Ashfall – The Dark Prince Saga

Prologue

They called him the Dark Prince long before he ever earned the title.

Caelan Vannucci was born to be his father’s heir — the son destined to inherit a throne his older sister could never rightfully claim, not in a world where vampire law still clung to ancient rules and older prejudices. But fate carved him differently.

As a young scholar, he learned the first lesson of war the hard way — not in a classroom, but in the kind of brutal trial meant to strip boys of softness and turn them into weapons. It was the old way, the ancient way, the way of warriors who believed that only blood and fear could teach discipline. Young vampires were pitted against one another like Vikings testing their sons or Roman slaves forced to fight for survival, each bout a reminder that strength meant nothing without focus.

Caelan hesitated once.

Just once.

A moment’s distraction, a flash of steel, and the ancient English longsword his opponent wielded carved a line across the right side of his face — a burning, bone‑deep reminder that battle does not wait for thought. That hesitation kills. That mercy is a luxury reserved for those who live long enough to offer it.

He did not hesitate again.

The injury did not define him. It refined him. It forged the greatest warrior of his generation.

And when the dust settled and the shouting stopped, Caelan walked away from the arena with two things: a scar that would follow him into legend, and the very longsword that had marked him — the blade he claimed as his own, the weapon that remains his preferred choice to this day, despite it being simple and plain, nothing like the other, more elaborate weapons in the armory. This one didn’t need embellishment. It had history.

But it was not the scar that cost him the crown.

Caelan’s true affliction — the one whispered about in old halls and behind closed doors — stripped him of what his father believes a ruler must possess. Not strength. Not strategy. But humanity. Emotional intelligence. The ability to feel deeply enough to be just, kind, and fair, even when the world demands brutality.

Caelan feels only muted echoes of what others experience. His emotions exist, but subdued, distant, muffled beneath the weight of his condition. Without a filter, without an anchor, a magnifier, he risks becoming something colder than a dictator — something closer to a tyrant.

Cesare knows this. Caelan knows this. Their entire world knows this.

It is why he can never be the Dark King should Cesare’s reign ever end, either by his own choice or an assassination attempt that finally succeeded. Not because he is unworthy — but because he is too powerful without enough softness, too sharp without enough balance, too capable of cruelty without meaning to be cruel.

And because of this, the world misreads him.

They see the stillness and assume apathy. They see the restraint and assume emptiness. They see the scar and imagine a monster.

But Caelan is not empty. He is not cold. He is not heartless.

His emotions are there — quiet, buried, waiting for someone who can help him reach them. And he found her.

With Rhiannon, his soulmate, he becomes something else entirely. With her, he feels. With her, he becomes whole. With her and Cesare’s guidance, he is not just a weapon — he is the deadliest one their world has ever known.

And their world needs him.

For centuries, vampires have lived surrounded by enemies: mortals who fear them, witches who once hunted them, mages who resent them, werewolves who challenge them. Treaties rise and fall. Governments shift. Old grudges never die. Peace is a fragile thing, and monsters — real or imagined — make convenient scapegoats.

That is why the army exists.

The Enforcers — the three most lethal trackers alive — are led by Caelan himself, the Dark Prince at the front of every hunt.

Beside him moves Connell, his only child with Rhiannon, all silvery-blonde hair and purplish-blue eyes, firelight catching in the loose braids that fall like spun moonlight. He carries himself with a quiet, inherited authority — charm tempered by discipline; legacy sharpened into presence.

And completing the trio is Damon, Connell’s son, with the appearance of a fallen seraph carved in vengeance and beauty. Slicked-back blonde hair, high cheekbones, full lips, and those silver eyes — the same as Caelan’s and Cesare’s — flickering between curiosity and calculation like twin blades. Mortals mistake him for a model or a musician. Girls always noticed him, but he has yet to spend more than one night with any of them. Most vampires knew better than to underestimate him. Those who had made the mistake of trusting that beauty, of mistaking perfection for mercy, found out too late that it was their last mistake.

Together, the three of them are a force whispered about in every shadowed corner of their world — the hunters no one escapes, the judgment no one outruns.

