🪶Disclaimer: 🪶 This is a fictional narrative. All characters, events, and settings are entirely imagined—though loosely inspired by a heavily modded save in The Sims 4, extensively customized to behave and appear as realistically as feasible, with enhanced visuals, nuanced social dynamics, and detailed world-building that mirror real human complexity.
If you’re a Simmer, you might recognize the location names and emotional beats. If you’re not, you’ll still find your way—no prior knowledge required. Everything you need to know lives inside this blog.
This story is for anyone who’s ever rebuilt their life from the ashes and dared to write new chapters. For those who crave storylines that think outside the usual boxes—and for anyone who knows that sometimes, the most powerful myths are the ones we make ourselves.
Main Character Biographies
Victoria Sinclair– Author. Painter. Vampire. Mother.
Recently turned vampire—without consent—in a desperate act to save her life during childbirth. She is recovering emotionally and physically, navigating her new existence with fierce vulnerability and mythic resolve. Her art and writing now carry the weight of immortality, legacy, and maternal fire.“I didn’t ask for eternity. But I’ll make it mean something.”
Cesare Vannucci – The Master. Keeper. Sovereign of silence. The power behind the Hollow—and above it. Ageless and archaic, with a presence that bends time and memory alike. His voice carries weight; his silences, decree. Known for restraint, precision, and unnerving calm. When he speaks, even truth feels curated. He does not rule with spectacle. He does not need to. His authority is the kind that others feel before they understand.
Riordan Hargrave – Steward. Cipher. The man beside the throne. Handsome and charming but bears the gravity of someone who’s seen too much. Trusted by Cesare to handle delicate matters. Moves like silk through shadow. His loyalty is quiet, his wisdom louder.
Caelan Vannucci – Hunter. Provocateur. Dangerous presence. Longsword in a tailored coat, with a voice like a growl and eyes that never soften. Known for his volatility and flair for violence. Tracks what others can’t find. Leaves fear in his wake and never apologizes. Stillness is his weapon. Most have never seen him smile.
Scarlett Cameron (nee Vannucci) – Daughter of one legend and married to another. . Older sister to Caelan, wife to Blaine, mother of many. Known for her elegance and emotional fluency. She speaks softly, but her presence rewrites the room. She is not the echo of Blaine’s legend. She is its counterpoint.
Blaine Cameron – Rockstar. Wild card. Chaos incarnate. Appears late-thirties. Married to Scarlett, father of eight. Charismatic, vulgar, and unapologetically theatrical. Known for his irreverence and magnetic unpredictability. Leaves Victoria stunned, amused, and horrified—often all at once.
Alder Davenport Man of mystery with a dark past and an even gloomier future. A poet at heart, though the verses he speaks often feel like riddles wrapped in regret. To some, he’s a romantic. To others, a traitor. To Victoria, he’s both—and neither. The more she learns about him, the less she feels she knows. Prone to sudden disappearances, leaving only handwritten letters in his wake.
Lord Gavin Cameron – Composer. Heir. Born in Del Sol Valley, but long-time resident of Henfordshire, where he and his former wife raised their two kids. Son of Blaine Cameron—the legendary vampire and rock icon. Reserved, private, emotionally guarded. After his recent, bitter and long-dragged out divorce from Bianca, who still stalks him, Henfordshire has become the only place she won’t follow due to a bitter feud with the local royals.
The Study, the Fog, the Task
I had been at Castello di Vannucci for several weeks now. Long enough to stop flinching at the creak of the west wing doors. Long enough to know which staircases led nowhere. Long enough to recognize the difference between Cesare’s silence and Riordan’s.
Each morning began the same way. I rose from brief slumber, cared for my daughter, then left her in the hands of Branwen, Rhiannon, and the nanny—three women who could run a kingdom if asked, but currently ran this nursery. Then I made my way to Cesare’s study, where he assigned duties with the precision of a ledger. Never cruel. Always kind. Always exacting.
I was a Novitiate now.
No, I didn’t know what it meant either. I had to look it up. A Novitiate, in vampire terms, isn’t just an apprentice—it’s a candidate for proximity. Someone groomed to serve at the right hand of the High Seat, privy to the inner workings of legacy, law, and lore. It’s a role steeped in tradition, almost always reserved for men.
I was the exception. Not because I was extraordinary, but because I was already entangled—by blood, by circumstance, by the kind of chaos that rewrites rules without asking permission.
It sounded a lot more glamorous than it was. Sure, the role had potential—access to hidden corridors of power, glimpses of truths most never get to see. It demanded focus, discretion, and a steep learning curve. But in practice? Most days felt like I’d been involuntarily recruited as a glorified lakkai. A ceremonial errand-runner. Half the tasks were so medial they could’ve been handed to someone like an entry-level assistant with a clipboard and a decent sense of direction.
The mystique was there. But it came buried under scrolls, ledgers, and the kind of paperwork that made immortality feel like a bureaucratic prank. You think bureaucracy is bad for mortals? Try centuries of handwritten records, half of them in quill. That’s a whole skill in itself—learning to write without drowning the parchment in ink or smudging your signature into oblivion. I used a boring modern ballpoint for most things, but some ceremonial entries required the quill and ink to match the rest. Tradition, apparently, doesn’t care about ink stains. And nobody here cared if I even wanted to learn any of this.
Most days, the instructions came through Riordan. He had a way of delivering them that made even the dullest task sound like a sacred rite. I appreciated that. It helped. Didn’t change the task itself, but made me feel less like I was working my way through college with runner-type data entry positions.
Riordan was a quiet genius wrapped in elegance. His voice—soft, gentle, yet unmistakably masculine—carried the weight of many decades without ever sounding heavy. He spoke like someone who had read every book in the castle and remembered every word. His smile was easy, his eyes the color of coals—warm, not burning. There was patience in him, and eloquence, and a kind of kindness that didn’t need announcing.
In a way, Ri had become my security blanket. The one I leaned on when none of the women were around.
There was still, quietly, a separation of roles here. Women had their domains. Men had theirs. Rarely did they infringe. I straddled both. Just like Scarlett, but we were the only two vampire women who had jobs normally held by the men. Hers was, of course, a lot more prestigious, she was a member of the Council of Elders and got to make real decisions, while I only got to record and file them.
I knocked, then entered. Usually, my next ritual was to greet the gentlemen who were always already there.
But today, the study held only Cesare.
He stood by the hearth, framed by velvet curtains and the pale morning light that dared to touch the edges of the room.
“You’re ready,” he said, his voice calm and final. “Riordan is expecting you. Go. Learn. Your escort is waiting outside the front gates.”
No scroll. No explanation. Just the instructions.
I nodded, grabbed my notebook and a pen, stuffed them into my messenger bag, unsure what I was walking into, but certain I didn’t want to disappoint him. For some reason I had come to greatly admire this man and wanted to shine for him.
The Ride Through Hollow Fog
As I stepped outside, the fog curled around the courtyard like silk. It was thicker than usual, clinging to the wrought iron gates and ivy-covered walls like memory. The air smelled faintly of moss and old stone, and the gaslights flickered like watchful eyes.
And there—waiting at the edge of the path—was Caelan.
Mounted on a black Friesian, he looked like something conjured from a forgotten legend. The horse was massive, its coat gleaming like obsidian, its bridle ornate and glinting with polished accents, as if it had been forged for ceremony rather than travel.
Caelan sat upright in the saddle, his posture severe, his coat dark and tailored to precision. His gloved hand rested lightly on the reins, the other extended toward me without flourish. His hair was dark, his expression unreadable, and the rocky terrain behind him only heightened the sense that he belonged to it—like a sentinel carved from the cliffs themselves.
