“Uhhh… is it morning… already?” I mumbled, my voice groggy and slow, as though it were trying to crawl out of molasses. The words barely made it out of my mouth before the world started spinning again.

  The ceiling of the carriage pulsed with strange warmth, then flickered like candlelight—and just as quickly, it was replaced by the vague outline of someone’s chest, rising and falling with slow, steady breaths. Then the ceiling again. Then darkness. Then breathing.

  Everything was wrong in the funniest way.

  “It is midnight, Lucinda.” I blinked. Tom’s voice. When did he get here? Why was the carriage door swinging wide open like a mouth about to swallow him whole? He stood framed against the dark, arms crossed, face illuminated by the cold gleam of moonlight.

  “Could you please get a grip on yourself?”

  I tilted my head like a confused cat. “Leave us alone… like a bunny…” I giggled. “Hop. Hop.”

  That’s when I heard Arthur’s muffled groan from beneath me. Surprised, I pushed myself up with limbs that weren’t entirely mine. I wobbled like a newborn deer before catching myself on something soft and warm. Arthur.

  My head had been resting on his chest. For days, apparently. I blinked at him, wide-eyed, then laid my cheek back down, curling in like it was the most natural place in the world.

  Strangely, it wasn’t revolting at all. In fact… it was nice. Warm. Steady. Safe in a way I hadn’t felt in years.

  “You’re so… so funny, Arthur,” I said between bursts of laughter. “Hop.” I showed him my teeth in a bloody smile. There was something metallic on my tongue—sweet, sharp. I must’ve drunk something. Or bitten someone. Maybe both.

  Arthur gave a lazy chuckle. He was just as high as I was. His fingers toyed idly with a strand of my hair like it was grass in a breeze.

  Tom, on the other hand, looked like he was about to combust.

  “Boss,” he snapped, “we’re arriving tomorrow night. Whatever this is”—he gestured between Arthur and me like we were some sort of shameful painting—“it needs to stop.”

  “Stop?” I asked innocently, then laughed again. “Why would we stop? We just ate a few leaves from that chest, that’s all…” I waved a dismissive hand. “Alright… maybe I ate more than Arthur. But so what? Nothing is… nothing is wrong with… with…”

  I squinted at Tom. “What was I saying?”

  Arthur snorted beside me. We both descended into helpless laughter, like children who knew they'd done something terribly stupid and didn’t care at all.

  Tom didn’t laugh. His face was stone.

  “Boss… do you even realize what you’re doing?” His tone was sharper now. He took a step closer, voice low and furious. “You’ve been drugged for four days. You’ve been sleeping on Arthur like a deranged cat, laughing at shadows, drinking blood—and now you’re… sleeping with him? You’re not you anymore.”

  I blinked slowly. The accusation should have stung. It didn’t. Maybe later it would.

  I frowned—not in shame, but in confusion. “But… why are you yelling?” I asked, genuinely curious. “Everything’s so nice right now… and I’m… I’m not having… sex with… Luna—no, Arthur!” I declared with a drunken sincerity, my words slurring into a spiral of nonsense. The correction didn’t help much. In fact, it only made things worse.

  Tom, unimpressed, narrowed his eyes and pointed at me like a judge condemning the guilty. “The only thing you’re wearing is panties, Boss. And Arthur—if you hadn’t noticed—is currently groping your ass in his sleep.”

  So that’s what the ticklish pressure was.

  I glanced behind me, then giggled—an unhinged, airy sound—and gently peeled myself off of Arthur’s warm, wandering hands. As I pulled away, the blanket fell aside, revealing the full, miserable comedy of our condition. His shirt was missing, my dress was gone, and there we were—two barely clothed disasters tangled in a drugged embrace.

  I wobbled to my syrupy feet for a while. I nearly tripped over the blanket but caught myself and staggered toward Tom. He didn’t move as I came closer—just stood there rigid, his face pale under the moonlight filtering through the trees.

  When I finally reached him, I placed my hands gently on his shoulders, steadying myself.

  “You’re looking, Tom,” I whispered with a mischievous grin, “but you’re not seeing.” I giggled again, delighted by my own wisdom, as if I’d just solved a riddle that would shake the heavens.

  Then I leaned closer, close enough to taste the tension in his breath. “If you want to see the truth,” I purred, “then come in.”

  Without waiting for his answer, I reeled backward like a drunk ballerina, arms stretched out, clearing a path. Tom sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him, as though afraid to disturb Arthur’s slumber.

