I'm A Vampire.

Salviana ate, though more out of necessity than enjoyment.

She would loathe returning to this suffocating dining hall again, but she knew it was inevitable. The hall served its purpose: to display the power of the royal family, a spectacle the king seemed to relish. The heavy silence pressed down on her, but she kept her gaze fixed on her plate, resisting the urge to glance to her right. Her husband sat there, his piercing gaze on her from the moment they took their seats.

What could he possibly find so intriguing?

She wasn't about to become a scapegoat by offending the king on her first day. So she ate.

At least the food provided a temporary distraction. Her attention drifted toward a particular delicacy, one of the many ornate silver platters filled with dishes she had never seen before. She glanced to her left, noticing the brooding prince beside her, his expression unreadable, hard, and distant. Just as she extended her fork to serve herself, she felt it—a cold touch that sent a shiver up her spine.

His fingers.

Cold as ice, trailing along the back of her neck. Her body tensed, and her utensils clattered against the plate as a soft, involuntary moan escaped her lips. The sound was so unexpected, so inappropriate, that her face instantly flushed.

I'm going to be a scapegoat, she thought bitterly.

His hand lingered, gently tucking her fiery red hair behind her ear. His eyes—empty yet intensely focused—studied her, unnerving her even more.

When had he removed his gloves? Her lips parted dramatically so she could breathe better because her heart raced erratically as she slowly turned her head, her vibrant green eyes locking with the cold black gaze of her husband.

His eyes narrowed slightly, suspicion or perhaps confusion flickering within them before he commanded, "Eat your food."

The words snapped her out of the trance, and her face burned with embarrassment.

A loud scoff shattered the silence, drawing the room's attention. The demon prince withdrew his hand, resting it casually on his thigh as if nothing had happened. Salviana stared at her plate, trying to regain her composure. Before she could process the bizarre interaction, her husband, indifferent as ever, took the dish she had been reaching for and placed a serving on her plate.

Her thin illusion of protection shattered. She could feel the scorching glare from Genevieve, the princess watching her with seething contempt from across the table. Without warning, the sound of a chair screeching against the floor cut through the air.

Genevieve had stood abruptly, her face twisted with fury. From the other end of the table, an older woman—her aunt, Diana—called out, "Genevieve!"

But the princess paid no heed to propriety, her eyes darting between Salviana and the demon prince. Without another word, she stormed out. Her mother, the queen, made to stand, but the king's voice growled from the head of the table. "Sit.down."

The queen complied, albeit with clenched fists, sinking back into her chair.

The rest of the meal dragged on in tense silence. Salviana noted that her husband barely ate, his plate mostly untouched, but she tried not to let it bother her. After all, this man didn't even know her name.

The meeting that was supposed to follow dinner never materialized. The king's dominance seemed to extend only to the dining hall. Once the meal ended, the royal family dispersed—some angrily, others too full to care. 

Salviana, overfed and exhausted, followed as her husband led her away from the oppressive atmosphere. He, on the other hand, appeared indifferent, eager only to escape their presence.

Tomorrow, she knew, there would be no avoiding the scrutiny and questions. The royal family would demand introductions, and her true trial would begin.

As they walked through the winding corridors of the palace, Salviana felt her confusion mount. She had no idea where they were going or what was expected of her that night. "Now what?" she mumbled, her voice tinged with uncertainty. Her personal maid hadn't been assigned yet, and no one had explained the palace routines to her. She felt adrift.

Before her husband could respond, a maid rushed forward, bowing as she approached. "Lady Salviana, we will now escort you to your chambers."

Salviana opened her mouth to respond, but the demon prince cut in sharply. "Never mind," he said coldly. "I'll take her myself."

The maid paled, stammering, "Your Grace, I—"

"Leave," he growled, his voice dark and low, an unspoken threat hanging in the air.

The maid, along with the two others lurking in the shadows, quickly scurried away. Though weary, Salviana waited for him to speak again, but all she got was a low, impatient grunt before he resumed walking.

She followed, her steps growing heavier with every turn. Each shadowed alcove and dimly lit garden they passed felt like a maze, and frustration began to build inside her. She desperately wanted to be free of the constricting dress and collapse into bed.

Finally, she exhaled sharply. "Can't you just teleport us to the chambers instead of all this walking? I'm exhausted."

Her words were met with thick, uncomfortable silence. His long strides continued without hesitation as they entered a darker, narrower corridor. The walls were lined with faintly glowing lanterns, and the air grew colder, heavier—more intimate. They had to be nearing the chambers, but Salviana was too tired to care.

"Do something! Aren't you supposed to be a demon?" she snapped, her patience fraying.

"I'm not a demon," he replied flatly, his voice as cold as ever. His broad shoulders moved forward, unfazed by her complaint. He didn't know why he bothered answering, but something about her compelled him to respond, if only to amuse himself. He had spent a lifetime ignoring the chatter of others, yet here he was, indulging her questions.

"Well… what are you, then?" Salviana's voice wavered, her red hair tumbling messily across her face as she slowed her pace.

Suddenly, he was no longer walking ahead. In an instant, he was standing directly in front of her, pressing her back against the nearest wall. She gasped, the sound dying in her throat as his presence overwhelmed her senses. His scent—dark, intoxicating—flooded her lungs, and his hand curled possessively around her waist, trapping her in place.

"Fiery wife," he whispered, his lips brushing her ear. "What was your question again?"

Her heart raced as she looked up at him, her voice barely a whisper. "What are you... if not a demon?"

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "A vamp," he breathed, his voice dark and rich with menace. He paused, running his nose along her chilled cheek. "I'm a vampire, Fiery. Do you want to know something else?"

His voice was sinister, laced with an alluring richness that both terrified and entranced her.