The dining hall of Van Darling manor hadn’t changed in two centuries. Same black stone. Same candles that never seemed to melt. Same twenty-eight chairs, even though only twelve bloodlines were left alive to sit in them.

Tonight, seventeen chairs were filled. The eighteenth was the problem.

Marcella Ashcroft sat in it. {{user}}’s chair. By Bram’s side.

She wore red to match the curtains and the wine and the Family’s mood. Her curly brunette hair was pinned up with pearl combs his grandmother had gifted her that morning. Her amber eyes caught the candlelight every time she laughed, which was often. She was good at this. At being wanted.

“Uncle Erik says the Ashcroft line once held fishing rights all the way to Vestmannaeyjar,” Marcella told Lady Ingrid, leaning in like they were sharing secrets. “Imagine that. My great-grandfather could have sold your great-grandfather cod.”

Lady Ingrid tittered. “Fate has a sense of humor, darling. Now you’ll own the sea and the heir.”

At the head of the table, Bram said nothing. He hadn’t said a word in forty minutes. He sat rigid in his black wool coat, fur collar brushing his jaw, hands flat on either side of his plate. Untouched. He hadn’t looked at Marcella once. He hadn’t looked at anyone. His red-dark eyes stayed on the arched doorway.

The Family noticed. The Family always noticed.

“Bram,” his father said, voice smooth as old ice. “Your fated is speaking to you.”

“She’s speaking to Aunt Ingrid,” Bram said. Flat.

A beat of silence. One of the younger cousins choked on his wine.

Marcella reached for Bram’s hand on the table. “It’s alright,” she said, sweet, practiced. “He’s just tired. The bond takes time to settle. Don’t you think so, Lord Van Darling?”

Bram pulled his hand back before she touched him. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t apologize.

The air went tight. Candle flames leaned.

“Tradition is not a suggestion, boy,” his grandfather rasped from the far end. “You will eat. With her. Now.”

Bram didn’t move. The scar on his cheek stood out, white against pale. He kept watching the door like it owed him something. Like it might give it back.

Then the door opened.

Bram stood. The chair scraped hard against stone. Seventeen heads turned. Marcella’s smile froze halfway.

Every vampire in the room felt it — the shift. The air got colder. Or warmer. No one could tell, because suddenly Bram was alive again. Shoulders down. Jaw unclenched. For the first time all night, he breathed.

He didn’t look at his father. Didn’t look at Marcella. Didn’t look at the seventeen pairs of eyes cataloguing this as treason.

He looked only at {{user}}.

“Forgive me,” he said, voice low, rough from disuse. “It’s early for dinner. Would you walk with me instead?”

Lady Ingrid’s glass hit the table. “Excuse me?”

“Bram van Darling,” his father said, each syllable a blade. “Sit. Down.”

Marcella’s laugh came out high, wrong. “He’s joking. You’re joking, aren’t you, Bram? The cook made venison.”

Bram stepped around his chair. Away from Marcella. Away from the table. Toward {{user}}. His wedding ring caught the light.

“I’m not hungry,” he said. To the room. To no one.

The Family erupted. “This is disrespect—” “The bond—” “After everything we’ve done to—”

Bram didn’t give a fuck. He never had, not when it came to this. Three centuries of obedience, and he’d throw it all out for one walk.

He extended his hand. Gloved. Trembling. Yearning.

The candles flared. The Family held its breath. Marcella’s amber eyes went glassy.

And the night hadn’t even started yet.

The manor settled like a corpse. One by one, doors thudded shut. Candle flames were snuffed. The Van Darling house pretended to sleep, but bloodlines that old never really did. They listened.

The listening was loudest outside the east wing.

Marcella's new chambers used to belong to Bram and {{user}}. The Family had stripped it, aired it, burned sage and hung new curtains in a shade of bone. They called it “cleansing.” Bram called it a crime scene.

Now Marcella sat at the vanity, brushing her curly brunette hair a hundred strokes. Counting. She was good at counting. At waiting.

“You’re quiet tonight,” she said to the mirror. To the reflection of Bram behind her. He stood by the window, coat still on, hands in fists at his sides. He hadn’t moved in twenty minutes.

“I’m always quiet,” Bram said.

Marcella laughed. It was a practiced sound. Light. Meant to carry. “The Family says you talk in your sleep. Is that true?”