But protection is only a fraction of their purpose. The Enforcers exist for something far more vital — and far more feared. They are the keepers of order among their own. Cesare’s laws are firm, ancient, and absolute, because vampires are not only dangerous to mortals, but especially to each other. A single rogue can unravel centuries of stability. A handful can ignite a war. And if the balance of Cesare’s reign ever shatters, the fallout would not stop with vampires — it would drag mortals, witches, mages, and every occult lineage into ruin. So the Enforcers hunt their own without hesitation. Vampires who do not wish to be found are nearly impossible to track — except by them. They find anyone. They bring judgment without fail, whether on the spot or before Cesare’s court. They are not merely hunters. They are the consequence.

Behind them stand the Hollow Sentinels, an army bound by oath, forbidden to marry or procreate, trained to protect a people who will never truly be safe. In the old days, families offered their sons willingly. It was an honor. A legacy. A way to lift an entire household into prosperity.

And they serve under Caelan.

The prince who never wanted a crown. The commander who demanded absolute loyalty. The weapon who cannot feel — unless the one woman who anchors him stands at his side.

This is the story beneath the legend. The man beneath the scar. The heir who was never meant to rule, yet commands an army feared by every creature that walks in shadow.

This is Ashfall.
This is The Dark Prince Saga.

With a groan, the tall figure slumped against the crumbling stone, barely distinguishable from the shadows through which he moved — as if he were part of them, stitched from dusk and old violence.

He did not breathe. He hadn’t needed to in over a century. But the stillness of his chest made the damage more obvious: the torn muscle, the corrupted magic simmering beneath his skin, the way his body fought to knit itself back together and failed.

Too weak to port. Too wounded to stand for long.

The wound across his ribs pulsed with a sickly, unnatural heat — witchfire, or something worse. His coat was soaked through, heavy with ash and blood. He pressed a hand to the wall, fingers trembling from effort alone. Not fear. Never fear.

The alley was silent. Forgotten Hollow was still miles away — unreachable in his state. He had tried to walk. He had tried to crawl. Now he sagged against the stone like a dying shadow.

A sound.

Soft. Deliberate.

He lifted his head, vision blurring at the edges. The darkness shifted. A figure stepped out of it — tall, cloaked, silent. No heartbeat. No warmth. No scent.

Not mortal.

His hand twitched toward the blade at his hip, but his fingers refused to close. A low sound escaped him — not breath, but a dry, cracked rasp pulled from a throat that had forgotten air long ago.

The figure came closer.

“Easy,” the voice said. Low. Familiar. “You look like hell, father.”

A breathless laugh — sharp, cold, humorless — scraped out of him.

“Connell,” he managed. “Never been gladder to see you, son.”

His son stepped into the thin strip of moonlight, jaw tight, eyes bright with a mix of irritation and worry he’d never admit aloud. His hair — pale as frost, braided back with the precision of someone who expected battle at any moment — caught the light like wire. The coat he wore was dark and reinforced, buckled across the chest, marked with the sigil of the Enforcers. He looked like a weapon. He was one.

“You were supposed to report back days ago,” Connell said, crouching beside him. “Grandfather’s very concerned, mom and grandma are almost hysterical. I told them I’d go find you, as it never takes you that long. Getting slow, old man.”

A rasp that might’ve been a scoff. “I was busy bleeding, you brat.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Dammit dad. You let them get you good.”

Connell assessed the wound, then the alley, then his father again — the commander of the Coven Enforcers, the man he answered to, the man he’d follow into hell without hesitation.

“Can you port?” Connell asked, already knowing the answer.

A slow shake of the head.

“Walk? With help.”

A glare. “Barely.”

Connell huffed — not breath, just annoyance made sound. “Right. Then shut up and hold on. For once, you will listen to me and do as I say.”

Before Caelan could protest, Connell hauled him upright with practiced strength, one arm braced around his father’s back, the other gripping his coat. Caelan’s weight sagged against him, heavier than it should have been.

Connell tightened his hold, pulling him close — the way vampires must when porting another.

“Don’t fight me,” he muttered.