  The carriage interior was a mess. The bench had been ripped out days ago to make room for bedding, and now there was only one seat remaining—Tom took it wordlessly, stiff as a corpse.

  I followed.

  With the grace of a falling sack of potatoes, I clambered into his lap, knees on either side of his hips, arms thrown around his shoulders. My cheek found his, and I rested there—chin on his shoulder, nose in his neck—drawing in his scent like it was the last clean thing in the world.

  His muscles tensed beneath me.

  “…Boss,” he said, voice tight. “Please don’t fall asleep like this.”

  “Hmm?” I murmured, already fading, already slipping into the quiet lull of warmth and breath. But I didn’t let go. If anything, I pressed closer.

  “Should I tell you a little… secret?” I whispered into his ear, lips grazing his skin. “I think I’m a kinky little freak…” My voice was a breathy confession, somewhere between seduction and sleep. “I’d even fuck you, Tom, if it helped me reach my goals…”

  I smiled against his cheek, feeling his pulse stutter beneath the skin.

  “But this—” my voice grew soft, distant, “—this isn’t that.”

  I exhaled slowly.

  “There’s only darkness in this carriage, Tom… only darkness spreading, and spreading… and it’s hungry.”

  “I… I cannot follow,” Tom said finally, his voice flat but laced with unease.

  Disappointment bloomed in my chest like a wilted rose. So much raw potential—drowned in ignorance. I sighed audibly, as if burdened by the weight of every wasted mind in the world.

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  “You poor thing,” I muttered with theatrical pity as I rose unsteadily to my feet. “All that meat between your ears and not a single bite of understanding.”

  I staggered—gracefully, of course—back toward Arthur, who still lay sprawled beneath the mess of blankets like a man lost in dreams. Without hesitation, I dropped onto him again, but this time chest-up, so my back rested along his torso, and I could keep my gaze fixed on Tom. His presence at the edge of this little madness was almost… poetic.

  Arthur stirred beneath me. A sleepy groan vibrated through his chest as he wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me higher. His fingers brushed against my ribs, making me squirm. I giggled, half because of the tickling, half because of the utter absurdity of it all.

  Tom watched, transfixed.

  His eyes tried—valiantly, comically—to stay on my face. But they wandered. Of course they did. To my bare stomach, to the way Arthur’s fingers slid across my skin, to the curve of my body shifting against another.

  “This,” I said, my voice sultry and serene, “is what’s happening here.”

  Then, with the reverence of a ceremony, Arthur tilted his head and sank his very human teeth into the crook of my neck.

  I exhaled sharply. Not from pain. No—never pain. The bite sent a jolt of pleasure down my spine. It was a slow, hungry drain, made euphoric by the numbing remnants of those cursed leaves and something… deeper. Something biological. Spiritual.

  I moaned—softly, shamelessly—as blood welled from the puncture. He drank it greedily, lips sealed around the wound like a lover’s kiss.

  Giving him my blood felt right. More than right—it felt true. Like some twisted exchange of power and affection written into the stars.

  When he finally pulled back, the wound sealed itself quickly, magic and biology working in harmony. Arthur licked the remaining droplets from my shoulder, his tongue hot and slow against the skin.

  I smiled lazily and turned my body, reversing our roles.

  Time to return the favour.

  I straddled him, leaned down, and let my fangs pierce his neck. My lips latched on, drawing blood with an eagerness I no longer had the strength—or the will—to resist.

  His taste filled my mouth.

  Human… but tainted. I could taste it clearly now—my blood, faint and familiar, coursing through his veins like a ghost echoing back to me. That connection… that claim over him… it thrilled me.

  And I drank.

  When I was done, I collapsed on top of him once more, head resting on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath me. That rhythm, that warmth—it was mine now.

  Tom, meanwhile, looked as though I had gutted him with a whisper.

  He was pale. Eyes wide. Fingers curled tightly on his knees. A man dangling on the edge of understanding, terrified of the drop.

  “What… what have you done?” he asked, voice hoarse.

  Poor boy. He didn’t need to understand everything. Just enough.

  Enough to fear me.

  I met his stare and grinned with slow, sultry satisfaction.

  “What have I done?” I echoed, voice dripping honey and venom. “Oh, Tom…”

  I slid a hand down Arthur’s chest, possessive and proud.

  “I’ve bound him to me.”

  The moment lingered—thick and charged with dread—as the full weight of it sank into Tom’s bones. He understood now, not the how, but the why. Why we had stayed cloistered in this carriage. Why we rarely left. Why Arthur followed me with eyes that burned hotter every day.

