Chapter 3: Marked
The mirror was lying.
Evelyn stared at her reflection under the bathroom's harsh white lights, searching for the thing she didn't want to believe was there.
But it was.
Just beneath the curve of her left collarbone, barely visible unless the light hit it just right—a mark. Thin lines curled and spiraled like ancient script etched into her skin. Faint, silvery red. Not a bruise. Not a tattoo.
A brand.
Her fingers hovered above it. It wasn't raised. Didn't hurt. But it throbbed—not with pain, but with something... older. Hungrier.
And every time she touched it, her mind flashed.
A voice.
A burning sky.
A blade of glass dripping with blood.
She gripped the edge of the sink to steady herself. "What the hell is happening to me?"
The dreams were getting worse. Or clearer. Last night she'd seen Lucien again—standing in a ruined cathedral, whispering her name as if it was a prayer and a curse. She'd tasted blood in her mouth when she woke.
And now this mark.
Was this what madness looked like?
She yanked on a hoodie and stepped out of the bathroom. Her apartment—small, cluttered, and usually comforting—felt unfamiliar. The lights flickered. Her phone vibrated with a missed call from Harper.
Another one from an unknown number. No voicemail. Just silence.
She ignored them.
Instead, she opened her laptop and typed into the search bar:
"Ancient blood sigils / vampire markings / hallucinations after trauma."
Nothing useful.
Except one link.
A dark website. No branding. Just an entry page that asked one question:
"Has someone tasted your blood without permission?"
Evelyn froze.
Her heart pounded louder with every second she stared at the screen.
She clicked.
The page loaded instantly. Symbols filled the margins. A single phrase glared back at her:
> "You have been Claimed."
Then her screen glitched. Flickered.
A face appeared.
His.
Lucien. Eyes blazing red. A whisper that came through the speakers—not typed, not audio. Like he was inside the code.
> "Stop looking."
Evelyn slammed the laptop shut.
Her breath caught in her throat. A cold sweat beaded along her spine.
Three knocks echoed through her apartment door.
She wasn't expecting anyone.
She crept to the peephole. Empty hallway.
Then—
"Evelyn," came a voice she recognized too well.
Lucien. On the other side.
Not yelling. Not threatening. Just... there.
She should run. Call someone. Scream.
Instead, she unlocked the door.
He stood before her like he'd been carved from a storm. Same black suit. Same emotionless gaze. But his voice—when he spoke—was softer. Almost guilty.
"I told myself I'd leave you alone."
"You're not doing a very good job," she said, throat tight.
His eyes fell to the mark just visible at her collar. "It's started, hasn't it?"
"What has?"
He didn't answer. Just stepped inside.
"I need answers, Lucien. I need—" she paused. "Is that even your real name?"
"It's one of them."
She exhaled sharply. "You're impossible."
"No. I'm inconvenient," he replied. "And unfortunately, I'm yours now."
"What the hell does that mean?"
Lucien turned to her, serious. Still. The air seemed to pulse around him.
"It means the bond is real. You've been marked by blood. My blood. And now... they'll come for you."
"Who will?"
His jaw tightened.
"The ones who've waited centuries for you to be born."