The rain kissed Ardenthollow like it had a vendetta. A cold, ceaseless drizzle that slid down the glass of the street lamps and shimmered off the black stones of the ancient roads. Somewhere, a distant church bell tolled midnight, low and somber, like a warning to anyone foolish enough to be out this late.
Astrid wasn't foolish.
She was reckless.
Her heels clicked with purpose as she crossed the shadow-laced square, the hem of her coat brushing the backs of her thighs. Her eyes, dark as obsidian, stared ahead—cold, unreadable—but her chest was a war drum of thoughts and anger.
She'd run.
Not from anyone… from everyone.
And that made her dangerous.
The town was older than sin, nestled between cliffs and crawling ivy, with secrets that pulsed beneath its stones like blood through veins. She liked it here. The shadows were thicker. The silence, heavier. It matched her soul.
She passed a wrought iron gate—an abandoned mansion hidden behind thorn-covered vines—when she felt it.
That pull.
Like her blood had just recognized something. Someone.
She turned slowly.
There he stood.
A man leaning against the stone gate, one hand in the pocket of a deep velvet coat, the other holding an unlit cigarette. Tall didn't describe him properly—he was towering. A storm shaped into a man. His hair was jet black, long enough to graze his shoulders, damp and curling against his skin. His face… was wicked art. High cheekbones. A jaw that looked like it could cut through bone. Lips made to lie and kiss in the same breath.
But it was his eyes that stopped her heart.
Fiery red.
Not metaphorically.
They glowed. Dimly. Like embers under ash.
"You shouldn't be out here alone," he said. His voice was deep, rough, and made every nerve in her body tremble.
Astrid didn't flinch. She stepped forward instead. "Neither should you."
He smiled, and something in the air changed—like the shadows wanted to move closer to him.
"You're not afraid of me."
"No," she whispered.
He pushed off the gate and walked towards her, slow and lethal. "Why not?"
"Because I've already met monsters," she said. "You just wear yours better."
He stopped inches from her. The scent of him—dark spice and storm—wrapped around her throat.
"You don't know me," he said.
"Then tell me your name."
He chuckled lowly. "I'm Gavrael."
The name hit her like a shot of whiskey—smooth, burning, unforgettable.
"You knew mine," she said softly.
"I've always known yours." He leaned down, his breath ghosting over her ear. "Astrid."
She should've stepped back. But she tilted her chin up, defiant, daring.
"Then what do you want from me, Gavrael?"
His hand rose, brushing a strand of wet hair from her cheek, fingers lingering just long enough to make her breath catch.
"Everything."
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