The Scarlett Letters — Of Fire, Family, and Forever

Prologue

Prologue — The Scarlett Letters

Hello, my lovelies. Yes, it’s me — Scarlett Cameron. I know, I’m as surprised as you are. I don’t usually write blogs. That was Victoria’s domain, back when Ashes and Ink was her little side hustle to pay off debts and vent about life. Then she got engaged to my son, became a vampire, lady of a manor, with a child, and a future — and suddenly blogging fell off her list of priorities.

So she handed me the keys. Brave girl.

Writing under her name felt like wearing someone else’s skin, so I gave this place a new title — The Scarlett Letters. Fitting, really. Yes, it’s obviously a play on my name — Scarlett Rose Cameron, née Vannucci — but it’s also a nod to that classic tale of forbidden love, cheating, and moral outrage. Blaine and I had our own version of that once, the kind people whispered about behind closed doors. For a while — thanks to some choices of mine which I am not proud of — I was the other woman in his life, cheating on a sweet woman who got to be Mrs. Cameron before me. I’m not sorry. Eventually I’d had enough and made him choose, and he chose me.

I never claimed to be perfect or pious, nor will I ever. I’m a vampire, we are not exactly famous for being angels. I move in shadows, I make my choices, and I take what I want when I want it badly enough. And Blaine? Oh, I wanted him — fiercely — so I took him, and I’d do it all over again without hesitation. Consider this your introduction. I’m not the quintessential good girl.

Well, Victoria is about to marry my Gavin — my sweet, patient boy who spent far too long tangled up with the wrong woman and finally found the right one. She’s still learning what it means to be one of us, raising Annabelle, building a home at Evermere Hall, and occasionally babysitting that mage Alder. If Gavin trusts them alone together, I suppose I will too.

My family is chaos on both sides — musicians, scholars, royals, troublemakers — and none of them will ever sit down to tell the truth the way it deserves to be told. Well, Blaine would, but the way he tells stories would get us banned for profanity. My father Cesare would too, but he still writes on parchment. The rest are too busy performing, legislating, or pretending they’re not dramatic.

So that leaves me.

Welcome to The Scarlett Letters — my account of the Camerons, the Vannuccis, and every lineage we’ve crossed, created, or survived.

Now, let’s begin.

A Henfordian Wedding

Ah, Henfordshire. Scenic as ever, with its rolling green hills speckled with sheep, the occasional horseback rider cutting an elegant silhouette across the horizon, and a silver river threading through the countryside like a ribbon. And presiding over it all, perched proudly on its hill, stood the Royal Cromwell Palace — visible from nearly every village and vale, a constant reminder that this was still a kingdom, ruled by a monarch whose lineage stretched back farther than most mortals could fathom.

Just beyond the palace grounds, nestled among ancient oaks and honey‑colored stone walls, lay Evermere Hall, the fairly recently acquired Cameron family estate and the heart of today’s festivities. The bridal preparations were underway there, while the ceremony itself would take place at Kyranmore Abbey, as every respectable Henfordshire wedding had for centuries — from farmers to nobles to the royal family itself. Even Victoria, who had once nearly married Alder within those same abbey walls, didn’t object; tradition was tradition, and the past was the past. Then everyone would return here for the reception, a real spectacle of epic proportions.

Today his scenic old place was humming. For once, it wasn’t raining from dreary grey skies, but a beautiful sunny Spring day.

Old Henfordian aristocrats in tailored tweeds and antique brooches mingled with Del Sol Valley film and music royalty dripping in diamonds and Botox. The estate looked like someone had shaken a snow globe full of old money and new fame and let the pieces fall where they may.

Inside one of the guest rooms, currently repurposed as the bridal chambers, however, it was blissful chaos.

Our beautiful bride Victoria stood in the center of the room, radiant in silk and lace, while daughter of the groom Maeve fussed with her veil, Rhiannon sipped something suspiciously strong from a crystal flute, and Lavinia tried to pin a stray curl that refused to obey physics.

“Hold still,” Maeve said, laughing. “You’re vibrating.”

“I’m getting married,” Victoria squeaked. “I’m allowed to vibrate.”

“I know. To my dad. Which is weird AF, so we both should be vibrating and I will be, when I get back home and my mom realizes I lied when I told her I was going on a couple’s retreat weekend with my lover, but Pierce was my plus one to dad’s wedding. This might be the last time you see me alive, stepmommy. And Pierce. Poor Piercey.”

“You kidding me? I have seen you mad. You can handle your mother. Especially when she starts picking apart your Pierce-y. I have seen it. And all of Brindleton Bay has heard it,” Victoria giggled.