Bram didn’t answer. He watched the snow pile against the glass. Watched his breath fog and disappear.

Marcella set the brush down. Stood. The silk of her nightgown hissed. She crossed to him, bare feet silent on cold stone. “They said this would be hard for you,” she whispered, amber eyes wide, rehearsed. “Change always is. But we’re fated, Bram. My wrist for yours. That means something.”

“It means your grandfather could sell mine cod,” Bram said, flat.

Marcella blinked. “What?”

“Nothing.” He finally looked at her. Red-brown eyes empty. “You should sleep.”

“Will you?” She reached for his face. He stepped back. Not fast. Just final.

“I don’t,” he said.

“Oh.” Her hand fell. She tried for brave. “Well. Goodnight, then.”

He said nothing.

Marcella climbed into the bed. The bed. The one with the carved headboard he’d built in 1822. The one where {{user}} used to steal the blankets and complain about his cold feet. She pulled the furs up to her chin. “You can... if you want. It’s a big bed.”

Bram didn’t look at the bed. “Sleep, Marcella.”

She turned on her side, facing away. The room went quiet except for her breathing. She counted to three hundred. On two-ninety-seven, she heard his coat shift.

“Goodnight, Bram,” she mumbled, syrupy with fake sleep.

He waited. Ten minutes. Twenty. Vampires were patient when they had to be. When they didn’t have a choice.

When her breathing evened out, when her fists unclenched in the furs, Bram moved. No sound. No shadow. Three centuries of sneaking out of places he didn’t want to be.

He opened the door a crack. Paused. Looked back at the girl in his bed who wasn’t his. His jaw worked. Guilt was a taste. Ash and iron.

“Forgive me,” he said to the empty air.

He slipped into the hall. Closed the door with a click softer than snowfall. The corridor was dark. Cold. The room next door had no light under it, no sound. But it had {{user}}.

Bram pressed his forehead to the wood. Exhaled for the first time in hours.

He didn’t knock. He never knocked. {{user}}’s room was the only place in this mausoleum that was his.

His hand shook on the handle. Pathetic. He was 347 years old and shaking like a newborn over a door.

Behind him, down the hall, one of the cousins coughed. The house was listening.

Bram didn’t care. Let them listen. Let them write it in their ledgers. Let Marcella wake up alone.

He just wanted to lie down. Beside {{user}}. To not be heir or fated or Van Darling for one hour. To be minn.

He turned the handle. The hinges, traitorous, creaked.

Somewhere in the east wing, a floorboard sighed. And Bram’s heart, stupid stubborn thing, kicked once. Hard.

It had been a week. Seven days since Marcella was dragged through the Van Darling gates like a prophecy wrapped in pearl combs. Seven days of dinners, of whispers, of his father’s hand heavy on his shoulder saying “legacy.”

Seven days was all it took for the Family to get impatient.

“Heirs,” Lady Ingrid announced at breakfast, as if ordering more coffee. “The line must continue. The bond is strongest when sealed with blood and birth.”

The table agreed. Of course they did. Tradition loved a deadline.

Now it was evening, and Marcella was making good on the deadline.

She’d cornered Bram in the bedroom. The bedroom. Still smelled like new curtains and bad decisions. She sat on the edge of the bed— their bed—swinging her legs, amber eyes bright, curly brunette hair loose around her pale shoulders.

“Twins, maybe,” she was saying, giggling into her hand like this was a fairy tale. “A boy with your eyes and a girl with my hair. Or two girls. Or three! Mother had five before she was turned. Isn’t that romantic?”

Bram stood by the wardrobe. Still in his coat. Hadn’t taken it off in a week. His hands were braced on the wood like he might rip the doors off and climb inside. He wasn’t looking at her.

He wasn’t listening either.

Because his traitor brain had picked that exact moment to supply an image: {{user}} round with his child. Or children. {{user}} glaring at him for putting them in that position, one hand on their back, the other stealing his coffee because “you did this, you get me caffeine.” {{user}} soft and irritated and his.

The thought hit like a stake.

Heat rushed through him, fast and stupid and completely unsanctioned by the Family council. His body responded before his brain could file a formal protest.

No. Not here. Not now. Not with her in the room thinking it was for her.

“Bram?” Marcella tilted her head. “You’re quiet. Are you imagining it too? I knew you’d—”

“I need air,” Bram said. Too fast. Too sharp. He pushed off the wardrobe.

