Blood Aria - dark fantasy erotic horror by C.C. Matthews
Content Warning
This is a dark, erotic vampire fantasy horror containing graphic content, such as violence, blood, gore, abuse, predation, murder, references to drugs and alcohol, and explicit sexual scenes that some readers may find triggering.
Prologue
He lingers always at thresholds…
The breath before surrender. The moment before ruin. The single pulse before ecstasy becomes destiny.
Sometimes the demon Azazel’s touch is gentle.
A caress tracing the hollow of a throat, lips tasting salt and sweat as thighs part willingly beneath him, a tongue coaxing out secrets only the dark should know.
Other times...
He is relentless. Fingers bruising. Mouth demanding. Wings pinning wrists above silk sheets.
Brilliance flaring in his predatory eyes, his voice a command and a benediction in the same breath: Show me how deeply you can ache.
His legacy is anticipation, the gasp before the fall, the fever in the marrow that hisses—yes-s, more. Let me see you break!
Irina
They say memory is just a trick the blood plays on the mind. But I remember that night—Autumn’s last gasp. The Carpathian Mountains devoured the sun, and Valea Sângeorzan crouched beneath its own shadows, so clearly, I can taste the cold on my tongue. I was a lamb in a field of wolves, and I hadn’t learned to be afraid yet.
Our family farm sat in the valley’s crook, battered by wind and lore. We weren’t rich, but the land gave us just enough: cabbage, potatoes, and milk. The stories came from the land, too, whispered between chores and carried like heirlooms.
It was my daily currency, my reason for escape. Delivering those heavy jugs was my favorite task. Each door was a portal. Sometimes I was a ghost, sometimes a peasant’s daughter, sometimes a woman on the edge of becoming something entirely else.
Those early evenings, when the sky blushed violet and the world grew strange, I felt the weight of the old country pressing close. The fields would heave with mist, hiding the broken gravestones and the spindly black trees. In those hours, the stories whispered by my mother, like witches in the woods and of the dead who wouldn’t stay buried, curled around my ankles like cats. Still, I wandered, carrying milk and hope, refusing to run even when the shadows pressed in.
That’s how Adrian found me. Or maybe fate just lined up our hunger like dominoes. His hunger was for beauty and escape. Mine was for a taste of any world that wasn’t penned in by fields and superstition.
Adrian worked at the inn. He was tall and easy. His hair was a wild tumble of chestnut. His eyes were full of the reckless glint that made you want to believe he could save you from yourself. He’d flirt outrageously when he carried the milk jugs to the root cellar. He was always angling for a drink, a laugh, a secret.
I kept him at arm’s length. At first, because of fear. But then, the wanting became almost more dangerous.
The dance between us stretched out for weeks. I denied him, he persisted, and every day I found myself wanting him more. Sometimes his hand would brush mine as he took a jug. He gave off a static shock that burned all the way up my arm. Once, he leaned in too close, breath warm against my ear, and my knees threatened to betray me. Every word was a promise: of danger, of pleasure, of a world larger than the pinched lives of Valea Sângeorzan.
In those moments, it was as if the whole village might catch fire from the friction between us.
Eventually, I broke.
I still remember that first time in the tavern. Candlelight trembled in sooty glass, warmth pooling in the fireplace. Adrian’s laughter curled around me like smoke. He was the handsomest man I’d ever seen, with that aristocratic line to his jaw, and those eyes that sparkled with adventure and promise I did not question. I felt small and bright in his presence, like a match, ready to be struck.
His voice was a caress, every word tasting of clove and honeyed wine. The inn was crowded with voices, but I heard only him. He sipped his ale, spinning dreams of Vienna, of ballrooms, of his name on book spines and silk gowns rustling on marble floors. He was a romantic, a writer in waiting, an exile in his own skin.
“Your dreams are beautiful,” I whispered, lost to the fire in his gaze. “I hope you catch them one day.”
Adrian’s eyes flickered. They were soft, earnest, and oddly sad. “Thank you, Irina. I hope you find yours, too.”
That night, we shared stories and secrets beneath the stares of old men and the wary gaze of the barmaid. He bought me wine. It was a full-bodied red in a battered silver cup. I hesitated, worrying what my parents would say, but Adrian pressed: “One drink won’t break you. Besides, I’ll have you home before anyone’s the wiser.”
There was a pull to his words—an undertow I couldn’t resist.
His hand slid over mine beneath the table. His fingers traced lazy circles along my wrist. The contact was innocent and not so innocent, like a private language spoken in touch. My cheeks flared with heat, my heartbeat thudding in my chest. It echoed the pulse I felt in places I didn’t dare acknowledge.
So, I let him buy me that glass.
We toasted to things we’d never name, and the wine loosened my tongue and warmed my skin. My world shrank to the glow of the fire and the space between us, as if the rest of the village had fallen away.
He spoke of Vienna again, painting the city in wild, vivid color. I closed my eyes and could almost hear distant music, the hush of silk, the laughter of strangers. Something in me ached, deep and hungry, for that world. For him, for escape, for the pulse of possibility.