“Yeah, sure, but where do you think I got that temper from. Spoiler alert, clearly not from my father.” Maeve laughed, grabbing Victoria with force, positioning her head to finally get the hair as she wanted it.

“Daawwww! You’re glowing,” Lavinia added. “Like… annoyingly glowing. I remember my wedding day to sweet Riordan … aaaah. Maybe I can get him to do vow renewals. I I want all this all over again.”

Rhiannon hiccuped. “She’s glowing because she’s finally getting laid on the daily by a man who isn’t a disaster. Cheers to that!”

“Rhiannon!” Victoria gasped.

“What? I said what I said. The proof that you jump Gavin’s bones is sleeping in the nursery next door, and will be two next month.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Victoria shot back, “which makes it extra funny coming from the woman who — urgh, I can barely say it — gets laid on the daily by— YUCK — Caelan! And has a kid with him. Eeeeew!”

That set everyone off.

“Don’t be silly,” Lavinia snorted. “Not on the daily. He’s constantly gone on missions, for weeks at a time. Once a month, tops.”

Rhiannon lifted her chin with drunken dignity. “He is only gone sometimes. The rest of the time everyone just thinks he’s gone when in reality he’s lying exhausted in our bedroom, worn out by me.” She wiggled her brows. “Mock all you want, ladies. I love my Dark Prince, and he has just the right amount of fire where it counts. Enough to keep me asking for more.”

“You need glasses,” Victoria teased. “And some better taste in men. Or another lover so you know what it should really feel like.”

Rhiannon gasped dramatically. “Oh please. You’re marrying Prince Valium. Yawn.”

I shot her my best glare. “Hey, careful, Rhi. That ‘Prince Valium’ happens to be my son, and you’re my sister‑in‑law. Don’t make me choose between you two. Blood is definitely thicker than old friendship.”

Rhiannon grinned. “You’d choose me. Cos your little brother would avenge me anyway.”

“Yeah, Caelan might be feared and tough, but he knows better than to mess with me. Don’t test me,” I warned, though I was laughing. But I was serious. I was calm, but Caelan and I both knew who the stronger was of us two. He’s tested it plenty since we first started working on our skills and powers a long, loooong time ago and even still nowadays, on occasion. Hint: not him.

Lavinia chimed in, wicked as ever. “Oh ladies. Scarlett has it worse than all of us. She has to deal with the pottymouthed weirdo Blaine in and outside the bedroom. You don’t even have to ask him to talk dirty—he does it all the time. And we all breathe sighs of relief when he shows up somewhere and is actually fully covered. Yikes.”

I sighed theatrically. “You have no idea. There have been days I seriously considered supergluing his clothes to his body. And while I was at it, supergluing his mouth shut too. The man could make ordering a sandwich sound obscene. Actually—” I waved a hand, resigned. “I’m fairly certain he has. More than once.”

The room dissolved into giggles again.

They were tipsy, but I wasn’t. And I noticed it while they were chattering like excited geese. A shadow. A presence. A heartbeat that didn’t belong.

Saw him through the window, peeking around a column like a guilty schoolboy, scanning for a way in. Oh, hell nah!

I sighed. “Ladies, keep our blushing bride out of trouble for five minutes. I need to… handle something.” I slipped out of the room like a shadow.

Rhiannon saluted with her champagne. “Yes Ma’am! Sounds like Blaine is in for another spanking. Go forth, Queen Mother. Spank your husband, like the almighty spanker. Or is it Spankeress? Spankerette?”

“I doubt Grampa Blaine would acknowledge spanking as a punishment. I think he’d be into it, and I’d have a new aunt or uncle incoming.” Maeve quipped bone-dry and the room erupted in laughter.

With an eyeroll I pulled the door shut behind me silently. Vampires can be very quiet when we want to be.

Alder didn’t hear me until my hand clamped over his mouth.

He yelped — muffled — and before he could blink, I ported us both to the far edge of the estate, where the trees swallowed the world and the wedding noise faded into a distant hum.

I released him and stepped back, arms crossed, head tilted. Predatory. Patient. Entirely in control.

“Well, well… what have we here?” My smile curled, slow and cutting. “Sounds like the setup to a very twisted joke. Tell me, Mr. Davenport — have you heard this one?”

I leaned in just enough for him to feel the threat beneath the silk.

“A mage fell out of the Alder tree …”

He stumbled, wide‑eyed. “Scarlett—”

“Don’t ‘Scarlett’ me, Alder,” I snapped, stepping into his space just enough to remind him who held the upper hand. “Why are you here? Because I remember vividly drying Victoria’s tears when she invited you to the wedding and you told her no.”