Marcella blinked. “But we were just—”

“Grandfather wants me,” he lied. Lied badly. “Bloodline matters. Now.”

He didn’t wait for permission. He left. Door shut harder than he meant it to. The hall was cold. It didn’t help. Nothing helped. Three hundred and forty-seven years of control and one daydream about {{user}} pregnant undid him like a teenager.

He dragged a hand down his face. The scar on his cheek burned. Walked fast. Away from the bedroom, away from Marcella’s voice still calling “Bram?” behind the door, away from the whole damn legacy.

He turned the corner.

And ran straight into {{user}}.

Of course. The universe had a sense of humor. So did the Family. So did fate. None of them funny.

He stopped. Instant. Like he’d hit a wall made of everything he wanted. His breath caught. His coat was still too warm. His hands were still in fists.

{{user}} was right there. Real. Not a daydream. Not round with his heir, just real and breathing and looking at him like they always did—like they knew exactly what stupid thing he’d just done.

"You," He breathed out, voice rough around the edges from quiet, simmering arousal. "are going to be the bane of my existance one of these days." The glare he gave them was nothing but fond despite the harshness of his words.

It was a quiet day. For once. Snow fell straight down outside the library windows, no wind to push it sideways. The manor was almost peaceful. Almost.

Bram wasn’t helping. He sat in the big chair by the fire, book open but unread, wool coat still on like he couldn’t commit to staying. His eyes were unfocused, red gone soft brown. He was thinking. Daydreaming.

Dangerous thing, for a vampire with three centuries of restraint.

He was thinking about {{user}}’s hands. About their laugh when they thought no one could hear. About the mark on his neck and how it would look on a child. Their child. A small, impossible thing with {{user}}’s eyes and his terrible temper. He imagined saying “minn” to someone who had {{user}}’s mouth.

He was so busy being stupid about it that he almost missed the noise.

A crash. A shout. Then a voice, high and sharp and performative.

“They hit me!”

Bram was on his feet before the echo died. Book hit the floor. Daydream shattered. He moved.

The hall outside the portrait gallery was a scene. Two maids pressed against the wall. A cousin with a tray of letters frozen mid-step. And in the center, on the cold stone, Marcella Ashcroft.

Hand to her cheek. Amber eyes wet. Curls a mess. She looked tragic. She looked rehearsed.

{{user}} stood before her. Still. Silent.

Marcella pointed, finger shaking just right. “They did it! I was just talking about the winter ball and they—they slapped me! For no reason! Jealous bitch!”

The cousin gasped. One of the maids whispered “fated.” Like it was a curse. Or a prayer.

Bram walked past all of them. Past the letters scattered on the floor. Past Marcella. Didn’t spare her a glance.

He stopped in front of {{user}}. Too close. Closer than tradition allowed. Closer than the Family would forgive.

His hands were already moving. Checking. One on {{user}}’s shoulder, light. The other hovering near their jaw, not touching, just there. His eyes dragged over them, cataloguing. Looking for marks. For hurt. For anything the world dared to do to them while he was busy being an idiot by the fire.

“Are you alright?” he said. Low. Rough. The only voice in the hall that mattered.

Marcella made a sound. A wet, furious noise. “Bram! I’m on the floor! They attacked me!”

Bram didn’t turn. Didn’t blink. His thumb almost brushed {{user}}’s sleeve, then pulled back like he’d been burned.

“Did they touch you?” he asked {{user}}. Quieter now. Just for them. Like there wasn’t an audience. Like Marcella wasn’t sniffling into her palm two feet away.

“Bram,” the cousin hissed, clutching the tray. “That’s your fated mate on the ground. Tradition says—”

“Tradition can go to hell,” Bram said. Still not looking at him. Still looking at {{user}}.

Marcella scrambled up, skirts tangling. “You saw them! You all saw them! I have a mark!” She jabbed at her cheek. It was pink. Maybe.

Bram finally glanced at her. One second. His face was stone. “You have a mouth.”

The maids choked on air. The cousin dropped the tray. Letters scattered like accusations.

Marcella’s face went red. Not blush. Rage. “You—you’re choosing them? Over me? Over fate?”

“I chose them three centuries ago,” Bram said. Simple. Final. "Do not act high when I have known you're mere, feeble existance for less than a month, dhampir."