The hem of my skirt brushed his knee beneath the table, and I left it there, testing, daring him to notice. He did. It was the smallest touch, but a promise of all that might come.
He took my hand, his fingers warm and rough. “Promise me, Irina, you’ll never give up on your own dreams. You’re not like the other girls. I see it in your eyes.”
His touch sent a shock of pleasure through me.
I promised, breathless, before I could even think. For a moment, I imagined his mouth on my throat, his hands tangling in my hair. I wanted him to steal me away, to ruin me in all the ways that mattered. The tavern seemed suddenly closed. The candlelight was a caress on my skin. It was the last thing he said before paying for our drinks and standing up, tall and sure, the weight of a hundred hidden hopes pressing between us.
“I must see you again,” he said.
I didn’t hesitate. “Tomorrow. I’ll be here.”
I don’t remember the walk to the stables, or the wild ride home, or the horse galloping through fields turned to velvet and shadow.
My blood was a river of fire, and the world itself seemed unmoored. Adrian’s back was to me, his body strong beneath my hands, the future a blur of wind and hope. I was breathless with it all. The city he promised shimmered ahead of us. Vienna. Escape.
My world before blood and ruin.
The fields flashed by in streaks of green and gold, the horse’s hooves pounding out the rhythm of a life just out of reach. Adrian’s laughter carried back to me, wind-torn and bright. I held him tighter. I was desperate for the moment never to end.
When we arrived at the farm, dusk lay thick on the land, and my father’s shadow moved in the yard. It was broad, implacable, as immovable as the Carpathians themselves. Adrian dismounted, unafraid, sly, and sure. His calm settled over me like a benediction.
“Viktor Dragomir?” Adrian extended his hand, undaunted by the glare that could strip bark from trees.
“Papa, this is—”
“Adrian Vargo.” Adrian’s voice was smooth as wine. “I take full responsibility for keeping your daughter out too late.”
My face burned, but I couldn’t help the smile. Father’s silence was the loudest thing I’d ever heard.
“Forgive me,” Adrian added. “The company and the adventure were too good to resist.”
He met my eyes, a secret grin passing between us, too quick for Father to catch.
Father’s voice weighed on me like stone. “Irina?”
“It wasn’t his fault,” I blurted, words tumbling out. “I was delivering milk. It was my idea to—”
“I’m happy to take the blame,” Adrian said, leaning on the fence as if it belonged to him. “In fact, I’d gladly do it again.”
Father’s silence stretched. I braced for rage, for that old snap that always meant work and guilt. But it didn’t come.
Adrian, bold as sin, pressed his luck: “Perhaps I could see Irina again.”
The words lingered. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Adrian held his gaze, daring the world to crack.
“Well,” Father said, at last. His voice was still granite, but not a hammer. “We’ll see.”
Adrian straightened, the grin now blooming across his face. Victory. Hope. A dare fulfilled.
“Good night, then,” he said, bowing just enough to tease. He pressed my hand to his lips. I felt a flash of heat, a silent promise. He then swung onto his horse with impossible grace.
“I’ll be back,” he called over his shoulder, a vow as real as anything I’d ever touched.
Father and I watched him go, his silhouette devoured by the twilight. My heart leapt after him, tumbling toward a life I could barely imagine.
“Papa,” I whispered, unsure what I meant to say.
“I know,” he said. His voice was softer than I expected. “Inside. Supper’s getting cold.”
But I stood outside a little longer, watching the last light fade, wondering how I could ever return to the slow suffocation of country life now that Adrian had set my heart alight.
The wolf’s cry shattered my thoughts.
It was close. Hungry. Far too real.
Father’s hand gripped my shoulder. “Irina! In the house. Now!”
Another howl. Closer.
We ran for the door, slamming it against the night.
Inside, my mother, Anya, was wiping down the kitchen counters, her eyes worried. “Who was that with you?” she asked.
“Adrian,” I stammered, my cheeks still burning. “He…he brought me home.”
“Seems charming,” Father muttered, still unconvinced. “But we heard a wolf. Did you?”
Mother shook her head, hair shining in the candlelight. “No, but pray before bed and the Lord will keep us safe.”
I nodded, pretending to believe, but superstition dug claws into my mind. I escaped to my bedroom, leaving them to their rituals.
Alone, I stared at the shifting shadows, Adrian’s smile haunting my thoughts. The wolf’s howl echoed in my mind, tangled with the promise of escape and the threat of darkness.
Was Adrian my salvation or my damnation?
My window frosted with night’s breath.
I pressed my palm to the glass, longing for something beyond. The ache between my thighs was sharp, alive, impossible to soothe. I imagined Adrian’s hands, his mouth, the wicked curl of his smile. My fingers drifted under my nightgown, touching myself in the dark, chasing a ghost I could never quite catch.
“Adrian,” I whispered to the dark, longing for him even as I feared what it meant.