Caelan’s voice was a low growl. “I’m not.”

“Good.”

The shadows around them thickened, folding inward. Connell’s arms locked around him, anchoring him to the only thing keeping him from collapsing.

And then the world snapped.

Darkness swallowed them both as Connell ported them home — two Enforcers, bloodied, bound by duty and bloodline, vanishing toward the Castello di Vannucci.

***

They landed in silence.

Stone walls. Candlelight. The scent of old parchment and iron. The Castello di Vannucci was quiet at this hour — but not asleep. It never slept.

Connell steadied his father, keeping one arm braced around him as they crossed the threshold. No servants. No guards. They didn’t need them. The Castello recognized its own.

She was already waiting.

Rhiannon stood at the edge of the hall, her gown deep plum, her hair pulled back in soft, intricate coils. Her eyes — that strange, impossible shade of violet-blue — locked onto Caelan’s form, and her expression shattered into alarm.

“Oh my God, you found him! Oh, Caelan, you’re injured.” She rushed forward, hands already reaching. “Connell, get your grandfather. Now.”

Connell didn’t argue. He vanished down the corridor.

Rhiannon’s fingers brushed Caelan’s face, his coat, his ribs. “What happened? My poor darling!”

“It’s nothing. You should see the other guys. Just warlock magic and silly gimmicks,” he rasped. “Toxic. Designed for our kind. Just get Leeora, she can …”

Her voice dropped. “You should’ve called for me. Or let our son find you sooner! And your father can fix you up just as well.”

“I didn’t want you near it. Nor the boys. It was a trap. An ambush.”

She pressed her forehead to his. “Stubborn man! You sent Connell and Damon away and shielded yourself so they couldn’t find you. That was very reckless of you! I nearly died for worry about you! So did your son and grandson!”

Footsteps echoed. Cesare entered the hall, Riordan at his side — tall, composed, silver-eyed. The Grand Master Elder took one look at his son and froze.

“Oh dio mio,” he muttered. “Bring him into the study.”

They moved quickly. Cesare’s study was lined with tomes and tinctures, scrolls and surgical tools. Riordan lit the lamps while Cesare peeled back Caelan’s coat, inspecting the wound with a scholar’s precision.

“Witchfire laced with ironroot, mandrake and pure garlic oil essence,” he murmured. “And something else. Clever. Cruel.”

“Can you fix it?” Rhiannon asked.

Cesare didn’t look up. “Of course. Riordan, bring my kit.”

Riordan already had fetched it, handing it to his uncle, which he acknowledged with a grateful nod.

He worked swiftly, mixing an antidote from a vial hidden behind a false panel. Riordan handed him gauze, a blade, a flask of blood. The process was quiet, clinical, and oddly reverent.

When it was done, Cesare stepped back. “You’ll live. But you’ll rest. One week. No exceptions. This could have ended very badly. Great work Connell, for finding him so swiftly. You might well have saved your father’s life. Thank you, my boy.”

Caelan grumbled. “I’m an Enforcer.”

“I am sorry, did I sound indecisive? You are an Enforcer, a very good one, but also my son,” Cesare said, voice firm. “And Connell’s father. Rhiannon’s husband. You worried your poor mother half into the grave with your pride! So, you will do as I say and you’ll rest for a week, more, if you keep arguing with me. If you won’t listen to your father, then I am also your master, and you are my subject. It is an order. Or do you now also defy direct orders, soldier?”

“Of course not. As you wish, father.”

Rhiannon smiled, already kissing around his jaw, his temple, his shoulder. “Good. I like you being home with me for a while. There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about. It will help pass the time while you are laid up.”

Caelan blinked. “What?”

She kissed him again. “Well, I’ve been thinking… maybe we should try for another child.”

The room stilled.

“Oh dear God!” Connell couldn’t help slip out.

Cealan’s eyes grew wide, his mouth fell agape. Cesare traded a glance with Riordan, who raised a brow and murmured, “Perhaps this conversation belongs in your private quarters.”

Connell, who had just reentered, groaned. “Yup. If you no longer need me then, Grandfather, I would really like to not be part of that kind of talk between my parents but instead be with my own wife and son. Maybe find a way to wash out my ears and brain with bleach or something.”