I blinked. “Oh, come on. No way! You and… on a horse?”
“Yes,” he said, deadpan. “I am your ride and escort, Victoria. Come on. I’m not much for idle banter, as you already know.”
“Yup,” I muttered, taking his hand. “I’m painfully aware.”
With one swift motion—and far more strength than I was prepared for—he lifted me onto the saddle behind him. I had no choice but to wrap my arms around his midsection to hold on. His coat was cold, his body unmoving, but the horse beneath us moved like shadowed thunder.
We rode down a long, winding pathway, the fog thick and ever-present. Gaslights flickered along the road, casting golden halos on cobblestone and ivy. Forgotten Hollow was always dark, but never lifeless. The buildings—intricate, towering, unapologetically gothic—had withstood centuries and still retained their splendor. Arched windows, wrought iron balconies, stone gargoyles watching from above.
I realized I still hadn’t looked up on a map where we even were. Note to self: the minute I got back to the castle, I would. I had to know.
The horse’s hooves struck the cobblestone with a rhythm that felt ceremonial. Not rushed. Not idle. Just inevitable.
Forgotten Hollow was waking.
We passed through the narrow artery of the village, where vampires walked in quiet procession, going about their business with the grace of centuries. Some wore sleek coats and earbuds, their phones glowing faintly in the fog. Others looked as though they’d stepped out of a medieval tapestry—doublets, corsets, velvet cloaks, even a few sabers worn for style rather than war.
A trio of young ones in denim and leather paused mid-conversation, their laughter dying as they turned toward the sound of the approaching hooves. One of them—barely turned, by the look of him—stepped back instinctively.
Caelan didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.
The horse was tall, proud, and silent. Caelan sat like a statue carved from dusk, his coat tailored to severity, his gloves immaculate. His presence was not loud, but it was absolute.
As we passed, heads turned. Conversations halted. Some bowed slightly, others simply moved aside with the kind of reverence reserved for old gods and dangerous legends.
They didn’t look at me the same way.
I was new. Unknown.
Curiosity flickered in their eyes—some polite, some wary, some openly intrigued. A few tried to catch my gaze, as if to read my story in a glance. I didn’t offer one.
A child clutched her guardian’s hand and whispered something. The guardian hushed her quickly, eyes fixed on Caelan.
We passed a tailor’s shop where a mannequin wore a gown that looked like it belonged in a royal funeral. A florist arranging blood lilies paused, one hand still clutching a thorned stem. A scholar in a long coat and wire-rimmed glasses stepped aside with a nod, clutching a leather-bound tome to his chest.
And then it hit me again—something that had brushed past me at the Masquerade Ball, and again at the coven meetings, though I’d had other problems then and didn’t dwell on it.
There were so many of them.
Vampires. Everywhere. Whole town full of them, plus the rural regions too.
Until recently, vampires were just fiction to me. A genre. A metaphor. A roommate I didn’t realize was one. And now—surprise—I’m one. Living it. Still feels fake, honestly. You don’t get bitten and suddenly become some ancient Dracula knockoff. It’s more like a slow software update. You mostly feel like yourself… just glitchier.
Food? Dead to me. I tried one of those plasma fruits—looked promising, tasted like disappointment. So now it’s blood bags. Mostly synthetic, occasionally the real deal. It tastes fine, I guess, but the whole slurping thing? Not it. I miss chewing. I miss texture. Thankfully, we don’t have to “eat” three times a day. Just a few times a week, and way less than you’d expect. I’m told you adjust. Eventually.
And no, I haven’t snacked on a live human. Not even tempted. Riordan—the vampire who turned out to be my undead life coach—says feeding live is the ultimate experience. Like once you go fresh, everything else tastes like Walmart. Cute. But I haven’t even acquired the taste for the blood bags yet, so I’m not exactly dying to upgrade. Hard pass.
Yes, I know. I’m probably the lamest vampire ever. I can live with that. Or… whatever we call this now.
Me, with fangs.
And all of them.
Walking, talking, living in quiet abundance. Not hiding. Not pretending. Just… existing. So many of them. Of us.
The fog thickened as we rode deeper.
And I thought of Riordan.
He would have described this scene with quiet precision, his voice like velvet over oak. He would have said something like, “The Hollow is a mirror, Victoria. It reflects what you bring to it. Fear, curiosity, legacy. Choose wisely.”
I was trying to choose amazement.
The ride was brief but unforgettable.
Stable Talk
We arrived at a set of medieval stables — tall stone walls, timber beams, and the scent of hay and leather. The gates bore the Vannucci crest: a shield crowned by wings and flanked by lion heads, crossed swords, and scrollwork so intricate it looked etched by time itself. At its heart, a hunting dog’s head stared forward with solemn loyalty, while above it, a bird—an eagle, perhaps—spread its wings in eternal vigilance. Beneath the shield, the name “Vannucci” curled in elegant script, anchored by a ribbon that read vitam aeternam. Eternal life.
Horses stirred in their stalls, their eyes gleaming like polished obsidian.
Riordan Hargrave stood waiting, dressed in a tailored coat that looked like it belonged in a painting. His dark hair was swept back, his beard neatly trimmed, and his shirt open just enough to suggest a man who understood both elegance and power. There was something effortlessly commanding about him — the kind of man who could tame a horse with a whisper or silence a room with a glance.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” Riordan said with a warm smile, helping me down from the saddle with practiced ease.
Caelan gave a nod — brief, unreadable — then turned his horse and disappeared into the mist without another word.
I steadied myself, still adjusting to solid ground. “I wouldn’t call this humble by any stretch. It’s beautiful. I didn’t know you kept horses.”
“With pride,” Riordan replied, gesturing toward the stables. “I breed and care for vampire horses. They’re ceremonial, yes — but also essential. Porting is a limited form of travel. It’s draining, imprecise, and ill-advised when searching for someone. Coven Enforcers often ride instead. Unlike cars, these horses can traverse terrain no mortal vehicle could manage. Vampires in hiding rarely choose paved streets — they burrow into the wild, close enough to feed, far enough to vanish. These creatures are loyal, powerful, and far more dignified than marching on foot.”
“They’re magnificent,” I said, watching one toss its head, its mane catching the gaslight like silk. I stepped closer, held out my hand and the animal moved in, letting me rub its nose.
“Excellent taste. That’s Falciatore — Caelan’s usual mount. Means ‘scythe-wielder.’ I’ve pulled him for studding, so Caelan rides Tenebrae, Cesare’s horse, for now. His name means ‘darkness.’ And that one over there is mine — Luce Nera. It means ‘Black Light.’
Connell rides Giudizio. Judgment. Fitting, isn’t it? That horse hardly blinks. Damon’s is Spettro — Specter. Fast as hell, quiet as death. The Matriarchal Circle doesn’t ride much. Not their style. But when they do, it’s one of the docile mares. Branwen and my wife Lavinia are the only ones who ever ride for fun. Rhiannon stays close to the Hollow. Her choice, mostly. But let’s be honest — as Caelan’s wife, she’d be a very welcome target to too many. Precaution’s not paranoia when you’ve lived through the worst of it.”
“I’m… speechless. Wow. These horses are amazing.”
Riordan smiled, clearly pleased. “Thank you. I wear many hats, as you’ll soon discover. Do you ride, my dear?”
“No, unfortunately not.”
“Would you like to learn?” His smile was gentle, teasing. “Wait, let me rephrase that. You shall learn. We’ll just add it to your list, but not today. Come this way.”
