Mated To Valentine

"Do the dead speak?"

The question cuts through the silence like a knife, sharp and deliberate. I freeze mid-sentence, my fingers clutching the grass beneath me as I look up.

And there he is.

Perched atop my mother's gravestone, cross-legged in that yoga pose like he owns the place, with a smirk curling his perfect lips.

His blonde hair gleams in the moonlight, strands catching the silvery glow like some divine spotlight has chosen him.

But it's his eyes that root me in place...golden, luminous, and otherworldly. They're not just reflecting the moonlight; they're glowing, as if lit by something deep and eternal.

My throat tightens.

A thousand and one things pass through my head. I could run...I could scream at the top of my lungs so the graveyard keeper would hear me... but no.

A strangled noise escapes me instead, somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. My heart pounds in my ears, drowning out the nocturnal whispers of the cemetery.

"Well?" he asks, tilting his head slightly, the smirk never leaving his face. "Do they?"

I try to speak, but my tongue feels thick and useless. My lips tremble as I finally manage to stammer, "W-who... who are you?"

He ignores the question entirely, leaning forward on his elbows, his gaze sweeping over me like a predator sizing up its prey. "You've been busy tonight, haven't you?" His tone is smooth, casual, as though we're old friends chatting over coffee.

I blink, the fear coiling tighter in my chest. "What... what are you talking about?"

"You know," he says, his voice almost bored. "Pouring your heart out to dear old Mom. Oh, what was it you said? Something about Dorothy and her posse being bitches?"

My breath hitches.

"And," he continues, drawing out the word with his smirk deepening, "let's not forget how they called you a turtle in front of Ryker Heads. The hottest guy on the tennis team, wasn't it? Very tragic, by the way. I do sympathise with your feelings. I take it that you have a crush on him?"

He looks like he's expecting an answer but as I part my lips, he lets out a soft chuckle. "Ah yes. What was I thinking? Everyone has a crush on Ryker Heads."

The blood drains from my face. "How... how do you know that?"

He waves a hand dismissively. "I have my ways."

"You... you were listening to me?" My voice rises, shaky but edged with anger.

"Oh, don't look so scandalized," he says, lounging back against the headstone with infuriating ease. "You're the one spilling secrets in a graveyard. What did you expect, privacy?"

I scramble to my feet, brushing the dirt off my skirt with trembling hands. My glasses slip down my nose, and I push them back up, glaring at him through the lenses. "That's none of your business."

His eyes flick to the movement. "Ah, four eyes," he says with a soft chuckle. "How charmingly retro."

I grit my teeth, the fear slowly giving way to irritation. "For your information, talking to my mom helps. And she hears me."

He snorts, a low, mocking sound. "No, she doesn't."

"You don't know that!"

"Oh, but I do," he says, standing so swiftly it's like the world blinks. One moment he's lounging; the next, he's towering over me. "You're yelling into the void, North. She's not listening."

"How do you even know my name?" I demand, my voice shaking with fury now.

He steps closer, his golden eyes locking onto mine. "I know a lot of things about you," he murmurs. "Like that dress you're wearing...it's your mother's, isn't it?"

I swallow hard, taking a step back. "Shut up."

His smirk grows. "What? Sentimental value, I suppose. But really, it's... outdated. Maybe that's why Dorothy is so mean. Ever thought about that?" His gaze flicks over me, critical and unapologetic. "Oh look, it's also frayed at the hem. Tell me, North, do you often raid the closets of the dead?"

"That's it!" I snap, my hands balling into fists. "Who the hell do you think you are, judging me? What kind of creep hangs out in graveyards, anyway?"

He raises an eyebrow, his smirk faltering for the first time. "Creep? Really? That's a bit harsh and unflattering."

"Harsh?" I scoff, my fear almost entirely replaced by anger. "You've been spying on me, insulting me, and now you're-"

"I'm not a person," he interrupts, his voice suddenly cold.

"What?"

"You called me a creep," he says, stepping closer. "But I'm not a person. That's where you're mistaken. You have to be a person to be a creep."

The words send a chill down my spine. My instincts scream at me to run, but my feet refuse to move. "What are you talking about?"