I didn’t pray. Instead, I drifted, caught between dream and nightmare, hoping sleep would shield me from the monsters. Those inside and out.
Time passed.
A scream tore me awake. It was Mother’s voice, sharp and desperate. My heart hammered as I leapt from bed, feet slapping cold floorboards.
Father’s shout followed: “Anya!”
There was no answer. I rushed downstairs. Father’s rifle was glinting in his trembling hands. The moon painted the yard with silver and bone.
Mother sprawled on the porch. She was half-naked, wild-eyed, babbling of shadows and fangs. Her fear infected me like a disease of the soul.
“Anya, my love, what’s happened?” Father’s voice cracked as he lifted her gently.
“Darkness…oh, God…the darkness…” she whimpered, eyes flinching from every shadow.
“Father, is this a vampire’s work?” I whispered. “Or a werewolf?”
“Quiet, Irina,” he snapped. His eyes were locked on Mother’s face. “Don’t jump to conclusions.”
Her breath grew ragged. Father found two wounds. They were pale, oozing blood. They were on her neck. I shuddered.
“Father, what do we do?” My voice was nothing but fear.
“We get her inside and tend to her wounds,” he answered, steely determination masking dread. “Then we find out who, or what, did this.”
As we brought her in, my mind reeled: Adrian, the wolf’s cry, the impossible wounds. Could Adrian be involved?
I barely knew him.
Nothing made sense at this point.
“Help me get her to bed,” Father barked. My hands trembled as I obeyed.
Mother’s once-bright eyes clouded with pain. I vowed then to discover the truth. If there was a vampire in Valea Sângeorzan, I would find it.
Somehow…I would destroy it.
I promised myself I would become the hunter and destroy the monsters that lived among us, even if it meant becoming a monster myself. And that, I suppose, was the last night I was ever truly innocent.
The moon was a ghostly galleon, heaving atop a black, uncharted sea. Its pallid light leaked through every crack in our shuttered windows, painting long, spectral shadows over Mother’s sunken face. Each of her breaths was shallow, more memory than promise, as if the life inside her was draining with the tide, pulled inexorably away from shore.
I sat at her bedside, clutching her hand. A hand once sturdy and warm, now fragile as a bird’s wing, shivering in my grip.
I stroked her hair, still silk but now shot through with more silver than chestnut. Wolves howled in the distance, their voices threading the dusk like a warning, or maybe a summons. It struck me then how those ancient, hungry voices knew what we did not. Death was close. An uninvited guest already slipping through the cracks.
It was looking for someone to claim.
The farmhouse itself felt possessed by unease. Each corner bristled with chill drafts, and the creak of the old beams overhead sounded like footsteps pacing, waiting. The shadows quivered along the floor, sometimes resolving themselves into the vague shape of something hunched and fanged before dissolving again. The candle at Mother’s bedside stuttered, sometimes guttering so low I was sure it would die.
Father, the lines of his face carved deep by the Carpathian wind, moved with that careful, urgent purpose that comes only when you’ve lost too much and can’t bear to lose again. He set the hunting rifle on the bed beside Mother. Cold steel on quilt. It was his own grim blessing.
“Keep this close,” he told me, his eyes meeting mine. They were steady, flinty, utterly unbreakable. “I’ll fetch the doctor.”
“Be quick,” I replied, my voice a knife pressed to fear’s throat. The dread was a knot inside me, all bile and iron. As Father slipped out into the cold, I set to work, fetching water, gathering the last of Mother’s dried herbs, moving by rote because every old country remedy suddenly felt laughably small against what was coming for us.
The house felt too big for the three of us, the darkness in every room swelling, swallowing up the warm places, leaking up the stairs and across the floors. The scent of old smoke, sweat, garlic, and now sickness, thickened the air. I pressed the cloth to Mother’s brow, shuddering at the heat that pulsed beneath her skin, at the fever-dream mutterings she barely managed to speak.
Mother was already far away, her voice just a shuddering echo. “The Devil… he whispers…” she slurred, her eyelids fluttering, eyes rolling with horrors only she could see. Sweat beaded on her brow, and I pressed a damp cloth there, desperate to cool the fever that made her skin burn and her mind drift.
Her grip on my hand was weak, barely more than the twitch of a bird’s foot in winter. I watched her lips move, praying for some sensible phrase, but all she gave me were fragments—bits of old lullabies, curses, prayers, warnings. I wondered if she saw her own mother, long dead, come to guide her across that final threshold. Or something else.
The wolves cried out again, closer.
Wolves were no strangers to these haunted lands. Still, their unwanted visits were becoming far too frequent, and now they felt so close, as if they were circling our house, measuring its weaknesses, waiting for the final, fateful invitation. I tried not to tremble, but something ancient and black stirred inside me. Some legacy of blood and night I never asked for but always sensed, curling like a serpent around my spine.
My thoughts tangled in memory and dread. I remember being a girl, hiding beneath these same quilts, listening to my mother whisper that nothing could get me when I was home, if I believed. But the shadows now seemed to laugh at such childish faith.