Oh fun, my old ass now learning to ride horses too, because that comes in so handy when you are as independently wealthy as I was – not, I thought, but just smiled politely at Riordan, praying he couldn’t read minds. Can vampires read minds? I certainly couldn’t, but there were a great many things vampires could do that I couldn’t yet. I’d have to remember to read up on that. Or ask someone. Probably Branwen or Rhiannon.
He led me past the stables to the vineyard — rows of shadowed vines stretching into the mist. The grapes were deep violet, almost black, while other rows shimmered with golden-green clusters. The air smelled faintly of earth and wine, rich with history and quiet indulgence.
“We produce most of the wine served at vampire events,” he explained. “Higher alcohol content, of course. Our threshold is… considerable. As is our consumption. We used to outsource, had it prepared to our specifications—until the mortal government tried to exploit that. Poisoned shipments. Subtle, but deliberate. Ever since, we do everything ourselves.”
He offered me a glass, but I raised a hand, still haunted by the masquerade ball fiasco.
Riordan chuckled, low and warm. “Come inside, then. Lavinia is waiting.”
The estate was warm, candlelit, and filled with music even before I saw her. Lavinia stood in the drawing room, radiant in a deep red gown that clung to her like a whispered promise. Her long dark blond hair was swept back, revealing silver earrings that caught the light like stars. Her posture was regal, her presence magnetic — the kind of woman who could command a stage or a battlefield with equal grace.
She greeted me with a kiss to each cheek, her voice soft and melodic. We spoke — about art, about legacy, about the strange beauty of vampire life.
And then she sang. Vergine bella.
Her voice filled the room like moonlight on water — pure, aching, divine. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. I just sat there, stunned, as the music wrapped around me like silk and sorrow.
Studies Resume
This wasn’t just a social visit. It was a revelation. Knowing Cesare, that was probably his plan, to teach by opening my eyes and removing some of my natural tunnel vision. Clever man. Keep all that learning interesting by field trips.
Riordan turned out to be more than a gracious host — he was a patient, perceptive mentor. He never rushed me, never condescended. He explained things others might’ve left unsaid: the history behind vampire customs, the logic of their rituals, the emotional weight of legacy. He answered questions I hadn’t dared voice aloud. And when I did speak, he listened — not as a teacher correcting a student, but as a peer helping me find my footing.
At some point, I got comfortable enough to ask the question that had been quietly gnawing at me.
“Can vampires read minds?”
Riordan didn’t flinch. “Very few can. It’s a skill that requires immense concentration and control. It’s draining, and not something we use lightly. Cesare can do it, of course.”
“Can you?” I asked, watching him closely.
He smiled — that warm, unreadable smile — and handed me a glass of white wine. “This one’s not as strong,” he said, sidestepping the question with practiced ease.
I stared at the wine, then at him, then laughed softly. “Noted.”
Later, I found myself standing in front of a map — one of those old, sprawling ones with faded ink and curling edges. I squinted, trying to place where we were. The terrain was familiar in shape but not in name.
Riordan stepped beside me, close enough that I could feel the quiet gravity of him.
He pointed to a heavily wooded area surrounded by mountains — no roads, no towns, just a vague outline.
“You will never find Forgotten Hollow on any maps,” he whispered. “And if you do—” he tapped the spot gently, “someone took a wild guess. We are well hidden, purposely undocumented and incredibly hard to find. Anyone who stumbles upon us is immediately detained by Caelan’s men.”
I blinked. “Men? You mean his son and grandson?”
Riordan’s smile was faint, but there was reverence in it. “I mean Caelan commands an entire army, Victoria. You’ve only met the Enforcers — currently there are three, yes, but they are the tip of the blade. And the most dangerous of all. They are trackers no one can hide from and very lethal. If you’re on Caelan’s list, you’re already lost. The rest of his army… you’ll hopefully never encounter. Few who do live to tell the tale.”
“If the Enforcers are so deadly, why do we need an army? I mean, we’re vampires. What do we have to fear? I know I’m still pretty helpless, but you and most others are not.”
“Oh, there are threats all around us, many wish us dead, Victoria. Mortals. Witches. Mages. Werewolves. The reasons why differ, but the consensus among them is basically that only a staked vampire falling to dust is a good vampire. No matter how many treaties Cesare brokers, there are always splinter factions nursing old grudges. And if it’s not them, it’s the mortal government — shifting, reforming, rewriting the rules. We are never truly safe.
And that’s only the tip of the iceberg.
There was a time we coexisted — imperfectly, yes, but without significant bloodshed. Until discord bred rumor, and rumor ignited violence. The witches cast us as monsters, stirred the mortals into frenzy, and had us staked. Most vampire hunters throughout history bore witch sigils.
We retaliated in kind. Whispered the right rumors, nudged the mortals toward blame. Soon, witches were accused of everything from spoiled milk to plague — and yes, burned at the stake.
Now, across centuries, the hatred is mutual, yet we both wear the same brand by the mortals: evil.”
He paused, letting the weight of it settle.
“Add in the werewolves — the least refined of the bunch — and you’ve got a haven for bedtime monsters and convenient scapegoats. I won’t pretend vampires have always been angels. We haven’t. Every one of us has done terrible things at some point in our long lives. But not the things we’re accused of. And not the things we’re still being punished for.”
He looked at me then. Steady. Unflinching.
I nodded absentmindedly, still trying to process that the rest of the monsters from my childhood books and horror movies were real. That they walked and talked and had opinions. I hadn’t even finished digesting the vampire part—mostly because denial wasn’t an option anymore. I was one. So witches and werewolves now too, huh? Fucking fantastic.
“To answer the rest of your question,” he continued, “Enforcers are rare. A special kind of person, a brutal kind of training. Most don’t survive it. But the army behind them is vast. They’re called the Hollow Sentinels. Bound by oath. Forbidden to marry or procreate. But otherwise well cared for. When they’re off duty, they live like kings.”
He glanced toward the mist, as if remembering something.
“In the old days — and still, in some circles — families would send one of their sons to join. It meant the entire household was provided for. It was an honor. A legacy. And they are highly motivated to succeed. Not just for their families, but because they know failure is not something Caelan lets you walk away from.”
I swallowed hard, suddenly recalling every cheeky remark, every sarcastic jab I’d ever lobbed at Caelan like I was immune to consequences. Sure, I’d known he was dangerous — but not “command-an-army, erase-your-existence” dangerous. More like “don’t-poke-the-bear” dangerous. Or “not-a-purring-kitten” dangerous.
Gulp.
I should probably dial that back. Like, yesterday. Yikes. I was still adjusting to the whole fangs-and-blood thing, and I wasn’t nearly suicidal enough to become a cautionary tale: ‘Here lies the shortest-lived vampire in history — got snarky with Caelan and spontaneously ceased to exist.’ No thanks.
I cleared my throat. “And the ones at the castle?”
“Ah,” he said, his voice softening. “The Vannucci Guard. Prestigious, ceremonial, and fiercely loyal. They protect the castle, the bloodline, the legacy. Specially trained, yes — but permitted to marry, to raise families, to live lives of quiet dignity. They are the shield. The Sentinels are the blade.”
He let the silence settle, then added, “Both serve with reverence. But only one is ever seen in daylight.”
I stared at the inked forest, the nameless ridges, the emptiness that somehow held everything.
I returned to the castle nearly fourteen hours after I left that morning, enlightened and exhausted, but steadier somehow. The mist of Forgotten Hollow clung to my coat, and the silence of the estate felt less intimidating than before — more like a pause between chapters.
After plenty of snuggles with Catriona, who had been looked after by Branwen and Rhiannon with the kind of maternal precision only vampires could master, and some well-deserved rest for myself, I reported back to Cesare’s study the next day.
