#bertha burns | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tatumrileyslover · 2 months ago

Text

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔅𝔩𝔲𝔢 ℜ𝔬𝔬𝔪

𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔱𝔴𝔬

Pairing: Park Jimin x Reader

Genre: vampire!AU, victorian!AU, strangers to lovers, slow burn, forbidden love, eventual light smut, angst, gothic,

Warnings: blood, death, smut, manipulation, possessive behavior, mild violence, angst, hurt/ comfort, fluff, gaslighting.

Word count: 30k

Summary: In a grand countryside estate, where roses bloom with unnatural darkness, a mysterious stranger appears seeking shelter. Park Jimin, with his otherworldly beauty and cultured charm, quickly becomes an intimate companion to the Baron's daughter. But as girls in the village begin falling mysteriously ill and strange dreams plague her nights, she discovers his dark nature - and must choose between the warmth of mortal days or an eternal night in his arms.

a/n: ok so this isn't meant to be in two parts I just hit the tumblr limit so this is the second part.

𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔬𝔫𝔢

Weeks had passed since that afternoon in the blue room. Autumn had deepened around the estate, the roses in the garden finally surrendering to the season's inevitable decay. Their relationship had shifted too - something unspoken now lingered between them, making each encounter feel charged with possibility.

Jimin still appeared only in late afternoon, his door remaining firmly locked until the sun began its westward descent. But when he did emerge, his attention to her grew more intense, more possessive. His cool touches lingered longer, his dark eyes following her every movement with an almost predatory focus.

It was around this time that (Y/n) first noticed the subtle changes in herself. Nothing dramatic - just a persistent lethargy that made her eyelids heavy during the day. She found herself drifting off during her morning reading, book sliding from loose fingers as she dozed in patches of wan sunlight.

"You seem tired, my dear," her father observed over breakfast, watching as she picked at her food with unusual disinterest. "Not sleeping well?"

The dreams, she thought but didn't say. Those strange, sweet dreams that left her feeling both drained and oddly euphoric come morning. But how could she explain the weight on her chest each night, the sensation of being watched, cherished, consumed? How to describe the familiar scent - Jimin's scent - that seemed to linger in her room long after she woke?

"Just dreams, Papa," she assured him instead, though 'dreams' wasn't quite the right word for these nightly visitations.

Only in Jimin's presence did she feel truly awake. Their evening conversations in the library or music room became the axis around which her days revolved. He had a way of making her forget her increasing tiredness, his voice acting like a tonic that revived her flagging spirits.

"You look lovely in this light," he would murmur as dusk gathered around them, his cool fingers brushing her cheek with familiar intimacy. If he noticed the slight pallor beneath her skin, the darkening shadows beneath her eyes, he never mentioned it. Instead, his touches grew more tender, more reverent, as if she were something precious becoming ever more rare.

The marks above her breast remained her secret - two small punctures that sometimes faded slightly only to appear darker the next morning. She found herself touching them absently throughout the day, remembering the exquisite mixture of pleasure and pain that accompanied their appearance in her dreams.

Their favorite spot had become the ancient oak by the pond, the same place where she'd read Bertha's letter what felt like a lifetime ago. Now, in the gathering November dusk, Jimin would lead her there with possessive tenderness, mindful of her slightly unsteady steps.

"You should wear warmer clothes," he chided softly one evening, though the chill that made her shiver had little to do with the weather. His arm around her waist was both support and embrace as they settled against the oak's massive roots. "The seasons are changing."

Indeed they were. The pond's surface had become a mirror for dying leaves, crimson and gold drifting like abandoned dreams on the dark water. Everything was changing, including her, though the transformation was so subtle she could almost pretend not to notice.

"Tell me more about your dreams," he would often murmur, pulling her closer against his cool form. The impropriety of such intimacy seemed less important with each passing day. Or perhaps she simply had less energy to maintain proper distance.

"They're becoming clearer," she admitted, watching the last light fade from the sky. "More... real. Sometimes I'm not sure if I'm truly awake or still dreaming."

