punished by the vampire curse

Claude had slowly become part of my daily life.

Every noon, she would come sit beside me with her books neatly lined up, a polite smile on her lips, and that calm voice that sometimes drifted into subjects I didn't even dare speak aloud.

— You know, my aunt has a personal tailor in Vallestelle. She refuses to buy off the rack. Fabric, she says, is a matter of dignity.

She laughed softly, and I nodded.

I listened as she spoke of balls, hand-sewn dresses, her summer memories at their vineyard estate. But the more she talked, the more I saw what others did not.

Claude was… alone.

The other girls avoided her. Some whispered when she passed by. I didn't know why, but I realized that this gentleness she wore like a cloak… was also armor. And maybe I was shelter to her, too.

I tried to help her as best I could, explaining what I knew, even if her attention often drifted elsewhere. Claude wasn't seeking knowledge so much as someone.

I reached out my hand to her.

Because I, too, wished someone would reach out to me.

---

The halls, however, were far less gentle.

Edward Whitmore seemed to appear at every turn. Always surrounded, always dominant. His laughter echoed against the white stones, sharp as a blade.

That day, I crossed paths with him as we left class.

— You arrogant jerk.

What I thought, unfortunately, out loud.

He looked me up and down, then said, loud enough for all to hear:

— So? Is the little peasant going to teach us another lesson? Maybe she's already dreaming of becoming a minister… or a duchess?

His friends burst out laughing. Even some students I didn't know smiled.

I stood tall, my face closed off, but inside I felt ashamed.

I hurried away, cheeks burning, eyes stinging. All the way home.

There were things more important than Edward, for now.

I thought of only one thing: closing my door. And this time, locking the windows.

I didn't know if it would be enough… but I needed to believe it was.

I needed a place where he couldn't enter.

— Audrey, you're going to fool the vampire, I smiled wryly.

---

After dinner, I went back to my room. The stairs creaked beneath my steps, the walls breathed cold. I spoke to myself to break the silence.

— That Edward… I can't stand him anymore. The golden boy of everyone… What else? Does he think I'll just disappear? Is that it?

I gave a bitter laugh, a nervous one.

I checked the windows. Closed. Locked.

A cold hand slid over my bare shoulders.

Frozen.

— Why did you close your window? whispered a deep voice behind me.

I didn't dare turn around. My hands trembled.

— It was just… um… an oversight, I stammered. Nothing more. I laughed nervously.

He moved close to my ear.

— I was invited, Audrey. No wall in your house can stop me. So… there's no use pretending.

He laughed softly. A quiet mockery. I slowly turned around.

— You came… for your ration, didn't you?

He nodded silently.

I crossed my arms.

— And how am I supposed to give you my blood? Maybe by cutting my hand?

He raised an eyebrow, almost amused.

— I can simply bite one of your veins, he said slowly. Just let me.

I took a step back.

— Actually, I don't feel like it anymore.

His gaze hardened.

— You gave your word. You know what it would cost you if you don't keep it.

A heavy silence. My breath shallow.

I slowly extended my wrist, heart pounding.

He stopped, surprised. It was me who had made that gesture. Voluntarily.

— Go ahead, I said, without daring to look at him. How generous of me.

He took my hand with a disturbing gentleness. And that night, he drank my blood for the first time.

He leaned in, slowly, and sank his fangs in.

I clenched my teeth. A cold burn, almost delicate. He closed his lips over my skin without haste, as if drinking a forbidden truth.

When it was over, he licked the wound with a possessive gesture.

He stepped back and looked me straight in the eyes.

— You're delicious… for such a fierce girl.

My heart skipped a beat. I felt my cheeks burn. Blush now? Why?!

— I-I wa… I mean… it's not…

I lowered my eyes, unable to hold his too-clear, too-steady gaze. My voice shattered into ridiculous pieces. Ridiculous.

Words stumbled on my tongue, slipping down my throat as if refusing to come out. Ashamed, confused, I abruptly turned away, hoping foolishly to escape this turmoil.

I took a deep breath.

And when, trembling, I finally turned back…

He was gone.

The window stood ajar, the curtain still drifting gently in the night air. But the room was empty. Silent.

As if he had never been there.

— Good, I shouted again, like an idiot.

---

That same night, in the Whitmore manor, far from Audrey's room…

The Whitmore manor stood on the hillside, as imposing as it was silent. A vast residence with austere architecture, oversized windows framed by columns and gargoyles frozen in stone.

— Damn… you grew up here? one of the boys hissed, eyes on the vestibule.

— Feels like a museum, added another, hanging his coat on a Louis XVI chair.

Edward just shrugged, hands in his pockets.

— It's just a house, he said.

But he knew it wasn't true. Nothing here was "just" anything. Not even the walls.

His friends explored with curiosity the grand salon, the portrait gallery, the ancient tapestries, and the libraries. They pretended to be unimpressed, but Edward sensed their hidden excitement. Some even whispered speculations about a secret passage, a hidden room.

He slipped away silently. He climbed a more discreet staircase, its steps covered in worn red velvet. He knew every corner of the manor, every shadow on the walls. Yet that day, he shouldn't have pushed open his father's study door.

He hadn't planned to listen. Not at first.

But as he approached the third-floor hallway, he heard muffled voices. Adult voices. Important voices. Sharp, tense words.

He stopped abruptly.

The door was ajar. A thin shaft of golden light bathed the floorboards. He immediately recognized the deep voice of his father, Thorne Whitmore, Minister of State, calm yet full of authority.

— …it's not an animal attack. I told you.

Another voice answered, harsher, military.

— The wounds are clean. No scratches, no irregular bites. We're talking about two fangs. Two, do you understand? Planted precisely in the throat.

Edward held his breath.

— And the hearts? asked a third voice, deeper, almost hoarse. He didn't recognize this one.

A heavy silence followed. Then Minister of the Army Warren Wilson replied:

— No vital organs were damaged. It's… surgical.

— They were all drained of blood, added his father.

Edward slowly stepped back, barely breathing.

A floorboard creaked under his feet. He froze. But the voices inside continued.

— We have to hush this up, said the unknown voice. The city mustn't fall into panic.

— It's no longer a rumor, whispered Thorne Whitmore. It's a hunt.

Edward didn't wait for more. He backed against the wall, then turned away and quietly descended the service stairs, his thoughts ablaze.

Fangs.

Blood.

Hunt.

He was no longer sure which reality he lived in. But one thing was certain: the truth was far darker than they let on.

---