I let the silence stretch, slow and suffocating.

“So you and I both know you’re not here to sit politely in the back row and sniffle into a hanky while they exchange vows.” My smile sharpened. “What was the plan, hm? Burst in and object like some bargain‑bin telenovela?”

I clicked my tongue.

“Yikes. No glowing review from me. Zero out of ten stars, Mr. Davenport. Truly.”

He straightened, shoulders squaring as if dignity could be summoned by posture alone. “I only wished to speak frankly with her,” he said. “Explain things more clearly, so she can make the right choice.”

I arched a brow. “On her wedding day? You couldn’t have managed that clarifying talk at any point in the last many months?”

His mouth tightened. “I didn’t know how. I wanted to get it right — for her to really hear me. Now it doesn’t matter. I need her to hear me. She deserves to know how I feel.”

“She already knows,” I said. “You’ve told her. Many times. Usually in letters you left behind when you vanished.”

His jaw clenched, guilt flickering across his features. “I never meant to hurt her.”

“But you did,” I replied, voice soft but merciless. “Repeatedly.”

He bristled, magic crackling faintly at his fingertips.

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that…” I told him, voice soft as silk and twice as sharp.

“You leave me no choice,” he said. “I have to try and talk to her before it’s too late. And I am not afraid of you.”

“Oh, darling,” I purred, stepping forward. “You should be.”

Before he could blink — before he could even raise his hands — I was in front of him. My fingers clamped around his chin, forcing his cheeks together, my face inches from his.

A hiss slipped from my throat, low and ancient and dangerous.

“I am the daughter of the most powerful vampire alive,” I whispered. “My little brother Caelan — the Coven Enforcer, the hunter feared by every creature that crawls in the dark — still doesn’t dare backtalk me. You have met him, several times, so do you understand what I am telling you here?”

His pupils dilated. Good.

“That’s right,” I continued, voice dropping to a velvet threat. “I wouldn’t fuck with me if I were… well… literally anybody. So don’t test my patience. Especially not with your little magic tricks and gimmicks. You’d be dead before you got your arm up, sweetie.”

A spark of panic flickered in his eyes.

“Go ahead and underestimate me,” I murmured. “It’ll be fun. Well — for me, anyway. And you know who I’m married to. Trust me, baby doll, I have plenty of pent‑up anger inside, and I would be delighted to unleash it on someone. Give me a reason.”

His breath hitched. The magic fizzled out at his fingertips like a candle in the wind.

I shoved him back. He stumbled, rubbing his jaw, staring at me with a mix of fear, awe, and something dangerously close to heartbreak.

“Now,” I said, folding my arms, “let’s talk like adults.”

He looked down, shoulders sagging. “I love her.”

“I know.”

“I would die for her.”

“How cute. Keep going with this bullshit and today might be your lucky day to prove it.”

“I came to …. because—”

“Because you’re a dreamer,” I said. “And dreams are lovely, Alder — intoxicating, even. We all have them, each one different, each one shimmering with possibility.”

I stepped closer, voice softening into something far more dangerous.

“But they all share one truth: they are not real. And they never will be.”

He flinched.

“You are at a crossroads,” I continued. “One path ends with this being your last thought ever. The other ends with you coming to your senses and holstering this fever‑dream fantasy of crashing Victoria’s wedding to Gavin.”

I paused.

“Plot twist: should I mention Gavin is my son? You really think this momma bear before you would let that happen? Seriously? If you do, try me. You will be sorely missed as you rest in pieces.”

He winced.

Good.

His shoulders shook. A sniffle escaped him. My wrath softened.
I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him.

He froze — then broke.

Quietly. Violently. Shoulders trembling as decades of loneliness cracked open.

“There, there,” I murmured. “I know unrequited love sucks, Alder. I know you are not a bad guy, no matter what role fate had cast you into when you didn’t have a choice, but now you do have a choice. You say you love her? Then prove it.”

He swallowed hard.

“You abandoned her when it mattered,” I said gently. “Gavin didn’t. He forgave her mistakes. He stayed. He showed up. Every time.”

“She forgave me,” Alder whispered.

“She did,” I said. “Because she’s kind. Because she’s good. Because she loves you — as a friend.”

He closed his eyes.

