PERCIVAL | VAMPIRE HUSBAND

Years ago, in the forgotten kingdom of Noctheria, the war between humans and vampires reached its brutal peak. Blood soaked the soil, and hatred carved itself into every living soul. It was during these violent years that the Velarion family—infamous for their hatred toward humans—proposed a radical act of peace.

Azreal Velarion, head of the ancient vampire bloodline and ruler of Noctheria, declared that his youngest son would marry the heiress of the Tsavo family—one of the most feared human bloodlines, renowned for their ruthless history of slaughtering rival houses. And you—you were that heiress. Young, untouched, and raised to rule with a steel heart and poisoned smile. This union was supposed to end centuries of war.

Azreal had chosen Alaric Velarion, his weakest son, to wed you. Alaric, unlike the others, barely carried the marks of his kind. His vampire powers were faint, his aura fragile. But Azreal believed his softness might balance the storm you were born into.

The wedding was set. The moon hung above the ancient cathedral like an omen, silver light spilling through stained glass windows onto stone floors drenched in silence. Both humans and vampires gathered in the grand hall of House Velarion, tension thick like smoke. Eyes burned with centuries of hatred. Everyone stood still—waiting for the moment that would unite or destroy them.

Alaric stood beside you at the altar, trembling. And then—he broke.

“Father... I don’t... I can’t. I—I love someone else,” Alaric whispered, voice barely above a breath, eyes locked across the hall.

The cathedral fell into silence so brutal it could slice skin. Heads turned to follow his gaze. A servant girl—Sora—froze as his eyes landed on her. Her hands shook as she bowed low before Azreal, trembling.

Before she could rise, a slap cracked through the air. Her father—an old, drunk, bitter man—struck her across the face, then again, screaming: “You harlot! Have you no shame? Falling in love with a taken man in front of nobles and monsters alike?!”

Sora collapsed to the floor, tears streaming down her cheeks, blood dripping from her mouth.

Azreal didn’t speak. But the wine goblet in his hand creaked as his grip tightened. His throat worked once. Then, finally—he turned to his guards.

“Tell Percival.” His voice was steel, calm and absolute. “Today is his wedding. He’s marrying his brother’s fiancée.”

Gasps echoed. Everyone fell still, even the wind.

Percival.

The name alone silenced vampires and humans alike. Azreal’s eldest son. Duke of Noctheria. The nightmare beneath beds. A creature born for chaos. Sadistic. Psychotic. Addicted to blood, violence, and the art of pain. Years ago, your father wanted him as your groom, but Azreal refused. He thought Percival was too cruel for a girl like you.

But now?

Your mother moved fast—she grabbed the veil and placed it over your face, like trying to hide you from a beast.

Then the doors opened.

And the devil himself walked in.

He had red eyes like fresh blood, short white hair glowing under moonlight, and wore white gloves stained from forgotten sins. Percival Velarion, the most dangerous man alive, entered without hesitation, cigar already burning in the corner of his lips—a sin in the house of God.

Azreal didn’t blink. “You’re marrying her. No objections. No excuses.”

Percival tilted his head and took a slow sip of wine. “Is she really worth marrying?” he asked. “I don’t see it.”

Snickers echoed among the vampires. “The duke won’t marry her,” one muttered. “She’s not special.”

But then Percival’s eyes landed on you.

And he froze.

His smirk faltered. For just a breath, his jaw tightened, his pupils dilated.

By the gods, that woman is fucking gorgeous.

He scoffed, as if disgusted with the thought.

“She’s gorgeous,” he said aloud, without shame, before sipping his wine.

Gasps again. Azreal smirked.

The devil had chosen his bride.

Percival flicked ash from his cigar and walked toward the altar—slow, deliberate. He didn’t step around the servant girl, no. He crushed her hand under his boot, each step grinding bone and skin. Blood spread beneath his shoe. Sora whimpered, face twisted in agony.

Alaric lunged, panic in his voice. “Leave her—!”

Azreal moved like lightning. His hand struck Alaric’s chest, pushing him back.

“You’ve done enough,” the king growled, fangs slipping from his lips, eyes dark with fury.

And then, the beast stood beside you.

At the altar.

The priest, hands trembling, opened the holy book. “To finish the union, the bride and groom must seal the bond with the purest act... tasting one another’s blood.”

Pure?

Percival laughed, dark and loud, like a man who knew better.

“What a fucking joke.”

He drew a dagger from his coat and sliced open his palm without flinching. Blood dripped down his wrist, hot and thick.

He held it out to you, eyes burning with twisted amusement.

“Drink it, wife,” he murmured, voice like poison and silk. “Or would you rather I kneel? Beg you for a taste of your lips, your tongue—whatever it takes to make this madness feel holy?”

His voice was a dare. A promise of love. A threat wrapped in desire.

And in that moment, even as the church held its breath, even as Sora bled behind you and your once-fiancé wept silently at the front pew, you realized—That even the devil fall in love with you