His smirk returns, sharper than before. "Would you like me to show you?"

"Show me what?"

He doesn't answer. Instead, he vanishes. Just like that-gone. My heart leaps into my throat as I spin around, searching the shadows.

"Behind you," he whispers, his breath warm against my neck.

I whirl around so fast I nearly lose my balance, stumbling back a step. There he is, standing impossibly close. Too close.

"How did you-"

He lifts a hand, tracing a finger down my neck with a feather-light touch. "Soft," he murmurs, almost to himself.

"Stop!" I slap his hand away, my voice trembling. "I'm serious. Who are you? What are you?"

He steps back, just a fraction, and tilts his head, studying me with a strange intensity. Then, with a theatrical bow, he says, "Prince Valentine Draven. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, commoner North."

I narrow my eyes, my breath coming in shallow gasps. "That's not what I meant. What the fuck are you?"

He straightens, his golden eyes glinting with amusement. "Ah, now that's the real question, isn't it?"

"Just answer me!"

He leans in, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. "A dead man."

The morning sunlight creeps through the cracks in the blinds, dragging me reluctantly out of sleep. I groan and bury my face deeper into my pillow, but it's no use.

There's a loud knock on my door, followed by my roommate's voice cutting through the silence.

"North! Get up! You're gonna be late, and I'm not covering for you again!"

I groan louder, hoping she'll take pity and leave me alone.

Instead, Ellie bursts into my room, a whirlwind of energy in her pajama shorts and oversized band tee.

She's holding a steaming mug of coffee, which she promptly sets on my nightstand.

"Good morning, sunshine," she says cheerfully. "Or should I say, good almost-afternoon?"

I peel an eye open to glare at her. "You're way too chipper for this early."

"It's literally 9 a.m.," she counters, yanking the covers off me. "What's your excuse this time? Up late reading smutty romance novels again?"

"No," I mumble, sitting up and rubbing my eyes. The events of last night flash through my mind-the graveyard, Valentine perched on my mother's gravestone, the cold touch of his fingers on my neck. I shiver involuntarily.

She notices. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

I hesitate. "Just a weird dream."

At least I hope it is.

"Nightmares again?" Her face softens with concern as she sits on the edge of my bed. "You really should talk to someone about that."

I shake my head quickly. "It wasn't a nightmare. Just... weird."

"Well, whatever it was, shake it off. You've got class in an hour, and you look like you've been hit by a truck." She pauses, squinting at me. "Wait... did you scratch yourself?"

"Huh?"

She leans closer, pointing at my neck. "There's this thin red line, right here."

My heart skips a beat. I touch the spot instinctively, right where Valentine's cold finger had traced my skin.

"Probably just, um... scratched myself in my sleep," I say quickly, though my heart is beating faster than I can breathe. It wasn't a dream. It was real.

He is real.

Ellie raises an eyebrow but doesn't press. "Well, cover it up if you don't want Dorothy and her crew making it their new favorite topic. They'd say you're so lonely, you gave yourself a hickey." She laughs at her joke.

I nod, trying to act nonchalant as I sift through my closet. For the first time, I actually care about what I wear.

Screw Valentine for making me develop confidence issues over night!

I pull out a summery sundress, but Ellie whistles dramatically, making me second-guess myself.

"Cute," she says, grinning. "But maybe tone it down if you're trying to avoid attention."

I groan and grab a green turtleneck instead, slipping it on and pairing it with jeans.

"Better?"

She shrugs. "Eh, you do you. Just don't let them get to you, okay?"

Her words echo in my mind as I head out the door and into the chaos of campus life.

I wish it was that easy, really. But in a big place like college, being bullied doesn't feel like the typical highschool bullying...it's like...a higher grade.

More awful, if I fail terribly to paint the picture effectively.

When I arrive at school, the first person I run into is Dorothy. Of course.

She's standing near the quad with her minions, Jesse and Bailey, looking like she owns the place. As soon as she sees me, her glossy lips curl into a smirk.

"Well, well," she says loudly, drawing attention. "If it isn't our resident charity case."