And the day after that. And the ones that followed. He didn’t say much, but I could tell he was pleased—by my consistency, my curiosity, the way I kept pace without flinching. I wasn’t just tolerated anymore. I was trusted. And with that trust came something rarer: respect. Not as a fledgling with fangs, but as the Grand Master Elder’s assistant. His choice. His shadow. And the others noticed.
The tasks varied. Some days I transcribed ancient documents, decoding archaic dialects with Riordan’s quiet guidance. Other days I assisted with inventory — ceremonial wine, enchanted relics, even blood reserves — all cataloged with obsessive precision. Caelan was present for the more tactical duties: mapping out terrain, reviewing Enforcer reports, preparing dossiers on rogue vampires. He never spoke much, but he didn’t ignore me either. That was progress.
I learned how to read vampire body language, how to navigate their layered etiquette, how to distinguish between silence that meant danger and silence that meant reverence. I learned that legacy wasn’t just inherited — it was earned, curated, and guarded.
More and more, I found my way. Not just as a helper, but as someone becoming part of the rhythm. I wasn’t pretending anymore. I was learning. I was contributing. I was changing.
And somewhere in the quiet between tasks, I realized something else: I wasn’t just surviving this world. I was beginning to belong to it.
Pop Quiz by Firelight
The study was dimly lit, the fire low, the air thick with the scent of parchment and aged wine. I sat beside Riordan, who had become a steady presence in my days — patient, insightful, never indulgent. Cesare had been writing letters nearby, probably listening to Riordan’s teachings when the door opened and the three lead Coven Enforcers entered with updates of events of notice.
They offered the traditional salute — two fingers to the heart, then brow — a gesture of allegiance and respect. Each followed it with a slight forward tilt of the head, not quite a bow, but enough to mark reverence without submission. Cesare acknowledged it with a slight nod, his quill never pausing.
Caelan stood by the hearth, arms crossed, radiating his usual broody silence. Next to him were Connell and Damon—his son and grandson, both light-haired, sharp-featured, and handsome in that vampirically impossible-to-explain way. Definitely Vannucci blood, even if Connell’s entire family had ditched the name and taken his mother Rhiannon’s maiden name, O’Cavanaugh, in what I assume was silent support and/or protest after the divorce years ago.
Caelan and Rhiannon have since remarried and now share the Vannucci name again. Somehow. I mean, making that mistake once is tragic. Making it twice? Inexplicable. Rhiannon is stunning—she could do a million times better—but she loves that awful creature I struggle to call ‘man.’ Her heart is enormous. And Caelan… well, Caelan is present.
Despite the happy reunion, the younger generations kept the O’Cavanaugh name. A quiet rebellion, maybe. Or just good taste. I have huge respect for the Vannuccis—great name, esteemed lineage—but personally? I wouldn’t want to be associated with Caelan in any way, shape, or form. Something tells me the feeling is mutual.
I’d always found it telling — not bitter, exactly, but deliberate. I never dared ask Connell or Damon why, and the one time I asked Rhiannon, she burst into tears and fled the room like I’d clubbed her with an innocent question.
No thank you. Never again.
Connell, Caelan’s son with Rhiannon, bore her long, silvery blonde hair and purplish-blue eyes. His hair was braided in places, loose in others, catching the firelight like spun moonlight. He carried himself like a man who’d inherited both charm and discipline — the kind of presence that made you stand straighter without realizing it. His jawline was sharp, his expression unreadable, and his coat gleamed with the kind of tailored severity that whispered legacy.
Damon, his son, looked like a fallen seraph with a taste for vengeance. His short, slicked-back blonde hair framed a face too perfect to be trusted — high cheekbones, full lips, and the same silver eyes as Caelan and Cesare, flickering between curiosity and calculation like twin blades. He stood with the ease of someone who could kill you in three seconds but preferred to watch you squirm first.
His beauty was disarming. Almost cruel.
Most had no idea what he actually did. Mortals assumed he was some kind of model, or maybe a very intense violinist. Vampires knew better. Or at least, they knew enough to step aside when he entered a room.
Whatever his job was, it wasn’t listed on any résumé. But it came with a body count.
Cesare leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. “Report.”
Connell stepped forward, voice smooth and measured — the kind of tone that could soothe a crowd or command a battalion.
You’d think Caelan would do the honors, seeing as he’s the commander of the enforcers and all. But let’s be real — who wants a full report delivered in a handful words, some grunts, a couple dramatic sighs, and a death glare? Not me, and evidently not Cesare either.
Connell’s doing the talking now, which is probably safer for everyone’s nerves.
Oh jeeze. Here I go again, narrating like I have a death wish. I really hope Caelan can’t read minds. Or at least not mine. Or at least not right now.
“Two incidents. First — border breach. Werewolves. Young ones. They crossed deep into vampire territory near the southern ridge. No casualties, but clear violation of the edict. Detained alive.”
“That one keeps both species from open war,” Riordan murmured, most likely for my benefit so I could understand the problem it posed.
“Exactly,” Connell nodded, his voice calm but edged with steel. “It could be seen as a declaration of war. Definitely a serious offense. Second incident — rogue vampire fed on a mortal. Nearly drained him. We intervened just in time. Blood conserves stabilized the human. He’ll live. He was left outside a medical center. The rogue is detained.”
Riordan was already recording it in the offense ledger, his penmanship elegant and exacting. I watched the way he wrote — each letter deliberate, like he was inscribing history. I found it mesmerizing.
“What say you, Father?” Caelan asked.
Cesare’s gaze shifted. To me.
“Victoria. What would your decision be?”
Gulp.
I blinked. “Mine?”
My gaze flicked to Riordan, who looked mildly surprised — then gave me the kind of encouraging nod that felt suspiciously like ‘Better make it good, girl.’
“Uh, you want me to…?” I mumbled. What now?
Cesare didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. It was a test. And not the multiple-choice kind.
I sat up straighter, my snark evaporating like water in the desert.
Moments ago, I’d been mentally composing a roast about Caelan’s communication style — or rather, lack thereof. Now I was being asked to weigh in. In front of him. Well didn’t my glee just come back to bite me in the ass?
Cool cool cool. Definitely not terrifying.
“Okay then,” I said, voice steadier than I felt. “Let’s see. Has the rogue disrespected rules before?”
“No,” Caelan said, voice low. “No offenses to date.”
I nodded. “Sounds desperate to me. Maybe drunk or otherwise too incapacitated to do the right thing, knowing what could happen if he broke the rules?”
Damon spoke then, his voice soft and melodic — like velvet. “He had injuries. Bad ones. He was barely standing. I’d call it desperate.” There was empathy in his tone, but also precision. He didn’t embellish. He didn’t need to.
I nodded slowly. “Maybe he needed blood fast, but then that thing happened, whatchamacallit, the one where when you wait too long to feed you can’t stop yourself.”
Riordan didn’t look up from his notes. “Blood frenzy.”
“Right. Thanks.” I sighed. “Blood frenzy. That. Maybe all he wanted was to feed enough to get himself somewhere quiet and safe to recover but that blood frenzy thing got to him.”
Cesare’s eyes didn’t move. He was watching me, clearly waiting for me to continue. Well, at least I hadn’t babbled anything stupid enough for him to cut me off, so I was doing okay. I think.
“And the wolves,” I went on. “You said they were young. I don’t know how young, but if they were kids or teens, maybe they were just being kids. Dumb. Reckless. Didn’t realize they were crossing a border or breaching treaties or didn’t even know what that really means?”
Connell smirked — not unkindly, but with the kind of knowing that came from decades of watching mortals and immortals alike make the same mistakes. “She’s right. They are just boys. I’d guess fifteen, maybe sixteen.”
