.
What are you doing, Isla?
Walking willingly into the dark.
⸻
At precisely seven fifty-eight, a black car pulled up outside my apartment building.
I stood on the cracked concrete steps, heart pounding, smoothing my hands over my dress. It was simple—deep green, long sleeves, modest neckline—but it felt like armor. My hair fell loose around my shoulders, and for once, I hadn’t tried to tame it into submission.
The driver opened the door without a word.
The city passed by in a blur of lights and shadows. I watched my reflection in the tinted glass, trying to recognize the girl who was about to have dinner with a vampire billionaire.
We didn’t stop at Moreau Tower.
Instead, the car descended into an underground garage beneath a building I’d never been inside but had passed a hundred times. Private elevator. Silent ascent.
The doors opened into a penthouse that stole the breath from my lungs.
Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the city sprawled beneath us, Lake Michigan a dark, endless sheet beyond it. Candles flickered along the glass, casting warm light over stone floors and modern furnishings that somehow didn’t feel cold.
Lucien stood near the window.
Not in a tux.
Black slacks. White dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, top buttons undone. The look was devastatingly intimate, like he’d dressed for me rather than an audience.
He turned when the elevator doors closed.
The look in his eyes when he saw me made my knees weak.
“You came,” he said.
“You invited me.”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “You look… radiant.”
Heat crept into my cheeks. “You look less like a myth tonight.”
“That was intentional.”
He crossed the room slowly, stopping a careful distance away.
“Before we sit,” he said, “you should know—you are safe here.”
I nodded, though my body already believed him.
Dinner was laid out on a long table—real food, not a performance. The fact that he’d made the effort unsettled me more than the luxury.
“You eat,” I said.
“Occasionally,” he replied. “I remember enjoying it.”
That answer lingered with me as we sat.
The conversation flowed more easily than I expected. He asked about my studies, my work, my childhood with quiet attentiveness. I found myself answering honestly, as if his centuries of existence made lying feel pointless.
“You are alone,” he observed gently.
“Yes.”
“So am I,” he said.
The admission tightened my chest.
“You said my blood was different,” I said finally. “How?”
He studied me for a long moment.
“When you are near,” he said slowly, “the hunger changes.”
My fork paused.
“Changes how?”
“It does not command,” he replied. “It listens.”
A shiver traced my spine.
His gaze dropped briefly to my throat, then lifted again with visible restraint.
“I do not want to hurt you,” he said quietly. “But I want you.”
The honesty stole my breath.
“I don’t know what that means,” I admitted.
“Neither do I,” he said. “And that frightens me.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.
It was intimate.
Outside, the city pulsed with life.
Inside, something ancient and dangerous unfolded between us.
And I knew—without doubt—that whatever I had agreed to tonight was only the beginning.
Because monsters might not get normal lives.
But Lucien Moreau was looking at me like he wanted one.
And somehow, impossibly—
I wanted to give it to him.