  We weren’t just hiding.

  We, in particular he, was becoming something else.

  “Let me tell you what I have done…”

  * * *

  The elves were gone—disappearing like mist into their forest, silent and eternal. The battlefield, once howling with chaos, now lay draped in a strange hush, broken only by the lapping of the nearby river.

  I sat idly in a rickety chair near the edge of the camp, pretending to wait patiently for Arthur, Tom, and the coachman to return with the carriage. We had, after all, a rather valuable cargo to protect.

  The wine.

  Eighteen bottles of exquisite elven vintage. Perhaps the only remnant of Markus’s wretched legacy I intended to carry forward—his alcoholism. If no one else would toast to that miserable bastard’s ghost, I would.

  As soon as the others disappeared down the slope toward the bound horses, I shot up like a shadow unpinned from the ground and dashed into the forest. I hunted quickly—cleanly. A rabbit. A deer. A fox. They barely had time to bleed before I drained them and left their corpses strewn beneath the boughs like forgotten prayers.

  By the time I returned, my lips were stained red, my body thrumming with borrowed life.

  Now came the distasteful part.

  I lined the bottles up in neat formation like glass soldiers. Eighteen. All open, each cork twisted carefully to preserve the illusion of untouched seals. The scent of the wine—rich, spiced, faintly sweet—wafted into the air as I began my work.

  I unsheathed my dagger. Its edge gleamed under the fading light.

  Self-mutilation had never been one of my indulgences. Oh, I’d dabbled in pain, in cruelty, in the power plays that come with a certain kind of depravity. But slitting my own skin was rarely on the menu. Still—some things were worth bleeding for.

  Arthur’s future. His family’s restoration. My plans.

  I slid the blade across my palm.

  The pain was sharp, pure and felt strangely good. Blood welled up instantly, dark and hot and ancient. I held my hand carefully above each bottle, letting precise droplets fall—three into this one, five into that, seven here.

  My blood wasn’t just fluid. It was history. It was power. It was dominion disguised as generosity.

  Once the final drop had fallen, I resealed the bottles tightly—except one.

  That one, I kept.

  The others I bundled and dragged toward the riverbank just in time for the carriage to rattle back into view. With practiced ease, I hoisted the crates onto the roof while the coachman grumbled half-heartedly about the weight. No one dared ask what was inside. I made sure of that.

  Bottle in hand, I returned to the cabin just as Arthur and Tom settled inside, looking drained in very different ways. Arthur stared blankly at the wall, shoulders slouched with the weight of memory. Tom looked… suspicious. As if he was beginning to feel the tug of the strings around him.

  I sat across from them, swaying slightly with the movement of the carriage.

  “For the king and country,” I said with a soft smile and raised the bottle to my lips. The taste was as awful as I expected—sour, coppery, masked by the strength of the wine but unmistakable to me.

  I handed the bottle to Arthur.

  He hesitated only a moment before repeating my toast.

  “For the king and country.”

  He drank greedily.

  As he lowered the bottle, a bit of wine trickled down his chin. His eyes were clearer now, more focused—though I couldn’t tell if it was clarity or obsession I’d stirred.

  He turned to hand the bottle to Tom.

  I stopped him.

  “I don’t think he’s earned it,” I said casually, not even looking at Tom. I stared at Arthur, letting the words sink deep. “Tom didn’t do anything during this war. He didn’t fight. He didn’t lose.”

  Something in Arthur’s expression shifted. His gaze darkened, jaw tightening with simmering resentment I hadn’t even needed to fan.

  “Get out of my sight,” Arthur snapped, taking another swig from the bottle.

  Tom flinched. His eyes darted to me, searching—pleading—for some explanation, but I only gave him a slow, deliberate nod, then flicked my gaze toward the carriage door.

  He understood. He stood with a mock sneer, muttering something bitter under his breath before leaving. The door shut behind him as the carriage rattled on through elven lands.

  I watched the tension leave Arthur’s shoulders as silence wrapped around us.

  “This wine is good,” he murmured after a moment. “It has… this exotic flavor I can’t quite name.”

  I smiled faintly, retrieving the bottle from his hand and taking a sip, pretending to ponder the taste.

  “Yes,” I said, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “I know exactly what you mean. The elves do love their strange ingredients.”

  He nodded, eyes half-lidded as the bloodwine continued its quiet work beneath the surface—numbing him, binding him, slowly sinking its hooks into his soul.

  I gave him back the nearly empty bottle.

  For now, he still thought we were drinking wine.

  He’d learn in time.

  * * *