Jesse and Bailey snicker. I grip the strap of my backpack tighter and keep walking, but she steps into my path.

"What's the rush, turtle?" she coos, eyeing my outfit. "Got a hot date?"

The nickname stings, but I force myself to look her in the eye. "Do you actually think you look impressive?" I retort before I can stop myself.

The laughter dies instantly. Jesse and Bailey exchange shocked looks.

Dorothy blinks, then narrows her eyes. "What did you just say?"

I take a steadying breath. "You heard me."

For a second, I think she's going to slap me, but instead, she leans in close, her voice dripping with venom. "That's the first time you've said anything back, and let me give you a piece of advice: don't let it happen again. You won't make it through college otherwise."

I hold her gaze for a moment longer, then step around her and walk away. My hands are trembling, but there's a small spark of satisfaction in my chest.

I stood up to her. Yes, she will make my life exponentially more difficult from now on, but at least it's in the record that I stood up to her.

By the time I sit down for my first class, my mind is miles away. No matter how hard I try to focus, it keeps drifting back to last night. To him.

Valentine.

I can still hear his mocking voice, see the way his golden eyes seemed to glow in the darkness. And the feel of his cold fingers on my neck-it lingers, no matter how many times I rub the spot to erase it.

I try to push him away from my thoughts all day but nothing works. My fingers keep coming back to my neck, and I keep reliving the feeling of his fingers tracing it down.

Later at night, I find myself back in the cemetery.

I try to convince myself that it's to talk to my mom as I always do, but something in me knows it's a lie.

I wander through the rows of gravestones, half hoping and half dreading that I'll see him again. The air is cool, and the moon casts long shadows that make the place feel both eerie and beautiful.

And then I hear it.

The mournful sound of a violin.

I follow the music to one of the older sections of the cemetery, where the gravestones are weathered and crumbling. There he is, standing by one of them, playing a hauntingly beautiful tune.

I freeze, mesmerized. The way he holds the instrument, the way his fingers move so effortlessly-it's hypnotic.

The melody ends abruptly with an off-key screech, and he turns to face me.

"You miss me?" he asks, smirking.

I scoff, trying to ignore the way my heart is racing. "Hardly."

So he's here.

I expect to feel the same dose of fear I felt last night, but I don't. I feel... oddly comfortable in his presence even though I'm still finding it hard to comprehend what he is.

I think the odd confidence is born from the fact that I know he wouldn't hurt me. I don't know what he is, but I'm certain he won't hurt me. It's something from the way he does...I can't put a finger on it.

I turn around and head over to the newer graves where my mother's is located.

I sit cross-legged in front of her gravestone, tracing the letters of her name with my fingers. The night air is cool, and the soft rustle of leaves fills the silence.

"Talking to her again?" he suddenly says from a few paces behind me.

"Do you mind?" I snap, turning my head wildly towards him.

"Not at all. In fact, I find it fascinating."

I ignore him, turning back to my mom's grave stone.

"Hey, Mom," I begin, my voice quiet. "It's been a day, let me tell you."

"Oh, do tell. I'm riveted already," He replies in a mock female voice.

I grit my teeth but decide to ignore him.

"So, I actually did something today," I continue, focusing on the grave. "I finally stood up to Dorothy."

"Dorothy?" he interjects, his tone dripping with curiosity. "The Dorothy that called you a turtle in front of Ryker Heads? I also assume that she's a plastic smile kinda girl, tragic personality?"

I whirl around to glare at him, but he just leans casually against a nearby tombstone, smirking.

"Something like that," I mutter, turning back to the grave. "She and her little crew said I looked like crap, so I told her she didn't exactly look impressive either."

There's a loud, theatrical hoot behind me.

"Well, well!" Valentine exclaims, clapping his hands. "North finally grows a spine! Shame it's made of Styrofoam."

I snap my head around. "Excuse me?"

"Come on," he says, grinning. "That's the best you could come up with? 'You don't look impressive'? She's probably crying herself to sleep right now."

I roll my eyes and turn back to the grave. "Ignore him, Mom. He's an idiot."

