Chapter 4 A TASTE OF BLOOD

There was a strange silence to the morning. Not the peaceful kind, but one that sat heavy upon the chest-pregnant with tension. As if the world were holding its breath.

Selene Duvall rose from her narrow cot before the sun had fully crested the horizon. The fire in the hearth had long since died, leaving her small quarters chilled. She dressed quickly, her fingers fumbling with the laces of her bodice, jaw clenched against the persistent sensation clawing beneath her skin. Something inside her was waiting-tight as a drawn bowstring.

Her mother was still sick in Blackmoor Village. The letter she had received just days ago had done little to ease her anxiety. Her mother's condition had worsened. If there was any way to be by her side, Selene would have left the academy in an instant. But her place was here now, was it not? She had no other choice but to endure. Or so she told herself.

She made her way toward the academy's main hall, moving briskly past stone archways and thick tapestries. Students milled about the corridors, whispering about the gala from the night before. But Selene heard none of it.

She kept seeing him.

Lucian Valcourt.

The way he moved, the way he looked at her-as though he could see the shape of her soul. The touch of his voice still lingered on her skin. And worse-far worse-she had not wanted him to stop.

She gritted her teeth and shoved the memory away.

The morning passed in a blur.

Servant duties took her from one wing of the academy to the next-cleaning lecture halls, scrubbing soot from the sills of ornate windows, folding embroidered linens thicker than her cloak. She barely noticed any of it.

By the time she entered the conservatory to fetch fresh water for the headmistress's tea, the sun was high and hot through the glass panes. The air smelled of citrus blossoms and sweat.

She reached for a silver pitcher-and then froze.

A sharp cry. A gasp. And the smell.

The scent hit her like lightning. Not floral. Not water or dust or sweat.

Blood.

Her head whipped toward the sound.

A boy stood near the edge of the glass benches, cradling his palm. Crimson spilled from a deep gash where a crystal tumbler had shattered. Shards glittered at his feet. He swore under his breath, pressing a kerchief to the wound.

Selene's body moved without her permission.

One step.

Then another.

The scent was rich and iron-sweet, humming through the air like a lover's song. She could hear the pulse in his hand, the rush of it beneath skin, the warmth of it. Her mouth watered. Her chest ached. Her hands curled.

She wanted it.

She needed it.

"Selene?"

A hand gripped her arm hard, yanking her back.

She blinked.

Margot stood beside her, eyes wide with concern. "What in God's name are you doing?"

"I..." Selene's throat burned. "I don't know. I just-"

"You were staring like you were going to eat him."

Selene wrenched away. "I-I need air."

Without another word, she turned and fled, ignoring Margot's calls behind her.

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Miles away, in a study hidden deep within Valcourt's private estate, Lucian leaned against a high-backed chair, fingers drumming against his chin.

"Say that again," he murmured.

The man before him shifted nervously, adjusting the scroll in his hands. "Her name is Selene Duvall. Seventeen. Human. Servant-class scholarship from the outer provinces. Quiet. No known ties to magic or nobility."

Lucian's expression didn't change. "And?"

The man swallowed. "She... died. Or, rather, she was recorded as dead. Last week. Drowned in a river near Marrow Glen. Body recovered. Buried. Witnesses confirmed it."

Lucian said nothing for a long moment. Then he rose.

"She died," he said slowly, his voice a velvet knife. "And now she walks the halls of Ravenwood?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

Lucian's eyes narrowed. "Interesting."

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Selene sat hunched in the alcove of the west wing library, her hands buried in her lap.

The world felt wrong. Her skin didn't fit. Her breath came too fast. Her reflection had begun to look... stranger. Paler. Sharper.

She didn't understand what was happening. And she couldn't ask anyone. Not Margot. Not the teachers. Not even the chapel priest.

She had no family to write. No friends to trust.

It's a curse, she thought bitterly. It has to be. I've been cursed. There is no other explanation for this madness.

She had never been one to believe in magic or the supernatural, but the strange feelings that clawed at her skin and gnawed at her mind were too real to ignore. The hunger-thick, insistent. The itching under her skin. The noise in her ears that had become unbearable. If she didn't find a way to control it, she might lose herself.

She stepped onto the ladder to reach a particularly old volume when the wind shifted. Or perhaps, space did.

A sound. Not a footstep, not a breath-but the absence of both.

She turned sharply.

He was there.

Lucian Valcourt stood half-wrapped in shadow, silver-blue eyes gleaming like moons beneath his dark lashes.

Selene stumbled off the ladder, catching herself on the shelf.

"How long have you been standing there?" she demanded, trying to summon indignation she did not feel.

His smile was slow. Measured. "Long enough."

She narrowed her eyes. "Are you following me?"

"Perhaps," he said, stepping into the light.

Her heart jerked. Or at least, she thought it did. It had become difficult to tell.

Lucian approached, hands clasped behind his back, gaze never leaving hers.

"You came here seeking answers," he said softly. "And yet, you search in books that will only tell you stories."

"They're better than silence," she shot back.

He tilted his head. "You do not yet realize... there is truth in silence, little one. You only need the right ears to hear it."

She hated how her breath caught when he came closer.

"How do you know what I'm looking for?"

Lucian's smile faded. "Because I know what you are."

Selene backed up a step. "I'm just a girl. A servant-"

"No." His voice dropped. "You were a girl. Now... you're becoming something else."

Selene's pulse roared in her ears.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Lucian's eyes darkened, glinting like steel under storm clouds. "Don't you? Tell me-when you smelled blood this morning, did it make your mouth water?"

Her stomach turned to ice.

"Did you ache for it?" he continued, voice soft as sin. "Did your hands twitch, not from fear, but hunger?"

Selene shook her head, more from terror than denial.

He stepped closer.

Her back hit the bookshelf.

"You don't understand," she whispered. "I didn't ask for this. I didn't do anything-"

"Neither did I," he murmured.

She looked up at him. Their bodies inches apart.

Lucian lifted a hand and traced her jaw with the back of his fingers. "Do you think you're the only soul cursed with craving?"

Her lips parted. "Why me?"

"I do not know," he admitted. "But I intend to find out."

She stared up at him, and for a moment, she saw something-pain. Ancient and unspoken-hidden behind his flawless exterior.

"What am I becoming?" she whispered.

Lucian leaned in until their lips nearly touched, his breath brushing hers. "Something rare. Something forbidden."

Then, his eyes sharpened.

"You're starving, aren't you?"