Cesare smiled faintly, leaned back, and clapped slowly. “Bravo. Bravissimi. I am as pleased to see you have a good head on your shoulders as I am to have been right about you. Good judgment. Those would have been my questions too.”
Just as I was about to let out the proverbial sigh of relief and slip back into the comfort of being a mostly invisible bystander, he continued.
“Very well. Now… what would your actions be? What would you do with the captives?”
I could practically hear the comedic screech of tires in my head.
Umm. Okay. How the hell was I supposed to answer that without flipping through a dozen tomes on vampire law and interspecies diplomacy? Ad hoc rulings on teenaged werewolves and injured rogue vamps? Definitely above my paygrade. So… we had to wing it here.
“Well… I don’t know if this is an option, but maybe the wolves should be returned to their parents. I doubt anything we could do to them would compare to the wrath of a furious mom and dad. I mean, imagine your teenage kid nearly starting a war. That’s grounding for eternity. No phone, no PC, no TV — until dinosaurs roam again, and only endless paternal jabs and passive-aggressive reminders of the dumbassery as parental purgatory.”
Damon burst out laughing — that rich, unfiltered kind of laugh that made him look every bit the twenty-something he was. Connell gave him a sharp slap to the arm, not hard, just enough to make a point. He shook his head with a quiet, “Damon.”
Damon cleared his throat, straightened, and tried for serious. “Right. Sorry. She’s not wrong, though. I would know…”
I glanced at Cesare. “Or maybe the pack leader could handle it — reach out to the families, arrange a safe handover? Is that a thing?”
Cesare nodded once, slowly. “It can be.”
“And the rogue…” I hesitated. “He sounds like he needs medical help. Maybe that first. And then… whatever the vampire equivalent of community service is? He should be held accountable, sure — but if he acted out of desperation, and the worst was averted, maybe it’s more of a slap-on-the-wrist situation than something severe. A warning, some uncomfortable reminder of the rules, not a sentence.”
Cesare’s expression shifted into a satisfied smile, a subtle ripple of approval.
I’d hit the jackpot.
Phew. Because I was not sure about anything I just said. I legit just guessed.
“Well, gentlemen, you heard the lady.” Cesare spread his hands slightly, then let them fall to the armrests of his chair. “I have nothing to add to the verdict. Make sure the wolves have food and libations until their return can be arranged. I am not in the habit of torturing children.”
He glanced toward Connell, then flicked his fingers in a quiet dismissal. “See to the care of the vamp. Connell, are you still on good terms with Michael Shaw?”
Riordan leaned in, voice low and exacting, his pen paused mid-air. “Michael Shaw is the Alpha — the Apex — of one of the two predominant wolf packs. His territory borders ours.”
I nodded faintly, absorbing the title. Apex. So, like Cesare, but for the wolves, I guess. A-ha.
Connell straightened, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his ceremonial blade. “Yes, Grandfather, we’re still friends.”
Cesare gave a single nod, slow and deliberate. “Very well. Contact him about his pack members and arrange for a safe handover.”
Connell was already moving, coat swaying behind him as he turned. “On it.”
Turn, Turn, Turn
Just as Connell turned to leave, the door opened again.
Scarlett strode in — all black leather and silver eyes, her long straight hair falling like a curtain down her back. Her eyeliner was sharp, her lipstick scarlet, and her ankle booties clicked against the stone floor like punctuation. She crossed the room in three strides and kissed both my cheeks with bestie precision.
“You’re coming,” she said, then turned to her father. “They’re ready.”
Coming? To what? Who was ready for what?
Blaine followed, wearing worn-in jeans, a cracked leather jacket, and a T-shirt that read “I put the ‘suck’ in success.” Of course it did. His usual smirk was present, but subdued.
I grew suspicious. What was going on here?
Cesare looked up, his expression unreadable. “Riordan?”
“I was working on it when the Enforcers came in,” Riordan replied, already rising.
Cesare nodded once, then turned to me. “Victoria.”
I stood, unsure.
He waved me over. “Come. You will assist Riordan.”
That was all. No explanation. Assist with what?
We left the study together, descending into the lower levels of the castle — past the wine cellars, past the archive vaults, into a chamber I hadn’t seen before. It was cool, candlelit, and lined with stone. At the center were six coffins, laid in state — open, reverent, each lined in black velvet.
The air was still, but not empty. It felt like something sacred had already begun.
Riordan handed me a different ledger, smaller than the offense book, bound in black leather with silver corners. “You’ll record the turnings,” he said quietly, opening it and pointing to past entries. “Time, date, full name. Cesare will speak the rite. You’ll bear witness and then sign there.”
I nodded, heart thudding.
Turning?
As in …?
Riordan stepped forward. I followed with my ledger as he began calling out the names, clearing wanting me to record it, both of us standing in front of the first coffin, his voice low and steady.
“Chase Everett Cameron.”
I blinked. That name. I leaned toward Riordan, whispering, “Is that…?”
He nodded, voice barely audible. “Yes. One of Blaine and Scarlett’s children. He finally got one of them to want to turn again. Chase’s family is very close-knit. So once he had him, it created a ripple effect. Be interesting to see if the twins and Jasper are next. I know Connor’s son wants nothing to do with it, but he supports his parents.”
I looked down at the coffin. Chase lay there, still wearing the faded 2Dark 2C band tee — the one from his college days, when he and Colton Hargrave had founded the group that would rise to near-legendary fame. My late husband had been a big fan. I remembered the way he used to hum their songs under his breath while fixing things around the house, like it was a secret ritual.
Chase’s hair was tousled, his face peaceful, almost boyish in death. I remembered the photo — Blaine and Scarlett’s mansion, a framed shot of a young Chase and Hailey on a balcony, laughing like the world hadn’t yet asked anything of them. I hadn’t known who they were then. I did now.
Riordan continued:
“Hailey Anne Cameron, née Hanson. Hanson with an ‘o’.” I wrote it down, next to the date and time.
“Colton Hargrave, ex Vannucci.”
Wiry, mischievous even in stillness. Chase’s longtime bandmate. I remembered him from another photo — sunglasses indoors, flipping off the camera.
Riordan leaned in. “He’s my son, in case you haven’t connected the dots.”
No, I had not. Wow. I knew Riordan and Lavina had two kids — the girl was a vampire and a doctor, ironically. For mortals, you see. I mean, then again, what better place to practice restraint than a hospital? Blood everywhere, none of it yours. She specialized in trauma, I think. Or maybe cardiology. Something poetic. Something with a pulse. Then again, who’s to say she didn’t nosh here and there when no one was looking? A little sip in the supply closet, a nibble at the blood bank. Testing purity, of course. Wink, wink.
“Madilyn ‘Maddie’ Hargrave, née Barlow.”
Serene. Composed. I knew she was some C-suite at one of the largest women’s fashion magazines.
“Dr. Connor Cameron.”
Son of Chase and Hailey. The Chief Medical Officer. I remembered the story about Blaine dying in his guest room and that Connor was called Dr. Dreamy at his hospital. Cool dude, from what I gathered. Tall, athletic, and blonde, but his features were familiar — the same jawline, the same quiet intensity. He looked like someone who’d made peace with the decision.
“Keira Cameron, née Hargrave.”
Daughter of Colton and Maddie. Married to Connor. Her hair was dark, skin alabaster. She reminded me of Sleeping Beauty — her expression soft, her stillness intentional. She looked like she’d chosen this with her whole heart.
I wrote each name carefully, the ink gliding across the page like a vow. Time. Date. Full name. I didn’t rush. This wasn’t just documentation. It was legacy. And little old me was part of it. My name was on the ledger too, my signature under recorded by. Wow.