A shadow flitted past the window.
It was too large, too patient, too deliberate for a stray hound.
My pulse spiked, but my hands were steady. I moved to the window, unlatching it with slow, practiced caution, and raised the rifle. Beyond the glass, the woods heaved with darkness, and the wolf’s eyes glinted. Obsidian, intelligent, fixed on me as if they already knew my name.
The glass fogged with my breath. I felt every inch of my body prickling, alive, terrified. I stared back, refusing to blink.
“Back to the abyss from where you came,” I whispered.
My finger squeezed the trigger.
The gunshot shattered the night. The wolf yelped, a scream from legend—sharp and mournful—and vanished into the trees. I was shaking, full of adrenaline and a bravery I had never felt before—a feeling that scared me—but the rifle was steady in my hands. I closed the window and muttered to the darkness, “You will not have her.”
Silence returned, fragile as spun glass. Terror gripped my heart, but I wore it like armor. I was Irina Dragomir, daughter of these haunted hills. Raised on fear and legend, bound by blood to this land, and sworn to stand between my family and the night.
I returned to Mother’s side, but every scrape of a branch outside made my skin crawl. I thought of Adrian, of his hands, of the hungry way his eyes lingered on my lips. Even now, danger so close, a pulse of longing rose in me, hotter than shame. I wondered if he was safe, if he was out there in the woods, if some part of this darkness was drawn to him as I was.
Time slowed, bled out, bent into hours or minutes.
I lost track.
The door crashed open at last, and Father returned, the chill of the night wrapped around him.
Doctor Bogdan Pavel followed, his face hard as carved oak, but there was a warmth beneath the sternness. It was the kind you only see in men who have spent years delivering new life and burying the lost. Mihai, massive, silent—steady as the mountains—trudged in behind.
And then Adrian appeared.
His presence sent a tremor through me that had nothing to do with fear.
“Adrian, you’re here?” I asked, and even I could hear the heat beneath my voice.
He met my gaze, holding it just long enough for something unspoken to pass between us. “I heard the gunshot,” he said. “I had to make sure—”
“Anya,” Doctor Pavel’s voice cut in, focused, already moving to Mother’s side. His hands hovered. Hands that were so sure when setting bones, now trembling as he examined her neck.
“Look at these,” he murmured, pulling back her collar. Two puncture wounds. They are angry and raw, leaving her flesh marred. “If this isn’t the mark of the undead, then I know nothing.”
“Vampires, Doctor?” Father’s voice rumbled, heavy with disbelief. “Are we to believe old wives’ tales now?” Patel was the village doctor, and we trusted him dearly, but father often disagreed with him about the supernatural, particularly the existence of vampires. Legends of vampires ran rampant through the Carpathians, but Father either did not believe them or he pretended not to.
Doctor Pavel only shook his head. “Belief doesn’t matter, Viktor. She needs help.” He set his bag down and got to work, pulling out vials, bandages, and herbs—the tools of hope against the darkness.
Adrian lingered, moonlight sharpening his cheekbones, worry carved into every line.
“Something stalks us,” he said.
His words were hushed and fierce.
“Whether wolf, devil, or something else. People talk. There are whispers of werewolves in the woods, vampires in the valleys. We’d be fools not to guard against all of it.”
“Enough!” Father’s fist cracked against the wall. The timbers groaned, and the whole house seemed to flinch.
“Father.” My voice was ice. “A wolf came so close tonight its breath fogged the window. We can’t pretend nothing’s out there.”
A fresh round of howling swept over the fields. Closer. Hungrier, as if the night itself was agreeing with me. Adrian and Doctor Pavel exchanged looks weighted by centuries of myth and fear.
“Garlic. Crucifixes. Whatever we have,” Adrian said at last. “If it’s superstition, let it be. If not, let’s not die for pride.”
Father muttered something about nonsense, but the edge was gone from his voice. Adrian offered to help gather the wards, and as he brushed my hand, it was a brief, electric touch. I let myself feel both terror and hope—maybe more hope than I should.
They left to collect what protection they could, and as I watched them disappear into the night, I stood at the threshold.
I was torn between a thousand years of dread and a single, stubborn spark of longing.
The fire crackled low. Mother’s chest rose and fell in fitful rhythm. I wanted to climb into bed beside her. I wanted to hide in the shape I used to be, safe and small.
But I was changed.
The night had made me raw, older.
The longing for Adrian warred with the fear for my mother. My body was a map of every bruise and want and terror the world had ever pressed into it.
They returned before dawn. The doctor worked on Mother, brow knotted in concentration, his hands moving in silent prayer as much as science. The house began to reek of garlic. Adrian came in, arms full of wooden crosses and bundles of cloves. He hung them above every window and door, setting crucifixes down with gentle, deliberate care.
I watched them all: Father, Doctor Pavel, Adrian, and Mihai. Each man’s face was drawn and haunted, each movement weighted with unspeakable fear.
