The next time Dorian saw her, it was raining.
Elmsvale's bookstore, "Whispering Pages," stood at the corner of Maple Street. It was run by Mrs. Calhoun, a woman who wore too much perfume and believed books had souls. Dorian liked it there. It reminded him of centuries long gone.
He was in the poetry aisle, flipping through a leather-bound edition of Byron, when the bell above the door jingled—and in walked Aria West, soaked from head to toe.
"I'm looking for something that doesn't end in heartbreak," she told Mrs. Calhoun, who chuckled nervously and pointed to the romance section.
Dorian peeked over the shelf. Aria wore black boots, ripped jeans, and had a streak of violet in her otherwise dark curls. She wasn't like the others. Most girls in Elmsvale whispered behind their hands when Dorian passed. Aria? She walked straight past him without a glance.
He followed her quietly with his eyes, studying her like a hunter studies a puzzle.
But she noticed.
"I don't like being watched," she said suddenly, without turning around.
Dorian raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't watching. I was observing. There's a difference."
Now she turned. "You talk like you came out of a Jane Austen novel."
"I suppose I do," he replied calmly, offering the faintest of smiles. "Dorian Blackthorn."
"Aria West."
A pause.
"You're not from here," he said.
"Neither are you."
He chuckled softly. "Touché."
Mrs. Calhoun, sensing tension—or maybe chemistry—bustled over with a stack of old novels and left them on the counter like peace offerings. Aria grabbed one and turned back to Dorian.
"Do you always dress like you're going to a funeral?" she asked, eyeing his black coat and gloves.
"Only when it rains," he replied.
She smirked. "Right. Wouldn't want the sun to melt your skin."
That made Dorian freeze.
She was joking. Of course she was joking.
Wasn't she?
Before he could reply, Aria left. The bell rang again, and with it went a strange tension Dorian hadn't felt in years. Interest. Curiosity. A whisper of danger.
He watched the droplets on the window trail after her as she disappeared into the mist.
"Aria West," he murmured. "What are you really?"
Because Dorian Blackthorn, eternal prince of the undead, had lived for centuries, traveled continents, and outlasted empires…
But he had never met a girl who made him feel this human.
And that, he feared, might be his undoing.