Then Cesare entered, robes simple but unmistakably ceremonial — black with silver thread, the Vannucci crest stitched across the chest.
Scarlett approached Hailey first, brushing a strand of hair from her face before leaning down. Her bite was gentle, reverent. Blaine followed, biting Chase with a tenderness that made me blink — like he was giving his son a second chance, not just at life, but at legacy.
Colton and Maddie received their bites next, then Connor and Keira. Each drink was brief, symbolic — not for feeding, but for anchoring. For claiming.
Cesare said nothing. He just stepped up to the first coffin in the row — Chase’s — rolled up his sleeve, exposing the pale skin of his forearm, then bit into his own wrist with deliberate precision. No flinch. No hesitation. Just ritual. I was mesmerized.
His blood welled dark and slow, and he held it over Chase’s mouth, which Riordan quickly pushed open. Cesare’s blood dripped in.
“Sanguis ex sanguine. Surge iterum inter vampyros.” Blood of my blood. Rise again among the vampyr. Riordan translated quietly near my ear.
Cesare’s voice echoed through the chamber, low and resonant, like a spell cast in stone. He repeated the same for each one.
When it was done, Caelan and Connell stepped forward, closing each coffin lid with reverence and strength. Damon followed, fastening each one with a ceremonial clasp — blackened iron shaped like a crescent moon, sealed with a quiet click that felt final.
Riordan turned to me. “Now.”
I moved from coffin to coffin, recording sealed and the exact time next to their names. My handwriting was careful, reverent. This wasn’t just recordkeeping — it was mythmaking. In a hundred years from now someone might read what I just wrote.
Then, with Riordan beside me, following his whispered instructions, I placed a single black lily on each coffin lid. The petals were soft, almost velvet, the color so deep it seemed to absorb the candlelight.
Chase. Hailey. Colton. Maddie. Connor. Keira.
Six names. Six lilies. Six lives paused between mortality and eternity.
When I turned, I noticed Scarlett in Blaine’s tight embrace, both visibly emotional.
Cesare turned to me. “They’ll hibernate,” he said. “A few days. Maybe a week. When they rise, they’ll be as they were in their prime. Stronger. Sharper. Eternal. Guards will take shifts watching over them. The moment one stirs, the lids are opened for the others.”
Riordan placed a hand on my shoulder — light, but grounding.
I didn’t speak. I just stood there, watching the sealed coffins, the lilies, the ledger.
This wasn’t just a ritual.
It was a resurrection.
The life-altering kind.
And I had helped write it.
Surprise Guests
I was visiting Blaine and Scarlett at their mansion in Del Sol Valley, even though I’d started to enjoy the quiet of Forgotten Hollow. Riordan had become something like a human security blankie to me. Castello di Vannucci had become my sanctuary, my seat, my place to think. Still, I’d come to hang with them. Scarlett was still the closest thing to a bestie I’ve had in a very long time. Even back when my husband was still alive, we only had “our” friends and he had his. Somehow I didn’t have just mine anymore.
I was carrying my daughter back to the nursery after tasting real foods with her — most of which ended up everywhere except in her stomach. She was warm against me, tucked into the sling, her breath soft and steady, her fingers curled around the fabric like she was anchoring herself to me.
Then I saw him.
Gavin.
He stood just outside the patio doors, speaking with Blaine. A dark blazer framed his shoulders, the Henfordshire crest glinting at the lapel. His hair was perfectly imperfect, his jaw set with quiet tension. A true Henfordian Lord — composed, deliberate, carved from decades of restraint. But there was something else beneath it. Something western. A flicker of fire behind the polish.
His voice was velvet, the cadence caught somewhere between the clipped precision of the western continent and the lyrical grace of Henfordshire’s old houses. It wasn’t just how he spoke. It was how silence bent around him.
My breath caught.
He turned.
Our eyes met.
And everything stopped.
“Victoria?” he said, stunned — but not loud, not messy. Just quiet disbelief wrapped in restraint.
I stepped forward, instinctively adjusting the sling. “Hi.”
Blaine looked between us, eyebrows raised. “Whoa, wait a sec. You two know each other?”
Gavin didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on me, steady and unreadable. Then: “Yes. We do.”
Scarlett blinked. “Wait. How exactly… oh, wait. Henfordshire?”
I didn’t speak. I was watching Gavin’s face — the flicker of recognition, the ache, the guilt. All of it tightly contained.
“Yeah, Mom, we met,” he said, then turned to me. “I didn’t know you were here. That you knew my parents.”
“Parents?”
“Yup. That’s our boy.” Blaine grinned, then slung one arm around Gavin’s shoulders and leaned in, practically hung off him, all swagger and mischief, the embodiment of every rock musician who never learned volume control. “Hey, since you know him, help me talk sense into him. She was there when your brother saw the light and rejoined the fanged life. Chase has zero regrets! HINT! Victoria, tell him to do it too. Remind him how great it is to have fangs. She is digging the fuck out of it, don’t ya Vic?”
“Yeah, it’s fricking fantastic …” I mumbled, barely listening, fully distracted.
Gavin hadn’t taken his eyes off mine. His posture didn’t shift under Blaine’s weight, but his gaze was quiet, searching — like he was trying to memorize me all over again.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” His voice was low, deliberate — the kind of tone that made you lean in without realizing. “You taking her upstairs?”
I nodded.
“May I walk with you?” he asked, turning to Blaine. “Alone, if you don’t mind.”
Blaine raised both arms in mock surrender, already turning toward Scarlett with a grin. Gavin stepped beside me, and we headed toward the stairs.
I shifted slightly, letting him see her — the tiny bundle against my chest, her face half-hidden, her breath soft and steady.
“This is Catriona,” I said softly. “My daughter.”
Gavin’s expression changed. Everything in him stilled. “Alder’s?”
I nodded. “And Alder’s.”
His voice dropped to a whisper. “You’re certain?”
“Well, the in-womb blood test said so. Right now I’m not sure about anything anymore. Long story. And please hold the ‘I told you so’s.”
He did. Instead, he stepped closer, slowly, reverently — like approaching something sacred. “She’s beautiful.”
“Thanks,” I said. “And she’s loved.”
He leaned in, eyes scanning her face with quiet intensity. “She has warm chestnut hair,” he murmured. “Like mine.”
I blinked. “Yeah, I guess. I’m blond. Alder’s is black. It often makes reddish tones. Not unusual.”
“It just happens to make a brownish red tone almost exactly like mine?”
“Gavin, seriously? She is a baby still. She’s just starting to sit up on her own! Her hair color will probably change a million times until it sticks.”
“Fair enough, but her eyes…” Gavin’s voice softened, almost reverent. “Blue-green. Not dark like Alder’s. Not some silvery light blue like yours. Mine are green. Even if they change some, it won’t be that much. Without being too forward, she looks exactly like my two children did at that age. Maeve has her mother’s brown eyes, Jake mine. Both had and still have that exact hair color.”
I felt a flicker of something — not doubt, exactly, but pause. I blew it off with a shrug. “Genetics are weird. Please quit micro-analyzing my child.”
But the thought lingered. I hadn’t even noticed any of that yet. When I looked at my daughter I didn’t scan for genetic discrepancies, I saw a beautiful little girl, caught up in her parents’ drama.
He swallowed hard, but his posture didn’t falter. “I never stopped caring,” he said quietly. “I simply… didn’t know how to return after that. Alder seemed to appear out of nowhere. In more ways than one. First, he took you from me, and then he was some sudden cousin no one in my family had ever heard of, and on top of all suddenly you were expecting his child, making all this even worse for me yet. It felt like I lost you and my place — all in one breath.”