The wolves howled still, a ceaseless dirge winding through the walls.
Finally, exhaustion dragged me under. I sank into the chair by Mother’s bed and let the world fall away.
Dreams took me.
In that place, fear dissolved, replaced by a hunger I never dared confess. Adrian’s hands roved my skin, his mouth setting me aflame. We moved together, our bodies a tangled hymn, fevered and breathless, the world shrunk to touch and taste and need. His hair brushed my face as he kissed me, and for a heartbeat, the world was just heat, pleasure, and the hope of escape.
But the dream broke.
Wolves crashed through, eyes glowing, fangs bared. They dragged Adrian away, their snarls shredding the peace, and I screamed for him, powerless to save.
Then a voice, cold as death, whispered through the nightmare:“You cannot stop me from ravaging Anya.”
I bolted upright, gasping, the aftertaste of terror bitter in my mouth. Dawn bled through the barricades of garlic. Mother lay motionless. Father and the others snored, exhausted at their posts.
That dream was a warning, a prophecy.
I knew, with the unshakeable certainty of the doomed, that our little barricades would never be enough. Evil already stalked us, teeth sunk deep into the Dragomir line, and there would be no peace until one of us broke the chain.
I glanced at the shadowed window, feeling the vow settle in my bones.
“Adrian,” I whispered, voice both prayer and promise. “I will not let the darkness have us. I will not let it have you.”
Weeks bled into one another, foggy and breathless. The air in our little house was thick with fever, sweat, and whispered prayers.
Mother’s sickness became the new rhythm of our days. It was like a cruel lullaby that left us all trembling in its wake.
Doctor Pavel’s visits turned routine, each time bringing a little less hope, his medicine bag smaller, his eyes dimmer. Father, all iron and stoic duty, patrolled with the other men. Their guns were slung over their shoulders as if they could ward off every wolf, every legend, every curse that stalked the Carpathian dark.
Sometimes I’d see him through the window, a grim silhouette among the trees, the rifle like a cross clutched tight.
Inside, the farmhouse felt more and more like a mausoleum. The kitchen was always too cold. Garlic hung in braided ropes over every door and window, their pungent scent warring with the coppery tang of Mother’s blood, the bitterness of her fever. Shadows stretched long across the floors, pooling in corners, whispering secrets I tried not to hear. I tended to Mother’s every whim, tried to mask the terror in my eyes when her fever climbed, when she moaned of devils, when her hands clawed for something just out of reach.
The worry gnawed at me.
At night, I would lie awake, staring into the rafters, my skin slick with sweat that had nothing to do with the heat.
But as autumn’s gold surrendered to rot, Adrian returned to me repeatedly, as if fate itself couldn’t keep him away.
He stayed for supper, his laughter warm and rich at our battered table, his eyes never leaving mine. Even Father softened around him, grudgingly amused by Adrian’s stories and his stubborn charm.
When darkness fell, we’d slip into the garden, stealing hours together beneath the moon’s pale gaze, our breaths mingling in the cooling air. The damp grass pressed cold against my bare ankles, but Adrian’s nearness always burned me alive.
I found myself living for the sound of his boots on our path, the gentle knock at dusk, the sly smile that promised escape. Every time he brushed my hand or let his fingers drift along the small of my back, lightning seemed to shiver beneath my skin. My body grew attuned to him. My pulse leapt at his scent. It leapt at the way his voice dipped low when no one else could hear.
One evening, under a sky ripe with stars, Adrian took my hand and led me from the edge of our farm, past the gnarled apple trees and fields gone fallow, all the way to where the wild meadows pressed against the ancient forest. Lantern in hand, he guided me through a thicket I’d never dared enter alone, until the earth opened into a secret glade. The air here was thick with the scent of wet leaves and the musk of distant rain. At its heart, a small lake shivered, mirroring the harvest moon, an otherworldly silver disc, trembling atop the black water.
“I’ve wanted to show you this place,” Adrian whispered, his fingers squeezing mine. His voice was barely more than a breath. “I call it the Holy Lake.”
We sat together on a mossy log, the whole world shrinking to just us and the hush of the water. With a blush, Adrian pulled a crumpled parchment from his coat. His hands, always so sure, now trembled.
“I wrote this…for you,” he said softly.
He read, his voice rough at first, then blooming with the rhythm of longing. Each line burrowed into me, sweeter and more dangerous than any spell. By the time he finished, I was burning up. My heart was open, wide and reckless, under that moon. I let my hand slide up his thigh, emboldened by his words and the shadows that hid us.
When our lips met, they were tentative at first, then igniting, hungry, the world slipped away. My hands tangled in his hair, my nails scraping his scalp, desperate to draw him closer. The cold fell off my skin, replaced by a need that felt older than the mountains themselves.
Adrian pressed me back into the grass, his mouth devouring mine, kissing me until I was dizzy, gasping for air, moaning his name. His hands found my bodice, tugged it down so my breasts spilled out, nipples pebbling in the night chill. He suckled them greedily, his tongue tracing lazy, maddening circles, then biting gently until I shuddered.