Cesare tried to hide his amusement. “Connell, don’t be so dramatic.”

Connell gave him a look. “Grandfather, I know my mother. The decision is already made. I am going to be a big brother at some point soon to a sibling younger than my own grandchildren, which is beyond cringe. My father now just gets the illusion of having any say in it. On that note, I will see you all later. I am very happy you are okay, dad, but I really do not need to hear any more of mom’s plans.”

He vanished before anyone could reply.

*

Rhiannon guided Caelan into their chambers with a firmness that brooked no argument. The moment the door shut behind them, her hands were already on him — not frantic, but focused, assessing, determined.

“Sit,” she murmured, steering him toward the bench beside the hearth.

Caelan obeyed, though the stiffness in his movements betrayed how much the wound still burned. Rhiannon knelt before him, fingers moving to the buckles of his heavy leather coat. The material was scorched, torn, and stiff with dried witchfire residue.

“This needs to come off,” she said softly.

He didn’t protest. He simply held still as she worked, her touch careful around the places where the magic had eaten through the fabric and into his skin. She eased the coat from his shoulders, folding it aside with a frown that was equal parts worry and irritation.

“You should have called for me,” she said softly. A vampire bond, once formed, was absolute. Soulmates could cross distance without moving, feel each other through walls, find one another in the dark, reach across time and space. He only had to reach — she would have come.

He answered in a low, gravelled murmur. “Didn’t want you near that spellwork. I would lose my mind if they were to hurt you.”

She shook her head, already moving to his boots. “Now you know how I feel each time you go on another mission. Next time you are in a bind, you stop shielding so our son can detect you or you call for me. You protect everyone. I protect you.”

Her hands were gentle but efficient, unbuckling the straps, sliding the boots free. Caelan watched her, silent, the tension in his jaw easing only slightly as she worked. She rose then, stepping closer, her fingers brushing the edge of his ruined shirt.

“This too,” she murmured. “You’re still covered in residue. It needs to be washed off before it sinks deeper. I’d prefer it burned, along with whomever did this to you!”

He let her lift the fabric over his head, her touch steady, reverent in its own way. The shirt joined the coat on the floor, and Rhiannon’s eyes swept over the wound Cesare had treated — the angry, darkened mark still pulsing faintly with leftover magic.

Her breath caught, just a little.

“Oh, Caelan…”

He reached for her hand, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. “I’m all right. Just a little dinged up. I’ll be as good as new by dawn.”

“You will be,” she corrected, squeezing his hand once before releasing it. “But you’re not yet. You heard your father. A week. Minimum! I am very much holding you to that! You are all mine, Mister, for at least a week. Till the very last second.”

She stepped back, nodding toward the bathing chamber. “Come. Let me help you wash the rest of this off.”

He rose heavily, and she steadied him as they made their way to the wash chamber — part medieval, part modernized, a blend of modern comforts and echoes of Cesare’s Florentine Renaissance sensibilities.

Rhiannon leaned him against the wall while she turned on the shower, adjusting the temperature. Vampires weren’t as susceptible to heat or cold the way mortals were, but they sensed comfort, and she knew exactly what he preferred.

She turned back to him, working at the fastenings of his remaining clothing. Caelan closed his eyes as she eased the material down, then guided him to sit so she could remove the heavy boots — reinforced with greaves that made them nearly impossible for him to manage in his injured state.

He felt strangely exposed without the layers of leather and armor, but Rhiannon’s presence steadied him. She helped him to his feet and toward the water.

“Hold on to the wall. I’ll help you wash,” she instructed, sliding up her sleeves as she reached for the sponge and soap.

Before she could turn fully away, Caelan caught her wrist and pulled her under the spray with him, spinning her so her back met the wall. Water splashed over them both.

Rhiannon yelped. “Cae! My dress!”

He only grinned — that rare, sharp, wicked curve of his mouth that appeared when his restraint slipped. Before she could step back, his hand flashed out with supernatural speed, catching the soaked fabric. The weakened seams gave way instantly.