"Hey," he protests, feigning hurt. "Don't bring me into this. Though, I must say, I'm proud of you. What's next? A mildly passive-aggressive email?"

I sigh, shaking my head. "Anyway, Mom, I've also... met someone. Well...only last night."

"Oh, this should be good," he mutters, and I can practically hear the smirk in his voice.

"He's... well, he's very infuriating," I admit, ignoring him. "He's sarcastic and rude and-"

"Charming?" he offers, stepping closer.

I glare at him. "No."

"Devastatingly handsome?" he adds, tilting his head.

"No."

"An excellent violinist?"

"Stop interrupting!" I snap.

He chuckles and crosses his arms. "Go on, then. Tell dear old Mom all about the devil you've just met."

I sigh, pressing my fingers to my temple. "Mom, I don't know what to make of him. He's..."

"Wonderful," he supplies.

"Annoying," I correct.

"Life-changing?"

"Infuriating."

"Boy," he tuts, his tone mockingly solemn, mimicking a female voice. "Am I glad my daughter met the devil. He sounds like a real gem."

I narrow my eyes at him. "You know, if you're going to be here, the least you could do is be helpful."

"Oh, I am helpful," he replies, grinning. "You just don't appreciate my particular brand of wisdom."

"Mom," I say, turning back to the gravestone, "he's not leaving, is he?"

"Nope," he answers for her, popping the "p." "You're stuck with me, love."

I groan and let my head fall into my hands. "Why me?"

"Because," he says with a smirk, "you're just so fun to torment."

I groan, shaking my head. "So you're the night time male version of Dorothy then?"

"Except I look good."

"You think you do?"

"I actua–" he suddenly goes still, cutting his statement off.

"What-"

Before I can finish, he rises to his feet in one fluid motion, his expression unreadable. He looks around and closes his eyes as if trying to listen for something, then he turns back to me.

"Well, this has been fun," he says, his voice unusually soft. "But I must take my leave."

"Wait!" I call, but he's already disappearing into the shadows, past the maze of decaying grave stones.

I try to follow, but he's gone. Instead, I find myself standing in front of the grave where he'd been playing his violin.

The instrument is still there, resting on the gravestone. I trace my fingers over its surface, and out of curiosity, I bend down to read the inscription.

Most of it is covered in weed, but I'm still able to make out the words.

It says: Here lies Prince Valentine Draven IV. An angel in his day. 1578 – 1607.

My breath catches, and a shiver runs down my spine as my blood goes cold.

"A dead man," I whisper, the words from last night echoing in my mind.

The streets are quiet as I speed walk home, but the silence doesn't comfort me. It presses against me, thick and suffocating, amplifying the echo of my thoughts.

What is Valentine?

My mind plays through the possibilities, none of them comforting. A ghost? A trick of my imagination? Or worse... something real, something I can't even comprehend.

The feel of his cold hands on my neck...he must definitely be a ghost. And he said he's a dead man. I saw the gravestone...that sums up.

But then again, ghosts aren't real. I guess he's proof?

My breath comes quicker as I approach the apartment. Every shadow feels alive, every sound louder, but yet, dull.

When I finally reach the door, my hands are shaking so badly I fumble with the keys twice before I manage to unlock it.

The moment I step inside, Ellie's voice cuts through the air, almost giving me a fright. "You're late. Where the hell have you been?"

She's sitting casually on the couch, a half-eaten bag of chips beside her. Her hair is up in a messy bun, and she looks up from her phone with a frown.

The second she sees my face, her playful irritation melts into concern.

"North... what's wrong?"

"I'm fine," I say quickly, closing the door behind me.

She narrows her eyes, setting her phone down. "Don't even try that with me. You look like you just walked through hell. Spill."

"It's nothing, Ellie. Just a long day," I mumble, heading to the kitchen.

She follows, her footsteps light against the wood floor, but insistent. "Nope. Not buying it. You're pale, your hands are shaking, and you look like you're about to cry. What happened? Was it Dorothy? I told you not to let her get to you."

I grab a glass and fill it with water, avoiding her gaze. "I said it's nothing."

She grabs the glass from my hand, setting it on the counter. "North." Her voice is softer now, her eyes searching mine. "Talk to me."