His desire was raw. It was unapologetic. I felt his cock swelling beneath his trousers, thick and insistent, and I reached for him, bold and trembling, my palm stroking him through the rough wool until he gasped, until I was wild for the sound of his want. He pressed his forehead to mine, panting, as I squeezed him harder, feeling him throb in my fist.
He undid his belt, hands shaking, and I freed him, the sound of the buckle thrilling and obscene in the hush of the woods. His cock sprang free, heavy and hot, and he groaned as my fingers circled him. I stroked the length slowly at first, teasing him, then faster, until his hips bucked helplessly.
His hands were so sure, eagerly exploring my soaked slit before slipping into me, finding me supple and ravenous. He pressed his fingers deep, curling them to find the spot that made me bite his shoulder to keep from screaming. My thighs parted, hips arching to meet every thrust of his hand.
He tore my dress down past my breasts, his lips and tongue tracing every curve, every inch that had ached for him.
“I want you,” he whispered, in a half-plea, half-command.
“Yes,” I answered, my voice ragged, breathless. “Take me. Now.”
He lay me back, skirts hiked up, and knelt between my parted thighs. I felt his sweat dripping onto my belly as he pushed into me. It was hard, relentless, every thrust a bright, electric pain fused with a dizzying, molten pleasure. I gripped his shoulders, raked his back, and gave myself over to the rhythm. Our bodies crashed together, desperate and shameless, my cries echoing in the lonely clearing, carried away on the wind.
Adrian kissed me, his tongue sliding between my lips as he drove into me, filling me, stretching me wide. I wrapped my legs around him, ankles locking at the small of his back.
He slowed, working the little bud at the apex of my pussy until I screamed, my whole body locking and shuddering as wave after wave tore through me. He lingered inside me, barely moving, savoring my pleasure, his breath coming in ragged pants against my neck.
He started again, harder, his cock stroking me deep, relentless, the friction building until I felt a second orgasm tightening inside me, burning hotter and brighter than the first. I clawed at his back, hips bucking, as the pleasure crashed over me, white-hot and endless.
He followed, pumping his seed onto my flesh, marking me, both of us spent and shaking, lost in the delirium of our first true union.
He collapsed beside me, his arm flung across my belly, our breaths tangled in the damp, fragrant night air.
Afterwards, we held each other for what felt like centuries. Kissing, laughing, melting into each other, the stars spinning above us in silent witness. Adrian pressed his lips to my temple, his voice thick with awe.
“You are everything,” he whispered, and I believed him, if only for that perfect moment.
We met there almost every evening after that, hiding from the world in our secret cathedral of leaves. It was a season of stolen kisses, frantic hands, whispered promises, and the kind of love that made you believe, even for a moment, that life and death could be bent by will alone.
One night, lying naked in the grass, Adrian traced lazy circles on my shoulder and stared into the dark. “Anya deserves more than this,” he murmured. “We’ve tried everything for her. The doctors, the remedies. Maybe it’s time for something drastic.”
“Vienna?” I asked, breathless at the idea. “But that’s another world. My father would never allow it.”
He turned to me, eyes shining with conviction. “He wants what’s best for her. For you. There’s more to life than this village. Imagine Vienna. The art, the music, the freedom. No one watching, no one judging.”
I pressed my ear to his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heart. The thought of escape was a knife-edge—equal parts terror and hope. I longed for the city, for the promise of a life unchained, but doubt lingered, heavy as ever.
“Do you really think we could do it?” I whispered. “Leave it all behind?”
He kissed me, slow and soft. “Together, we can do anything. I’ll give you the life you deserve, Irina. I swear it.”
But the world always comes back.
When we returned home, Father was waiting. His scowl was like a curse; his disappointment etched into every line of his weathered face.
“Where have you two been?” he demanded, frustration making his voice tight. “Your mother has been asking for you, Irina. You’re needed here. Not wandering the night with Adrian.”
“I’m sorry, Father,” I whispered, shame prickling hot beneath my skin. “We lost track of time.”
“Don’t let it happen again.” His gaze lingered on Adrian, cold and full of warning. “Your family comes first. Remember your place.”
I tore myself away from Adrian, from freedom, from the future I almost let myself believe in.
Inside, Mother lay motionless in the sickroom, the air thick with herbs, medicine, and the smell of fear. I knelt beside her, brushing her damp hair from her brow, guilt clawing at me. I wanted both worlds: her comfort and Adrian’s wild promise. But the two would never fit together.
Forgive me, I thought, kissing her cheek. But as much as I loved my mother, I could no longer stifle the need for something more.
That night, in my narrow bed, I let the darkness hold me.
I remembered every touch, every word, every promise made by the moonlit lake. I imagined Vienna. A city bursting with color, music, and opportunity. A city where Adrian and I could start over, free from judgment and fear. I pictured the two of us walking along the Danube, arms linked, laughter rising above the noise of markets and the clatter of carriages.