The gown tore free in one clean motion, landing somewhere near the door with a wet slap.

“Caelan!” she gasped, half‑scandalized, half‑laughing. “That was my favorite gown!”

He shrugged, utterly unrepentant. “You’re the wife of the son of the Grand Master Elder. I’ll buy you ten gowns just like it. Someone will mend it, or make you another one before sunrise.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, water dripping from her lashes. “Yes, my Dark Prince…”

The nickname — whispered by the vampire community with fear, awe, and superstition — made his jaw tighten.

“I hate that nickname,” he growled.

She rose onto her toes and kissed him lightly, her fingers brushing his cheek. “I think it suits you,” she murmured. “You are my dark prince.”

Something softened in his expression — that rare flicker of emotion only she could draw out of him.

She tried to resume cleaning him, but he kept trying to pull her close again, his stubbornness rising with every touch. Finally, she planted a hand on his chest and pushed him back against the wall.

“If you want to be in my good graces tonight,” she warned, raising a finger, “you will let me clean you properly. Otherwise, you can spend the night alone thinking about how differently this could have gone.”

He lifted both hands in surrender.

“That’s what I thought,” she said, barely hiding her smile as she resumed scrubbing the battle grime from his skin.

He leaned back, letting her work, his eyes drifting shut. He thought of the years before her, the years without her, the hollow ache when she had left him. Everyone believed him a cold‑hearted monster, and he didn’t mind. But not her. Never her.

When she rose to turn him around, he caught her instead, pulling her close and kissing her — a kiss full of relief, gratitude, and something deeper.

“Oh, Caelan…” she whispered.

“I needed that,” he murmured.

“I know. And now I need you to turn around.”

He obeyed, letting her finish washing away the last traces of battle.

The water shut off. He opened his eyes just in time to catch the towel she tossed at him. She was already wrapped in one herself.

“When you’re ready,” she said softly, giving him that impossible smile — the one reserved only for him — “come join me, my Dark Prince.”

She left the room with a wink.

Caelan stood there for a moment, towel forgotten in his hand, feeling something warm and fierce unfurl in his chest. Then he followed her — not as the feared Enforcer, not as the Dark Prince, but as the man who had found his heart again in her.

Rhiannon’s smile lingered in his memory, warm and wicked all at once — the kind she reserved only for him. The kind that made something ancient and fierce unfurl in Caelan’s chest.

He didn’t bother with the towel.

He crossed the room in a blur of motion, catching her around the waist before she could take another step. She laughed — bright, breathless, startled — as he lifted her effortlessly, the sound echoing off the stone walls like a spark catching tinder.

“Caelan—!” she managed before he swept her down onto the soft expanse of their bed, her towel already removed.

Her laughter softened into something quieter, deeper, as he leaned over her — not with hunger, but with a reverence that made her chest tighten. His hands framed her face, his forehead resting against hers, water still dripping from his hair onto her skin.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then she whispered, “You’re here. You’re safe. That’s all I wanted.”

“And you’re mine,” he murmured, voice low, raw. “The only one who can ever make me feel anything real.”

Her fingers curled into his shoulders. “Then feel this.”

Their lips met — a kiss full of everything they’d survived, everything they’d lost, everything they were choosing again. A kiss that turned into fire and forgiveness and the promise of a future only they could make.

The room dimmed around them, the world narrowing to the passion and pleas of her hands and her kisses into the quiet, fierce devotion in his eyes.

The rest of the night belonged to them alone.

*

The study smelled of parchment, ink, and old stone — Cesare’s domain. Maps lay unfurled across the long table, weighted at the corners by carved obsidian pieces. Caelan stood bent over them, one hand braced on the table, the other tracing the mountain ridges with a frown.

“Father has called a meeting of all commanders,” he muttered, half to himself. “Every army, every division, Enforcers included. I want something concrete to bring to the table. There are weaknesses here—” he tapped the northern pass, “and here. If the werewolves try again, we’ll be exposed. I swear, if Michael and Luke could control their own people for once—”

He didn’t finish.