He paused, jaw tight. “And say what you will about Caelan — he owns his mistakes. He claimed Leeora, and I know you’re still blissfully unaware of that whole mess, his relationship with her late mother was even worse news than this Alder-drama, but he admitted it, then and now. Knowing how dangerous it was, he still stood by his daughter, and they are close to this day. Obviously you know he is close with Connell. Yet he denies Alder, even though he was barely eighteen when Alder was supposedly conceived. What better excuse than a young vampire being… well… decadent.”
“Gavin, I honestly do not care how and if Alder is related to any of your family or how he was conceived. All I care about is that he ditched me and his child, leaving us destitute, homeless and struggling to deal with the bullshit he caused.
“What do you mean by homeless? And destitute? What about your art? Your writing?”
“Barely drops in a huge bucket of debt I am drowning in. And yes, homeless. The Baroness sold the townhomes and we all got the pink slip. I live with your granddaddy now at the castle in Forgotten Hollow.”
“Victoria, why did you not come to me?! I would have helped!” Gavin looked genuinely concerned.
“You had ghosted me,” I said. “Just like he has. Figured you moved on. And look Alder and I… it was—argh, hard to explain. Long story. But I didn’t choose him over you. I don’t even know if I chose anything. He was just a roommate, a friend, and then…I was pregnant with his child, next thing I know Scarlett and the girls are picking out wedding colors with me. I still don’t really know how it all happened.”
“Makes two of us. I admit I was hurt,” Gavin said, voice clipped but not cold. “I thought you’d chosen him, dropped me like a bad habit. I thought I’d been… a pastime.”
“You weren’t,” I said. “You were never a pastime. You were my main event.” I meant it—honestly—even as my brain did a full backflip trying to make sense of everything. Like, how did we even get here? Last I checked, I was crushing on Gavin like a hormonal teenager. Alder used to tease me so hard about it, and now?
One whiff of Gavin’s aftershave and boom—still crushing. I kid you not, it took everything in me not to stand there panting like a cartoon wolf with tiny hearts popping out of my eyeballs. What the hell. I was one swoon away from needing psychiatric help.
My life for you. Literally. Except… was I even technically alive? Pretty sure I was dead. No heartbeat, no pulse, no nothing. Wouldn’t that mean clinically dead? But I was standing there, drooling over Gavin, and that’s not something dead people do, do they? More vampire trivia I needed to dig through Cesare’s tomes for or bug Riordan about. Because if I was clinically dead, why was I still dealing with the same emotional dumpster fires—feelings, drama, and yes, inconvenient crushes?
And let’s not forget the stack of forwarded mail reminding me that I still owed taxes. So yeah, for all intents and purposes, I was alive. Ish. Very ish.
We started up the stairs, slow and deliberate, like the air between us had thickened into something ceremonial. Sacred, even. Or maybe just awkward.
“Is it true?” Gavin asked. “You… have fangs now?”
I nodded, trying not to cringe. The way he said it—like I’d sprouted antlers or joined a circus—was peak awkward. Yes, Gavin. Fangs. Welcome to my undead TED Talk.
And yeah, it was a sensitive subject. I wasn’t exactly out and proud about my vamp status like some of the others, Blaine for example. He flashed those fangs like they were going out of style. I was still in the awkward phase—fangs fresh, confidence nonexistent. Plus, they were impossible for me to hide, as I had that ridiculous transitional lisp they don’t warn you about. Apparently, until your mouth adjusts, you sound like a high school nerd with braces trying to order soup. Very intimidating. Very undead chic. More cringe.
He glanced at me, then at the child in my arms. “I still hold a candle for you,” he said. “Never stopped.”
“Back at you,” I said. “You were everything. What’s the deal with Bianca? Are you divorced yet, or is she still dragging it out like a soap opera villain?”
“We’re divorced,” he sighed. “But she still haunts me like a bad Yelp review. That was the real reason why I moved back to Henfordshire two years ago, I always liked it there and it had become home after we had lived there for so long, but after Bianca had that terrible fall out with my niece AG, who just happens to be the queen consort there, we had to pack up and leave in a hurry, I hated having to leave then, as did my son, he refused and stayed, I didn’t have much choice, but it works out well for me now, as it’s the one place she won’t set foot in. Unfortunately, she recently moved in with our daughter, which makes visiting Maeve and my granddaughter feel less like bonding and more like dodging landmines.”
I winced. I’d never actually met Bianca, but from everything I’d heard, I pictured her as bad news wrapped in Ralph Lauren Purple Label and passive-aggressive texts. The kind of woman who could ruin brunch just by RSVPing. Probably wore cashmere to Pilates and corrected your pronunciation of quinoa. Twice.
“Maeve feels guilty ditching her mom to pack up the baby and come see me,” Gavin continued. “The last two times I went to visit we met at her boyfriend’s place—until Bianca sniffed that out and made it super awkward for everyone. I tried visiting other family members, but wherever I went, Bianca magically appeared. Like a cursed pop-up ad.”
He paused at the top of the stairs. “So yeah, I’m here unannounced. Just for today. A pity. If I’d known you were here…”
I didn’t speak. I just looked at him — at the man who had held my heart, then shattered it, then offered help like a stranger.
“I’m not asking for anything,” Gavin said. “I’d simply like to see you again. Respectfully. Platonically, if that’s all you’ll allow. Even if I have to come see you at grandfather’s creepy castle. I’m trying to say all this respectful to not encroach on Alder’s territory. I heard what you said about him ditching you, but the last I heard about you two you were getting married, so I am not quite clear where all that leaves us.”
I looked down at her — my daughter, my anchor — then back at Gavin. “Yeah wedding won’t be happening. Even if he came back now. I am so over his BS, he and I are through. Somehow it felt like a strange dream all along. I don’t know how to explain it. When I was with him, my feelings were strong and unshakable, everything made sense. Now, I don’t feel anything. Nor do I really know how it all happened. Like I dreamt it. The only things making it real are Cat and my new dental layout.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know. I had no intention of opening old wounds. Until today I was under the impression you and he were happy.”
“Yeah, this whole mess isn’t exactly something I scream off the rooftops.”
“Understood.” His voice softened, almost courtly. “You’re not alone. Knowing this — and knowing you’re part of the ancient society now — does leave me with some food for thought.”
I looked at him, and he elaborated.
“Mom and Dad want me to get turned again. Especially now that they somehow talked Chase into it—again. I was born with fangs, in case you didn’t know. But after I got unturned in my early thirties, I swore I was done.
Bianca never liked vampires. I was one when we met, and she was fine with it when it meant fun in the sack. But when she got pregnant—without telling me, mind you—she bolted and married the first rich guy who’d take her. I had no clue I’d fathered a child. I was very young and very dumb back then.
So yeah, I didn’t get to name my own son. The other guy eventually noticed the kid looked nothing like him. Jake’s got my green eyes and my hair—Bianca’s complexion, sure, but not a trace of the supposed father. Rich pseudo-daddy’s big daddy with the deep pockets smelled what was up, got the baby tested, and the marriage was annulled so fast it gave Bianca whiplash.
Her dad wouldn’t take her back cos she was ruined in his eyes—Auditore Sr. was old school—so she was slumming it somewhere. AG was the one who told me. They were still besties then, but even she didn’t know where Bianca had gone and couldn’t go looking for her because she was dating a royal at that point and a bit limited.
Well, I’m not my Uncle Caelan, tracking her down took forever. But I did. Made an honest woman out of her, for a while anyway.
That’s why I get twitchy when women I’ve been with show up with babies who look suspiciously like me.