But as hope bloomed, doubt curled cold in my gut. Could I leave my family? Abandon my duty for a dream I could hardly name? The ache of that choice haunted me, even as I drifted into sleep.
Still, Adrian’s words lingered: “Together, we can face anything.”
With that promise ringing in my ears, I surrendered to the night, daring, just for a little while. To believe that escape might be possible. That love, even in the Carpathians, might set me free.
The moon hung low and swollen, like a malignant eye peering down through the tangled branches, its pallid light smearing the rooftops and fields of Valea Sângeorzan with the color of bone.
Frost spidered across the windowpanes, and the wind sang with a banshee’s voice, lifting the hair at my nape and sending shivers skating across my skin. I pressed my forehead to the glass, breath fogging the cold surface, straining to see beyond the hedge of darkness choking our farm. I could sense the village holding its breath. It was a collective, helpless inhale, waiting for something unspeakable to come crawling from the wilds.
Inside, every shadow pressed closer, swelling with threat. The old beams of the house creaked as if shrinking away from the coming horror. Candlelight flickered along the walls, painting the rooms in trembling amber and witching green. I caught my reflection. I was wide-eyed. My mouth open, hair wild. It looked like a stranger’s face, haunted and ready to shatter.
“Anya’s babbling again,” Father said, voice taut as a bowstring. He stood just inside the doorway, looking bigger and older than I remembered, his hands trembling as he wrung his battered hat. “She keeps saying the Devil is coming for her.” His words sounded brittle, as if repeating them might shatter what little hope we still clung to.
“Bring her inside, quickly!” Adrian snapped, already moving to Mother’s side. His face was carved with worry, his lips pale, his jaw set. I felt a tremor run the length of my spine. Dread descended over me like a shroud, suffocating and cold, prickling my scalp, my belly, the tender skin between my thighs. The feeling was almost erotic. It was a violation of safety, a pulse of danger that made my heart flutter even as my mind screamed.
As if summoned by our fear, Doctor Pavel arrived, face pale as parchment, hands shaking so badly he could barely close the door behind him.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” he whispered, the words ghosting between us like frost. His terror made the room feel smaller, the shadows more dangerous. He fumbled with his medicine bag, but his gaze kept darting to the corners, to the dark places where lamplight died.
Outside, the howling of wolves grew louder. A savage chorus that echoed through every stone, every heart in the village. It was no longer just an omen. It was a promise. The windows rattled in their frames, and I fancied I could see shapes flitting between the trees, fur and fang and eyes gleaming red in the night.
Then, as if the world itself was conspiring, a dense, unnatural fog rolled in like an oily tide, swallowing the streets and crawling inexorably toward our door. It pressed against the glass, curled beneath the jamb, and seeped in with all the patient malice of the grave. Each breath I drew seemed heavier, thick as blood, laced with the scent of iron and something sweetly putrid. Maybe rot, or perhaps the breath of the dead.
“Can’t you feel it?” Mother cried. Her eyes were wide with terror. “He’s coming! He’s coming!” Her voice cracked, brittle with hysteria. She clawed at her chest, nails tearing at the thin linen of her shift. I tried to comfort her, smoothing her hair, whispering soft lies, but even my voice wavered with uncertainty.
The fog invaded, tendrils of chill slithering through every gap, making the air heavy, oppressive, unclean.
The howls of wolves were inside the walls now, rattling the glass, vibrating the floorboards, echoing in my bones.
I felt a growing ache in my thighs, as if the fear itself was a hand, sliding up the inside of my skirt, finding the most secret, sensitive places and setting them ablaze. I thought of Adrian, his mouth, his hands, and the feeling of wanting to be devoured by something stronger than myself.
“Get the guns,” Adrian barked, every inch of him electric with urgency.
Father and I scrambled, fumbling rifles and cartridges, the sharp metallic click of the breech like a death knell. All of us huddled in the parlor, weapons clutched tight, eyes wild.
“Stay close,” Father muttered, eyes never still. I could feel my own heart in my throat, each beat a drum of dread, a summoning. The lamps flickered as if the darkness itself was sucking at their wicks. Doctor Pavel traced frantic crosses over the doors, muttering Latin between his chattering teeth.
Adrian slipped his hand into mine, squeezing hard. “Whatever happens,” he whispered, his breath hot against my ear, “we face it together.” His words grounded me, even as the world threatened to slip away.
I leaned into him, grateful for his warmth, the fierce thrum of his pulse under my palm. For one strange, shameful moment, I wanted to pull him down onto the floor, press my mouth to his, let the terror become a fever of tongues and limbs. I wanted to lose myself in his body, to drown out the wolves with the music of our flesh.
Then came the crash. Wood splintering in Mother’s room. Her scream was a sound so raw, so pure, it split the night in two. My heart lurched. We bolted down the hallway, fear battering us forward. Each step felt like falling, like tumbling down a shaft with no end.