Because Rhiannon slipped her arms around him from behind, her cheek resting between his shoulder blades. He stiffened — not in rejection, but in that instinctive way he always did when he was trying to stay focused and she was making that impossible.

“Rhiannon,” he sighed, “I’m trying to—”

“I know,” she murmured.

Her hands slid to his waist. He felt her lean in, the nearness of her voice at his ear sending a ripple through him.

“But I need to tell you something.”

He straightened slightly, still looking at the map. “Can it wait until—”

“We’re pregnant.”

The world stopped.

Caelan froze, every muscle going still. The map blurred. The room tilted. For a heartbeat he didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t even think.

Then— he spun around.

“PREG—”

The door swung open.

“—NANT!”

Cesare, Riordan, Connell, and Scarlett all stepped inside at that exact moment.

Silence.

Rhiannon flushed deeply. Caelan looked like someone had hit him with a war hammer.

Scarlett blinked once, then her lips curled into a slow, delighted grin. “Well,” she said brightly, “that’s one way to announce it.”

Connell dragged a hand down his face with a low, wordless sound of exasperation. “Yikes! Walked right into that one. Oh Ancestors, please tell me this is not happening.”

Riordan arched a brow, amused. “Well, Connell, I think it is happening. It appears congratulations are in order.”

Cesare’s silver eyes softened — just a fraction — before he cleared his throat. “I assume,” he said, voice calm but warm beneath the surface, “that this was meant to be a private moment, not something publicly announced in my study.”

Rhiannon pressed her face briefly into Caelan’s shoulder. “It was.”

Scarlett elbowed her towering brother. “Little brother, so excited that he shouts the news from the imaginary rooftops?” she giggled.

“I didn’t shout anything,” Caelan muttered.

“You absolutely shouted, dad. Way to scar your kid for life. I may need therapy now,” Connell said.

“I think we all could use a stiff drink at those news – and their delivery,” Riordan added.

Cesare stepped forward, placing a hand on Caelan’s shoulder — a rare gesture of paternal affection. “My son,” he said quietly, “this is good news indeed. My heartfelt congratulations to both of you.”

Caelan swallowed hard. “I… yes. Yes, it is.”

Rhiannon squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back, still dazed, still processing, still glowing in a way only she could draw out of him.

Scarlett leaned in with a smirk. “Oh, if only Blaine were here…”

“Scarlett,” Caelan warned.

“What?” she said innocently. “I’m just planning ahead. You know my husband loves babies. Even if they are yours.”

Cesare turned to his daughter. “My petal, I love you dearly, but please — seize to antagonize your brother. And also, I feel this needs to be said: do not let this inspire you. Seven children are quite enough.”

Riordan chuckled.

Connell shook his head. “I’m leaving before this turns into another family debate about babies and Blaine in general.”

Cesare lifted a hand. “No one is leaving. We have a meeting to prepare for.”

Scarlett grinned wider. “Oh, Daddy, please. I am going to be an aunt again and you are thinking about strategic positioning of the Hollow Sentinels and exploratory dispatches? I think what you really should be doing is tell Mom. You know she will love this. She always said that all Cae managed was an illegitimate child with a witch from a forbidden relationship and Connell.”

“What is THAT supposed to mean?” Connell grumbled.

“It means you are such a handsome gem that it’s a pity there aren’t more of you. Your grandma always wanted you to have more siblings,” Scarlett purred, kissing her nephew’s cheek. He answered with an eye roll.

Cesare’s mouth twitched — the closest he ever came to a smile. “Perhaps I find myself in a state of happy anticipation. Your sister isn’t wrong.”

Rhiannon leaned her forehead lightly against Caelan’s arm. “We wanted to tell you all soon anyway. A little more refined but hey … this works too, I suppose.”

Caelan looked down at her, awe softening every sharp line of his face. “I didn’t even know,” he murmured.

“You do now,” she said softly. “And I told you I wanted another child that night you came home battered and bruised — injured within an inch of your life, again. You owe me another child after all you always put me through, thinking each time I bid you farewell may have been the last time.”

