Chapter 8 Veil of Flesh and Blood

Midnight was near again-that cursed hour when the ritual resumed.

I hesitated, fingers trembling, as I tore open the little foil packet and squeezed a bit of the slick gel onto my fingertips. The cool sting of it against my raw, swollen skin made me flinch. It burned faintly. I couldn't even tell if it was pain relief or another punishment in disguise.

Just as I was debating whether to continue, he appeared.

Alaric.

My so-called vampire husband.

The deathbound groom of a blood pact I never agreed to.

He always arrived in silence, like a phantom drawn to the scent of sacrifice. But tonight, I noticed something had changed. He looked... sharper. More solid. His form, once shadowy and intangible like smoke, now held a disturbing presence. His body no longer felt cold like stone. It was warm. Alive.

His crimson eyes flicked down to the ring on my hand.

The Crimson Sigil Ring shimmered faintly in the dim light.

"It's almost time," he murmured to himself.

Time for what?

Before I could ask, he was on top of me again, moving with his usual silence and relentless intent.

I panicked.

"W-wait... just a second..."

I fumbled, spreading more of the gel between my legs, praying it would dull the sharp, searing pain from the past nights. The icy slickness only made me shiver harder.

And then-I saw it.

Him.

Fully aroused, terrifyingly so.

No, no, no-my brain screamed. I gritted my teeth, reaching out with trembling fingers to smear what was left of the lubricant onto him.

The moment my fingertips brushed his length, it jolted in my hand like a live wire.

His entire body tensed.

"That's enough," he growled, his voice taut with restrained fury.

The next second, he seized my shoulders and pinned me down with the brutal efficiency I had come to dread.

His pace was merciless, each thrust a reminder that I wasn't a woman in love-I was a vessel.

But at least this time, the pain didn't tear me apart. The gel dulled the sharp edges, and I no longer felt like I was being ripped open. Still, there was no kindness in what he did. No words. No warmth. Only the sound of flesh meeting flesh in a rhythm that ignored my humanity.

I bit my lip so hard it bled, desperate to focus on anything else.

The Crimson Mask.

The one that had appeared on my father's back.

What connection did it have with the black mask Alaric always wore?

My mind tried to escape, to separate from my body, but the betrayal of sensation crept in. My body, traitorous and exhausted, responded. Pressure mounted. Heat built. Darkness surged up from my core like a tide I couldn't stop.

And then-I shattered.

A breathless, whimpering cry escaped my throat as my vision blurred and my limbs shook. For a heartbeat, there was nothing but white static.

When I came back to myself, something cold was pressing against my shoulder. I reached back with numb fingers and felt-

His mask.

I turned my head. Alaric was lying behind me, silent, his face bare.

Or... it would've been.

I froze.

His face-his real face-was only inches away.

Should I look?

But I couldn't quite see it. The angle only allowed me a glimpse of his hairline, the graceful dip of a widow's peak. His skin was pale, flawless. I started to sit up to see more-

-and then I felt it. Something slid from my body. Cold. Unnatural. A slick reminder of what had just happened.

He stirred at the same time I did. And before I could glimpse another inch of him, his hand shot out, grabbed the mask, and replaced it over his face.

Snap.

The intimacy was gone.

And yet, in the quiet that followed, I felt a strange hollowness.

Was I disappointed?

No. He was still a monster.

A graceful forehead couldn't change that.

The sky outside was still dark when I felt the mattress shift.

He sat up beside me-and that was when I realized, with a shock, that he wasn't wearing a single piece of clothing.

Wait. No. That couldn't be right.

Hadn't he always kept his clothes on before?

I lowered my gaze and immediately regretted it. I wasn't in much better shape myself.

No wonder I had felt something cold sliding out of me earlier-it had been... him.

"W-Why are you still here?" I mumbled from under the covers, pulling the blanket tightly around myself until I felt like a swaddled corpse.

I was mortified.

"Still here?" His voice was cold and indifferent as ever, every word laced with biting mockery.

"How am I supposed to leave," he said with a low laugh, "when your body clings to me like that?"

The humiliation struck like a whip. I could feel it-my bedsheets were soaked, as if someone had spilled a bucket of water across the mattress. There was no denying how violently my body had responded.

I buried myself deeper under the covers, unable to even breathe properly, let alone face him.

I heard the soft rustle of fabric as he dressed. The ritualistic layers of his robes shifted over his body, and then came that voice again, cool and clipped.

"Wear the Crimson Sigil Pendant. As long as you keep it close, that Crimson Mask won't dare touch you."

Crimson Sigil Pendant?

I peeked out through a narrow gap in the blanket. His back was turned to me, and for the first time, it appeared fully solid. No flickers. No distortions. Not a shadow of a ghost, but the body of a man.

It wasn't my imagination-he was growing more real.

He didn't turn around.

"That pendant on your chest," he said. "Keep it on you."

And just like that, he vanished.

I looked down.

Somehow, without me realizing it, a pendant had appeared at the base of my throat. It hung cold and heavy against my skin-a deep crimson blood-sigil in the shape of a carved square medallion, engraved with swirling clouds and a coiled serpent at its center.

On each of its four sides were dense arcane markings, and at the base... five ancient words.

Words I didn't recognize.

His name was Alaric Vexmoor, two words. But this had five words.

"This is insane! I still can't read it!" my brother groaned, tossing aside his magnifying lens in frustration. "Who the hell carves this much text onto something this small? Not even machines could do it-what are we supposed to use, a microscope?!"

My father sat on the edge of the bed, draped in a robe, looking more hollowed out than ever. "Nothing forged from the arcane is without meaning. Every side of that sigil holds purpose. Let me see it."

"Dad, you're barely holding yourself together after that thing attacked you," I snapped. "You should be resting, not squinting at cursed objects."

He simply chuckled. "Fate doesn't always give you a choice, sweetheart. Danger comes wrapped in purpose. I've made my peace with that. But I'm sorry it almost hurt you."

Then he sighed and added, "Once I've recovered a bit, I'll return to the ancestral manor and speak with your great-grandfather."

My great-grandfather was the backbone of the Duskgrave family-nearly ninety, and still sharper than anyone. Our bloodline had always been tied to the supernatural. The family's greatest fear wasn't monsters-it was dying out. That's why all the men married young and had children fast.

My dad was barely in his forties, but after everything he'd been through in the last few days, he looked a decade older.

"Enough worrying about me," he said, nudging me toward the door. "Focus on school. Don't be like your brother, who thinks 'studying' means showing up twice a week. You're the one I'm still counting on."

I knew what he meant. He didn't want me getting sucked into their world-he was still haunted by what happened to my mother, who died in her early thirties. That fear lingered in everything he did.

But how could I stay out of it?

How far could I possibly run when a vampire lord marked me as his bride and haunted me night after night?