“Mother!” I screamed, bursting into her room. Fog curled along the floor. It was as thick as spilled ink. In the center, silhouetted by the moon’s watery light, stood a figure clad head-to-toe in black. A living wound in the fabric of the world. His face was a mask of white stone, eyes twin blades of onyx. He had Mother in his grip, her frail form twisting, her mouth a rictus of terror.
“Let her go!” Father roared, leveling the gun. The intruder turned, eyes finding mine, pinning me, as if daring me to move. He smiled, a slow, monstrous reveal of gleaming fangs. Then, with a contemptuous grace, he leapt backward into the swirl of fog, vanishing into the night.
Mother screamed. It was a horrible cry I would never forget—a cry of great pain and suffering, the kind that tore something deep inside me. For a moment, I thought I would faint, or vomit, or collapse sobbing in the wreckage of the night.
“Viktor, come on!” Adrian shouted, already in motion, chasing after them into the maw of the night. Father hesitated, then plunged after Adrian, both of them vanishing into the churning mists.
“I’m coming with you!” I yelled, grabbing a rifle from the wall, legs moving before my mind could catch up. But they turned on me, twin pillars of stubborn love and fear.
“No, Irina,” Adrian said, his voice ragged but sure, eyes burning with the twin fires of love and panic. “Stay here with Doctor Pavel. Take care of your mother. We’ll get the beast!”
“Adrian! I can help!” My hands shook, the gun heavy, my mouth bitter with frustration.
“Irina, listen,” Father added, all stern command. “You must protect the house. We’ll get him. I swear it.”
Outside, the howling reached a fever pitch, as if the entire night was closing in, gnashing its teeth, hungering for blood. Adrian and Father disappeared into the fog, rifles raised, and I was left clutching steel and silence.
I stalked Mother and Father’s bedroom, fury and fear battling inside me. The old certainties of the village had collapsed. Now, the howls of wolves, the crash of breaking doors, and the wailing of neighbors all blended into a nightmare symphony. This was no longer my childhood home. It was a fortress under siege, and I was its trembling, unworthy sentry.
Doctor Pavel moved quickly, tending to Mother’s wounds, dabbing at the fresh blood on her neck. The two bite marks, raw and obscene, glistened in the sickly lamplight. He gripped his crucifix with white knuckles, lips moving in silent, desperate prayer.
His eyes met mine, and I saw the truth there. It was pure, shivering terror. There would be no easy deliverance. Tonight, we faced more than wolves, more than stories. We faced the oldest evil in the Carpathians, and I had no idea who would live to see the dawn.
Outside, the fog pressed closer, swallowing the garden, the fields, the world. The glass of the window rattled beneath an unseen assault—fingers, claws, or something far worse. I pressed my palm to the wood, my skin prickling with dread, imagining some obscene force reaching for me from the dark.
Mother whimpered, her fevered eyes rolling. “Irina, please. Don’t let him take me. Don’t let him—” She broke off in a sob, clutching at my sleeve.
“I won’t,” I lied, but my words dissolved in the thickening air. I kissed her forehead, tasting salt, terror, and something like resignation.
Doctor Pavel searched the shadows as he dressed her wounds, his hands shaking. “You must stay by her side,” he said. “If she worsens, call for me. Don’t let her sleep too deeply. The old tales say—” He faltered, the rest unspoken.
The house creaked and shuddered as the wind battered the shutters. I barricaded the doors, set garlic at the windows, and prayed in a voice I barely recognized. But in the pauses between prayers, my mind kept returning to Adrian: his courage, his recklessness, the press of his body against mine.
I could feel the pulse of longing. It was sick, shameful, defiant, all beneath the cold hand of dread. Even in the house’s heart, where shadows gathered deepest, I let my mind wander: to his mouth, his hands, the feel of his thigh between mine that night by the lake. For a moment, I let the fear become a kind of hunger, a secret I hoarded against the dark.
Time slowed, became a sickle that cut through minutes, leaving only jagged scraps behind. Outside, the wolves grew quieter, their song shifting from one of violence to one of waiting. I sat beside Mother, stroking her hair, listening to the ticking of the old clock, the scrape of Doctor Pavel’s shoes on the floor, the faraway shouts of men in the fog.
Eventually, the door creaked open, and Father stumbled in, white-faced, blood smeared across his shirt. Adrian followed, grim and silent, hair wild, eyes burning.
“We lost them,” Father said. “He’s too fast. The wolves…they followed him into the woods. God help us.”
Adrian’s gaze found mine and lingered, fierce and bruised. For an instant, something unspoken passed between us—a promise of vengeance, of longing, of the kind of love that only flourishes when the night is darkest.
I squeezed his hand, grounding myself in the living warmth of his skin, the reassurance of his strength. “We’ll save her from this evil,” I said, not sure who I was trying to convince.
But outside, the fog thickened. The moon shuddered behind a veil of clouds, and the howls began again, deeper, more guttural. It was a promise that the night had only begun.