His fingers traced idle patterns on her palm, each touch sending pleasant shivers up her arm. "Perhaps the divide between dreaming and waking is thinner than most believe. Perhaps some dreams are more true than our waking hours."

She found herself leaning more heavily against him, her energy waning as darkness fell. The lethargy that plagued her days seemed to lift slightly in his presence, yet paradoxically, she felt weaker around him too - as if he both strengthened and drained her.

"You're tired," he observed, his lips brushing her temple. The gesture was both comfort and claim.

"Not tired exactly." How to explain this strange state? This feeling of being somehow less substantial with each passing day, yet more alive than ever in these twilight moments with him? "It's more like... floating. Everything feels distant except..."

"Except?"

"Except you." The confession slipped out unbidden. "You feel more real than anything."

His smile against her skin held secrets. They sat in comfortable silence as true night descended, the stars emerging one by one like curious eyes. From the house came the distant sound of servants lighting lamps, preparing for dinner. Soon Madame Perrodon would come looking for her, clucking with disapproval at finding them alone in the dark.

But for now, there was just this - his cool embrace, the whisper of wind through nearly bare branches, and the strange, sweet lethargy that made everything feel like a beautiful dream she never wanted to wake from.

The dining room blazed with unusual brilliance that evening, extra candles lit to mark the rare occasion of Jimin joining them at table. Crystal glasses caught and fractured the light, sending tiny rainbows dancing across the white tablecloth. Even the servants seemed to move with extra ceremony, though (Y/n) noticed how they avoided meeting Jimin's eyes as they served.

He sat across from her, beautiful and otherworldly in the flickering light. Though he arranged each course with artistic precision on his plate, she rarely caught him actually lifting food to his lips. Yet somehow his plate would end up nearly empty, as if the food had vanished by some strange magic.

"I had another letter from Baron Rheinfeldt today," her father mentioned as the second course was cleared. "Most interesting actually - he's been conducting research into his daughter's case. Apparently there have been similar instances in other regions."

(Y/n) felt rather than saw Jimin's sudden stillness. When she glanced up, his face held only polite interest.

"How fascinating," he murmured, adjusting his untouched wine glass. "Though perhaps such dark topics aren't suitable for dinner conversation?"

"On the contrary," her father continued, oblivious to the subtle tension that had entered the air. "I find it rather compelling. Especially given our own village's troubles. You've heard about the milliner's daughters, I assume? And poor Emma, Marcel's granddaughter?"

"Most unfortunate," Jimin's voice held perfect sympathy. "Though young girls are often... susceptible to mysterious ailments."

Madame Perrodon clicked her tongue softly. "Three girls in one village, all with the same symptoms - it's most unusual. Dr. Werner is quite puzzled by it all."

"Which reminds me," her father turned his attention to (Y/n), who had been pushing a piece of pheasant around her plate. "You're looking rather pale yourself, my dear. Perhaps we should have the doctor-"

"Speaking of health and welfare," Madame Perrodon interjected diplomatically, "have you had any word from your mother, Mr. Park? It's been several weeks now..."

Something flickered across Jimin's perfect features - too quick to catch. "No," he said after a slight pause. "Though I confess I expected as much. Her business often demands... prolonged attention."

"Surely she must be concerned about you," Madame Perrodon interjected, her tone suggesting she found such maternal negligence difficult to comprehend.

"Perhaps it's time I took my leave," Jimin said smoothly, though his eyes fixed on (Y/n) as he spoke. "I've imposed upon your hospitality far too long."

The thought of his departure sent an unexpected pain through (Y/n)'s chest. She must have made some small sound, for his eyes softened almost imperceptibly when they met hers.

"Nonsense," her father replied firmly. "We couldn't possibly let you leave without proper word from your mother. What kind of hosts would that make us? Besides," he added with a warm smile, "you've brought such life to this old house. (Y/n) especially seems brightened by your company."

If he noticed how his daughter flushed at this observation, he gave no sign. Jimin, however, watched the color rise in her cheeks with obvious satisfaction.

"How kind you all are to a stranger," he murmured, though his gaze never left (Y/n)'s face.

"Hardly a stranger now," her father said, gesturing for dessert to be served. "Though I must admit, we know remarkably little about your family, your background..."