“Yup,” Connell said. “Mom told you, and I said that what Mom wants, Mom gets. I rest my case. And think about how I am going to break this to my kids that they will have an aunt or uncle younger than THEIR kids. Jeezes H.!”

Cesare clapped his hands once. “Well. Speaking of cases — why don’t you fetch a case of fine wine from the cellar so we can adequately celebrate the happy news. Scarlett, go get your mother. Connell, after the wine, run home and bring Emmy and Damon. Riordan, fetch your lovely wife — Lavinia should be here for this.”

“Oh, well, let me get Blaine real quick then…” Scarlett offered, already turning — only to be met with a resounding, unanimous “NO!”

She blinked. “Wow. Okay.”

Cesare cleared his throat, attempting to maintain his composure. “Well, my petal, that won’t be necessary. There will be time for a proper celebration — with your husband — at a later point. For now, just the… Forgotten Hollow residents will do.”

And for a moment — just a moment — the feared Enforcer, the Dark Prince, the commander of the Coven’s most lethal force… looked utterly undone.

In the best possible way.

*

Rhiannon lay back on the padded table, hands folded over her stomach, while Connor adjusted the machine beside her. It looked like a normal ultrasound unit — just with a few extra settings that definitely didn’t exist in mortal hospitals.

Chris hovered beside him, nervous but excited, tapping through the interface. “Okay, so… this is my first time doing a scan on a vampire patient. Anything I should know before I screw it up?”

Connor gave him a look. “You’re not going to screw it up. Just remember: vampire physiology doesn’t behave like mortal physiology. The machine compensates. You don’t have to.”

Chris nodded, swallowing. “Right. Got it.”

Caelan leaned against the wall, arms crossed, expression unimpressed. “Why is a mortal here for this? Chris doesn’t know the first thing about vampire pregnancies. Well, at least the kid can read. More than can be said for his great‑grandfather. Blaine is dumber than socks on a goldfish.”

Chris blinked. “Wow. Thanks.”

Connor didn’t miss a beat. “Careful, Caelan. You keep talking like that and I’ll start charging you hazard pay for bedside hostility. Chris doesn’t need fangs to learn this. He wants to, and it helps me — I can’t be everywhere at once. THAT is why he’s here.”

Chris added, “Yeah, sorry if my body heat and heartbeat offend you, Caelan. So, Dad, why don’t we use the machines coroners use to scan dead people? It’s kinda the same, right? I mean… Rhiannon is dead. Technically. No offense.”

“HEY!” Caelan roared, eyebrows drawn. “And offense very much taken!”

“What? Why? Scientifically speaking, you are!” Chris defended himself — but Connor cut in before Caelan could launch across the room.

“Yes and no, Chris. Do I look dead to you? Or Rhiannon? There’s a gray zone here. Vampires fall into that. Hence the machine.”

“He’ll look pretty dead if he insults my wife again,” Caelan grumbled.

“Cae,” Rhiannon soothed, while Chris threw up his hands.

“That wasn’t an insult, it was a fact! I apologized already! But from a scientific standpoint, yes — you and my dad and Rhiannon are technically dead. I’m not saying you are, I grew up with vampires, but that doesn’t mean I’m genetically predisposed to understand how you work. Especially after spending years in med school learning that you’re all basically impossible. Dad, tell them what I mean.”

Connor ruffled his son’s hair like he was sixteen, not a twenty‑seven‑year‑old doctor. “Down boy, chill out, I don’t want to have to separate you and Caelan. Not impossible, Chris. Just implausible. That’s why it’s called the spark. For centuries, very smart vampires have tried to figure it out — your great- great‑grandfather Cesare included — and it still can’t be explained. But at least I was able to develop something to help us see what we couldn’t before. Like pregnancy checkups. Vampires can miscarry too — not in this case, Rhiannon, your baby is strong and healthy — but when there is reason for worry, we can finally see it.”

Caelan snorted. “Blaine’s a lush, but his grandson and great‑grandson turned out worth something.”

Connor muttered, “Coming from you, that’s practically a love letter.”

“Don’t let it go to your heads,” Caelan shot back. “You’re the exceptions proving the rule that Blaine is a waste of skin — just like all the ruts he fathered.”