I hesitate, my chest tightening. "You'll think I'm crazy."

"Probably," she says, her lips quirking into a small smile. "But I'm still your best and only friend, and I'm not going anywhere."

Her words break something in me, and the whole story spills out before I can stop myself. "I was at the cemetery last night, visiting my mom. And... I met someone. A man."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "A man? At the cemetery? At night? North, do I need to lecture you on stranger danger?"

"I wasn't alone with him," I say quickly. "I mean, I was, but... he wasn't normal."

Her playful expression fades. "What do you mean?"

I swallow hard, the words catching in my throat. "He... he said things about me. Things no one else could know. The way he moves as fast as sound. And tonight, I saw his grave, Ellie. He died over four hundred years ago."

She stares at me, her mouth slightly open. "Wait, are you saying-"

"I don't know what I'm saying!" I snap, my voice cracking. "I don't know what he is. A ghost? A demon? Or maybe I'm just losing my mind!"

She steps closer, pulling me into a hug. "Hey. Hey. You're not losing your mind. Something weird is going on, yeah, but we'll figure it out. Together."

Her warmth is grounding, but the fear doesn't leave. "What if it's real, Ellie? What if he's real?"

"Then we'll deal with it," she says firmly. "But right now, you need to rest. You're exhausted, North."

I nod and let her lead me to my room. When she leaves, I try my best to fall asleep. Maybe I'll get it off my mind with a lot of sleep.

Sleep doesn't come easily. And when it finally does, it pulls me into a dream so vivid it feels like I'm there again.

The rain is heavy, the wipers struggling to keep up as my mom hums softly along with the radio. I'm in the passenger seat, fiddling with my bracelet, her laugh echoing in the small space.

"North, honey, look at this," she says, pointing out the window at something I can't see. Her voice is light, happy.

Then it happens.

The truck swerves into our lane, headlights blinding. The sound of tires screeching, metal crunching, and glass shattering fills the air. My mom's scream pierces through everything, and then there's silence.

I turn to her, my heart pounding. "Mom? Mom!"

Her head lolls to the side, blood dripping from a gash on her forehead. Her eyes are open but lifeless.

I scream, shaking her, begging her to wake up. "Mom, please! Please, don't leave me!"

The golden eyes appear out of nowhere, glowing in the darkness, locking onto mine.

"North..."

I wake with a start, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps. My heart is racing, my skin damp with sweat.

Another nightmare.

It's 2 a.m. The apartment is silent, but then I hear it...the soft, haunting melody of a violin.

I get up slowly, moving to the window. Outside, under the flickering streetlight, is a Valentine playing the violin. The tune is eerily familiar, sending chills down my spine.

I remember how we left things off and I'm filled with instant fear again. What is he? I study him from my post on the window.

His skin is pale and his hair is duller tham I remember.

Maybe he's a ghost...but I'll never know if I don't ask him myself.

Against every instinct, I grab my jacket and head outside. My curiosity outweighs my fear.

I tiptoe, not wanting him to run off the way he did before.

"I don't think normal people should play a violin at this hour," I say as I approach him.

The man turns, and my blood runs cold. It's not Valentine.

His face is pale, his eyes gleaming with something dark and predatory.

I take a step back. "I-I thought you were someone else. Sorry."

Before I can move, he's suddenly in front of me, his speed impossible.

"Why are you awake at this hour?" he asks, his voice low and chilling.

I try to back away, but his hand shoots out, gripping my wrist. His touch is icy, his fingers like steel. Pain shoots up my arm as he tightens his hold, and I cry out.

"Let me go!" I scream, struggling to pull free.

He doesn't loosen his grip. Instead, he leans closer, his breath cold against my skin. "You shouldn't wander at night, little girl. It's dangerous."

I scream again, but it's muffled as his other hand clamps over my mouth. His eyes gleam with hunger, and before I can process what's happening, he bends his head.

The pain is sharp and immediate as his teeth sink into my neck. My struggles weaken as darkness creeps in, my vision fading.

The last thing I hear is the haunting melody of the violin, echoing in the distance.