“A friend, Alder. Not a lover. Not a partner. Not a boyfriend. Not a fiancé. Definitely not a husband. Not a father to her child. She already has one of those in Gavin. And my son has proven twice over that he is a good father and is proving it again. I strongly believe that DNA does not a father make, but in Gavin’s case he is Annabelle’s DNA and he is present. You are not her DNA, and ask yourself, were you ever really present, and if, was it for the right reasons? No, Alder, you were mostly gone. I am quite certain if I grabbed Annabelle and held her up to you, she wouldn’t even recognize you, because … repeat after me: You have been absent when it counted. You were there in the delivery room with her, pretending to be the father, you took that experience from my son with your magic trickery, and what did you do with it? You ended up getting Victoria turned into a vampire, against her will. Don’t even start about the saving her life part. I have heard that ad nauseum. And did you really save her? You tricked my father into turning her, mostly because it served your purpose at the time. Then when she struggled with her new life, you left. More than once. Does that sound like the man she should leave a solid guy who really loves her in good times and bad standing at the altar for?”

I let the words settle.

“Tell me,” I said softly. “Be honest, with me, and with yourself: If you were an outsider looking in… who should she choose? Whom would YOU choose if you were her?”

He let out a long, broken sigh.

“…Gavin.”

“There it is,” I whispered.

He turned to leave. A man defeated.

“Hey, Davenport.”

He stopped. Turned. Sad eyes met my silver ones.

I smiled. “Victoria could use a maid of honor. Seeing how your schedule is obviously clear today, I think you’d be perfect.”

He blinked. Then laughed — a small, cracked sound.

“If you think I am perfect now, wait until you see me in a dress.”

I laughed too, looping my arm around his shoulders.

“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go make a bride cry.”

Back at the bridal chambers, I knocked lightly.

“Ladies, are we all decent?”

Rhiannon giggled. “Have we ever been?”

More laughter.

I pushed the door open and stepped aside.

“I found someone who is dying to be your maid of honor.”

Alder stepped in.

Victoria gasped — then ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck.

“Alder, you came! I’m so glad you came!”

He hugged her tightly, eyes closed, when he opened them he mouthed over her shoulder at me:

Thank you.

I nodded.

Because sometimes love means letting go. And sometimes letting go means showing up anyway. And all the time it means having to make choices. I chose this. But before you think I am some kind of heroine, please know, one false move and Alder will be no more.

The wedding was a spectacle, my sweet baby boy looked happier than I have seen him in ages, so serene with her in his arms for the first dance and the obligatory wedding portraits.

The reception a strange but glorious hybrid of after‑party and royal banquet. Despite the clash of cultures, everyone seemed to be having the time of their lives. There was laughter, eating, drinking, and—

“God fucking dammit!”

I closed my eyes. Of course.

I turned to my husband, who was aggressively rubbing the linen tablecloth against himself like a toddler trying to erase a crime. I pried the fabric from his hands and replaced it with my napkin, scrubbing at the rainbow of stains he’d managed to accumulate. His classy tuxedo now looked like a parrot’s funeral. During Mardi Gras.

I attacked a particularly stubborn stain on his lap, only to look up and find him grinning at me — that crooked smirk that made me fall in love with him while simultaneously inspiring violent fantasies. The bad kind. The “bury him under the hydrangeas” kind. Especially when he wiggled his eyebrows.

“Hey, Letty, while you’re down there, wanna go test‑drive some of our son’s beds? Test stability and shit?”

With a sigh that could have powered a windmill, I balled up the napkin and stuffed it in his face. My wine glass was empty — a tragedy — so I stood just as Blaine’s fangs snagged the napkin, turning him into a muffled fountain of obscenities.

I almost collided with my brother Caelan, who rarely smiled, so the mocking grin he wore now was practically a billboard.

“Ha!” he barked at Blaine, who was still wrestling the napkin like an overgrown toddler.

I yanked it out of Blaine’s mouth and stuffed it into Caelan’s instead. Blaine doubled over laughing, while Caelan erupted in gargled fury. I didn’t care. I was headed for the bar to lubricate my annoyance.

I downed one glass. Then another. Slowed on the third under the bartender’s worried stare.

Arms wrapped around me from behind, instantly heating my skin with a prickling sensation that got me all hot and bothered, despite everything. Blaine’s voice brushed my ear.

“I like drunk sex.”

“I’m not drunk, babe.”

“How many fingers am I holding up?” he teased, rubbing himself against me in a way that made it clear he didn’t mean actual fingers.

With an annoyed sigh and a wicked grin, I said, “I don’t know. I feel nothing.”

He clutched his chest dramatically. “Ouch! You wound me, fair maiden… why must you?”

“Because it’s fun. And the maiden ship sailed for me seven kids ago.”

He laughed.

I flipped him off right in front of his face. “That’s how many fingers.”

He chuckled and kissed my fingertips.

A sweet moment. A fleeting one.

“So, on a hap-hap-happy occasion like our little boy getting hitched, what got your hoo‑ha so sandy, sugartits?” he asked. Yeah, my husband the poet. Not.