“Wow,” Chris mumbled. “Can’t wait to spread the news to my aunts and uncles and cousins…”

“Well, tattle if you must. I said what I said. What do your aunts and uncles and cousins do, huh? They sing. Music. THAT is their claim to fame? Useless. A cat in heat in some alley has more rhythm than some of them. Your father and you accomplished something useful. THAT is what I said.” Caelan added unimpressed.

“I still don’t know if that is a compliment or an insult.” Chris grumbled.

“Considering the source, I take it as a compliment, son.” Connor retorted.

Rhiannon laughed softly. “Boys, please.”

Connor straightened, professional again. “All right. Let’s take a look.”

Chris applied the gel with gentle hands — excellent bedside manner, just like his father — and Rhiannon relaxed under his touch.

“You doing okay?” Chris asked.

“I’m good,” she said warmly. “Thank you, Chris.”

He smiled, reassured. “Okay. Starting the scan.”

The screen flickered, then resolved into a clear image — tiny limbs, a curled spine, a fluttering heartbeat.

Rhiannon gasped softly. Caelan went still.

Chris leaned closer, eyes widening. “Dad.”

Connor stepped beside him. Chris whispered to him. Connor leaned in, Chris pointed. One glance, one nod.

“Ask them,” he murmured.

Chris turned to the couple. “Do you want to know the gender?”

Rhiannon looked at Caelan. Caelan looked at her. They nodded together.

“Yes,” she said. “We do,” Caelan added quietly.

Connor stepped back, letting Chris take the lead.

Chris smiled — proud, a little emotional. “Congratulations, guys… it’s a girl.”

Rhiannon covered her mouth, tears welling. Caelan stared at the screen like the world had shifted under his feet.

“A girl,” he whispered.

Rhiannon squeezed his hand. “You’re going to be wonderful with her.”

He hesitated. “I don’t know. A daughter… girls are so delicate and I’m not exactly—”

“You were and are a great dad to Leeora, she still adores you,” Rhiannon said gently. “She always has. You’re her safe place. And Connell and you bicker, but I know you two love each other more than anything.”

Caelan’s expression softened — barely, but unmistakably.

Chris wiped the probe and stepped back, giving them space. “She’s strong. Healthy. Perfect. Nicely done guys.”

Rhiannon exhaled shakily. “A girl… a little ray of light.” She looked at Caelan. “What’s that word again? In Italian? For light?”

“Luce,” he said softly.

Chris perked up. “Oh! Actually — when I was in Tartosa with Cadie, to propose—” he grinned, “—we met the cutest little girl named Luciana. She told us her name means light too. I think Cadie is banking it for our future kids name list, but honestly, Luciana Cameron just doesn’t flow. You have an Italian last name anyway and Luciana Vannucci definitely works.”

Rhiannon repeated it under her breath. “Luciana…”

Caelan tried it next, slower, tasting it. “Luciana Vannucci. The boy may be onto something. I like it. Thank you, Chris. You definitely take more after the Vannucci side.”

“I love how the name sounds,” Rhiannon added.

It settled into the room like it had always belonged there.

Connor crossed his arms, satisfied. “How about Lucy for short? Sweet, but with a little… mischief. Hard to believe our family could produce anything too angelic. Either side.”

Chris laughed. “Yeah, she sounds like she’s going to be trouble with that father. No offense Caelan, but … ya know …”

Caelan’s mouth twitched — the closest he ever got to a smile. “Luciana,” he murmured again, softer this time. “Lucy. Yeah… I think Chris, you’re a little shithead, but when you’re right, you’re right. And I do like the sound of it.”

Rhiannon leaned into him, glowing. “I do too. Our little ray of light, with just enough spiciness.”

“Just like her mother,” Caelan said. He touched the screen, reverent. “All right, well… hello there, Lucy.”

“Hey, let me get you guys a printout — for the wall and all,” Chris said, already turning toward the printer to fire it up.

And Caelan — the man who feared nothing — looked at the image of his daughter like he’d just found the one thing in the world worth dying for over and over again.