Bianca was the reason I got unturned. I never had a problem with the fanged life—quite the opposite, actually. But she is older than me, and once she started aging and I didn’t, the whole vampire thing stopped being sexy to her and started feeling like a threat. She wanted normal. Human. Aging. So I gave her that.
She got what she wanted. And the marriage still fell apart. Because of her, mind you. She was not a good partner and at some point things just couldn’t give anymore.
This time, though, it was my call. I know we never talked about my divorce, I didn’t offer, you didn’t ask, but I was done. Done with her games, done being treated like a walking credit card—useful when she wanted me around, expected to be invisible when she didn’t. I was tired of being managed like an accessory. We got married when I was nineteen. I am looking down the barrel of sixty. And I had enough.
Now I’m aging, going grey, back on the dating market—and I’ve learned I’m not exactly thriving solo. I don’t enjoy being single. So when Mom and Dad start nudging me toward fangs again… I’m now starting to hear them. Chase did it again. I never thought he would. His twins and grandkids won’t, but Dad can be persuasive. He and Chase have always been tight. And now, seeing you like this … well. Let’s just say it’s worth mulling over.”
“Well, I didn’t get here by choice,” I said. “And I didn’t love it at first. Still don’t. But I’m coming around. I’d almost recommend it now. I might cheer more once I master the basics and this stupid lisp goes away. And all those rules. Jeezes, vampirism should come with an expanded brain. I feel like mine’s at capacity.”
“I find your lisp … endearing.”
“Well, then maybe you really should get turned so you have your own we’ll see how you feel about it then.” I shot back dryly, but with a slight smirk.
He laughed — a warm, rich sound that made my chest ache — then grew quiet again, his eyes reading me like a book he’d once loved and lost.
“You think I should? Serious question.”
“It’s not my choice to make, Gav. This isn’t picking an ice cream flavor or new curtains. It’s permanent. You know that. Unturning was outlawed in… umm… dammit, I forgot the year again.”
“I don’t need you to recite vampire history or timelines for me, I am not my grandfather. I lived them. I chose mortality then. I suppose my question is: Would I see you more if I did this?”
“Well, obviously. Unless you chose not to join the coven.”
He smiled — slow, deliberate. “I was in the coven before. I’d rejoin. Grandpa would kick my rear if I wouldn’t join his coven. Don’t forget that I have Vannucci blood in me on my mother’s side.”
“You’d definitely see me then. I work for Cesare now. I guess I’m something like his and Riordan’s assistant or whatever you want to call it. I think they call it Novitiate. We encourage returns.”
His smile widened, but his expression remained unreadable — like a chess master considering his next move, knowing the board had just shifted.
“A Novitiate, huh? You must really have impressed Grandfather then. That’s quite an honor and while my history knowledge is a bit rusty, I think there haven’t been many female ones, if any. Alright, Miss Novitiate , sell me on it. Go on,” he said, with that quiet challenge only Gavin could deliver — not loud, not pushy, just deliberate enough to make me rise to it.
I smiled, then launched into my best sales pitch, spewing facts and benefits of vampirism like a car salesman on espresso. Speed, strength, immortality, the whole glittery brochure.
He chuckled when I finished. “Nicely done. Grandfather would be proud. But that’s not what I meant.” His voice dipped, velvety smooth. “You sell me on it. Tell me something that makes me want this.”
“Huh? I don’t get it. Like what?”
“Maybe that Alder is ancient history. Maybe that you’d give us another chance. That I could see you again. That you’d spend time with me again.”
“Why?” I asked. “Gavin, you cannot possibly be so desperate for a woman that you’d do all this just to have me and my entourage of drama in your life. You’re a Lord. Nobility. You’re very easy on the eye and I can definitely endorse you in the bedroom. So why me? The only thing special about me is the insane amount of WTF-type BS happening in my life.”
“We all have our cross to bear, but you’re mistaken.” His voice was smooth and deep, but the words landed like truth. “There are many redeeming qualities about you, and the fact that you’re so blissfully unaware of them is… refreshing. You know where I come from. You know how I live. Women like you are rarer than unicorns.”
“Well, the way my life’s been going lately, unicorns probably graze in large herds somewhere between here and Forgotten Hollow. And please — don’t tell me. I really don’t wanna know.” I exhaled. “Look, Gav, I appreciate the sweet words, but I don’t know what you want from me here.”
He leaned in, his breath warm against my ear, voice low and deliberate. “Give me something, Victoria. Anything. Throw me a bone. I miss you. I miss holding you. The way you feel in my arms.”
He smiled — slow, devastating — and I felt giddy in all the right places.
“Throw you a bone? Gavin, what you really mean is that you want me to tell you I’d let you bury your bone in me again, isn’t it?” It slipped out before I could help it. I slapped a hand over my mouth, eyes wide. “Oh my god. I didn’t mean—” But it was too late.
A moment of silence followed. He looked stunned — then burst into a hearty laugh I’d never seen in him before.
“You’ve been spending too much time with my father,” he said, still laughing. “That was strangely amusing, appalling and sexy at the same time. It isn’t what I meant, but I’ll admit — yes, I would like that too. Very much. And yes, I do miss that part. Immensely. Nights have been long and cold without you.”
“You don’t need fangs to see me again, Gavin. Alder and I are over — if we ever really began. But I’m just not looking for relationships or nookie right now. I’m sorry, I just don’t have the bandwidth for any of it. My body feels different. Sensations are different. I experience life differently now. It’s like sensory overload on a good day — and that’s before factoring in the new dental layout and the emotional rubble I keep getting buried under for the umpteenth time. It’s exhausting. It’s getting old. And it doesn’t exactly leave me in the mood for sexy time with anyone.”
He smiled — that slow, knowing kind that made my knees consider early retirement. “Have you tried sex since you got turned?” he asked, voice dipped in mischief. “Speak about heightened senses… and that is all I’ll say on the matter. I suggest you give it a go. Thank me later.” He winked, shameless.
I stared at him, scandalized. Then laughed — loud, unfiltered, and maybe a little feral. Damn him. Damn me. Damn the aftershave.
His smile widened. It was genuine. And somehow, I felt odd all over — like something in me had been seen, not just heard.
He leaned in again, voice low and deliberate — velvet threaded with restraint. “Tell me something I need to hear,” he whispered. “Something true. Something just for me.”
His lips didn’t touch, but they hovered close enough to make the air between us feel electric. Something in me stilled, like the world had narrowed to the space between his mouth and mine.
I turned my head slightly, just enough to let my words brush the edge of his cheek. “I never stopped wanting you near,” I said. “Even when I swore I didn’t.”
It wasn’t a vow. It wasn’t a confession. But it was something. A thread. A door left ajar.
His eyes searched mine, and I saw it — the flicker of hope, the ache of restraint, the quiet promise of something that might still be.
And somewhere beneath all the rubble, something shifted. Not enough to rebuild. But enough to mark the fault line. Enough to know that when the next truth burns, he’ll be the one standing in the fire — not just watching, but reaching. And maybe, just maybe, the one pulling me out of it.
🪶Disclaimer: 🪶 This is a fictional narrative. All characters, events, and settings are entirely imagined—though loosely inspired by a heavily modded save in The Sims 4, extensively customized to behave and appear as realistically as feasible, with enhanced visuals, nuanced social dynamics, and detailed world-building that mirror real human complexity.
If you’re a Simmer, you might recognize the location names and emotional beats. If you’re not, you’ll still find your way—no prior knowledge required. Everything you need to know lives inside this blog.
This story is for anyone who’s ever rebuilt their life from the ashes and dared to write new chapters. For those who crave storylines that think outside the usual boxes—and for anyone who knows that sometimes, the most powerful myths are the ones we make ourselves.
EchoesOfLegacy 
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