“Blaine, have you seen the bride and groom? I lost sight of them after the cake cutting. Victoria still has to toss the bouquet.”

“Yeah, I saw them chasing each other up the stairs, panting with their tongues hanging out. My money’s on them testing the mattress right about now. She’ll toss the bouquet after a recovery nap and hosing off our son’s DNA samples.”

“Oh MY GOD, BLAINE! It’s our son’s wedding! Supposed to be romantic! Can you just NOT with your pervert mind for ONE single day?!”

“What? There was a time when the wedding night had to happen in front of witnesses to prove consummation. Ask your daddy, the walking, talking encyclopedia of history. I saw him haunting this place earlier, he’s around here somewhere. Just because we don’t have to fuck out loud in front of everyone anymore doesn’t mean everyone doesn’t know what’s happening. Spoiler alert: after a wedding, you fuck. Universal law.”

“Oh dear Lord. Well, joke’s on me. I married you.” I sighed.

His grin widened. “And you love it! What would a spicy chick like you want with some dull boring conformity husband, huh?”

I didn’t get to reply.

“Mom?”

I turned. Our youngest, Blaine Jr., stood there — voice cracking mid‑word, like a haunted kazoo. Every time he spoke lately, I had to fight not to burst into laughter.

“What’s up, baby?” I asked.

He looked worried. Instinctively, I reached for his forehead — mortal children had the annoying habit of getting sick.

He pulled back. “Mom, something is wrong with me.” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “It won’t stop bleeding.”

“What won’t stop—?”

He opened his mouth, pulling back his lips.

I leaned in, poking around like a deranged dentist.

“Oh fuck.”

My son’s eyes widened, alerted by my unusual reaction. Even Blaine sobered at my tone.

I grabbed Blaine Jr.’s arm and hissed at my husband, “Get my dad. NOW. Bring him to our room. NOW, Blaine.”

“Mom, what’s wrong with me?” Blaine Jr. pleaded.

I didn’t answer. I grabbed him and ported.

In our room, I’d barely released him when Blaine and my father appeared.

“Scarlett, what in God’s name—”

“Dad, Blaine Jr. is starting to turn.”

“Oh, dio mio — adesso?! NOW?! And HERE!?” my father exploded. “He has inherited his father’s talent for choosing the absolute worst possible moment for theatrics!” With that, he shot a glare at Blaine Sr., who just shrugged.

Before I could answer, my dad Cesare swept our son into his arms and vanished in a crack of displaced air. I didn’t need to ask where he’d gone.

Of course he took him to Castello di Vannucci — the vampire fortress where I grew up, where generations of our line have risen from their first vampiric hibernation. Where the old coffins rest in the deep chambers, waiting for the moment a mortal child becomes something more. A vampire adolescent.

By the time Blaine (Sr) and I and the rest of the fanged family arrived, Blaine Jr. was already in a casket, unconscious, waiting to rise again. With fangs. And a lifetime of lessons ahead.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Blaine Sr. did. He was cheering.

He shrugged at my look. “Babe, I know. At least we saw all the good parts of Gavin’s wedding, and finally to a girl you approve of. Both of them are vamps, so not like we wouldn’t have enough time to check in on them. But the great news is we’re never gonna have to bury that son! Unturning is outlawed, so he is what he is. And I think that is fuckin’ awesome! Oh, and spoiler alert. We have been wondering whether or not he had the spark since he was conceived. Tada, now we know! Woot!”

He grabbed me, twirled me, kissed me.

Yes, he was right, and yes, I was relieved. But Blaine loved the sun so much. He would be heartbroken waking up without one last chance to enjoy it. You see, we are all daywalkers. But you don’t start out that way. When our baby rises, he will have to avoid the sun or he will burn, painfully so, he won’t be able to eat mortal foods, or he will get violently ill. All that needed to be built up slowly again, patiently, which was never the strong suit of either Blaine. And the younger Blaine had so much to learn now, to be able to thrive as a member of the fanged community, and he hated studying for school, so this added on top would be rough for all involved. And then there were rules. So many rules, specific for us vampires, all harshly enforced. Getting the older Blaine to abide had been a rollercoaster, now we had to go through that with his son again. Oof.

We hadn’t warned him. We hadn’t wanted to taint his innocence. Thinking we had another year or so. He knew what we were, obviously and sure he had asked questions about himself, but we always found ways to blow him off, change the topic. Now our son would rise again immediately confronted with a truth we shielded him from.

And now it was too late.

End of this chapter. No worries, there will be more, because the next drama is already looming on our horizon in a place where we all would least expect it.