The remainder of dinner passed in a curious haze of candlelight and half-finished conversations. (Y/n) barely noticed when dessert was served - some elaborate concoction of cream and berries that Jimin praised but didn't touch. Her attention kept drifting to his hands, the elegant way they moved over silverware he never quite used, the way he seemed to conduct an elaborate performance of dining without actually consuming anything.

As the servants began clearing the last plates, Jimin rose with fluid grace. "Might I request an escort to my room?" he asked (Y/n) directly. "These old houses can be so confusing in the dark."

Before anyone could object to the impropriety, he added, "Madame Perrodon, you'll accompany us of course?"

The French woman nodded, though something in her expression suggested she'd rather not. As they left the dining room, (Y/n) could feel her father's eyes following them, his earlier warmth now tempered with paternal concern.

They ascended the grand staircase together, Madame Perrodon following at a careful distance, her candle casting their shadows long against the darkened walls. Though it was Jimin ostensibly being escorted to his room, their steps somehow led them to (Y/n)'s chambers instead. If Madame Perrodon disapproved of this deviation, she kept her silence, taking up her usual position in the doorway - close enough to observe, far enough to allow conversation.

The familiar space of (Y/n)'s room felt different with Jimin in it, as if his presence transformed the everyday into something more mysterious. He moved to the window seat where she so often sat watching for carriages, his figure silhouetted against the night sky. Moonlight silvered his profile, making him look more like a painting than a person.

"You never speak of yourself," (Y/n) said softly, settling into her chair. "Of your life before..."

"No," he agreed, his voice taking on a dreamy, distant quality. "Some memories are... difficult to revisit. But perhaps..." He turned to her, moonlight catching in his dark eyes. "Perhaps you should know something of me, after sharing so much of yourself."

He was quiet for a long moment, as if gathering scattered thoughts - or perhaps choosing which ones to share. "I attended a ball once," he began finally, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that made her lean forward to catch his words. "My first. I was young - so young - and everything seemed magical. The lights, the music, the way everyone moved like figures in a dream..."

His hand drifted to his chest, pressing against some remembered pain. "There was a young man there. Beautiful in a way that seemed almost unreal - tall, with features that might have been carved from marble, eyes that seemed to hold entire worlds. When he asked me to dance..." Jimin's voice faltered slightly. "Well, how could anyone refuse such a creature?"

"He was so graceful, so attentive. The entire night became a blur of him - his voice like honey, his touch cool against my skin as we danced. I was rather like you then," he added, glancing at (Y/n) with an unreadable expression. "Innocent. Protected. Until that night."

His fingers absently traced patterns on the window glass, leaving frost-like marks that faded almost immediately. "What I felt... it was a strange sort of love. Terrible and beautiful at once. The kind that consumes, that burns even as it cherishes." He smiled, but it held no warmth. "I retired to my room still drunk on his attention, on dancing and candlelight. And there, in what should have been my sanctuary, this love nearly took my life."

"I remember every detail of that night with perfect clarity," Jimin continued, his voice taking on an almost hypnotic quality. "The way moonlight spilled across my bedroom floor, not unlike how it does now. The lingering scent of roses from the ball. Even the sound of distant music still playing, though the hour was terribly late."

He moved from the window, drifting through the room like smoke. "My admirer had given me a rose, dark as wine. I'd placed it on my bedside table, watching its shadow on the wall as I prepared for bed. I was so young, so foolish - already half in love with his otherworldly beauty, the graceful way he moved, how his dark eyes seemed to contain mysteries I longed to unravel."

(Y/n) found herself holding her breath, caught in the spell of his words. Even Madame Perrodon seemed to lean forward slightly in her doorway vigil.

"I felt it first as a presence," Jimin went on, his hand again pressing against his chest. "That sensation of being watched, of being wanted with an intensity that was both thrilling and terrifying. Then came the weight, the paralysis..." His eyes met (Y/n)'s suddenly, filled with an emotion she couldn't quite name. "But you know something of that, don't you? These visitations in the night?"

Before she could respond, he continued, "The pain, when it came, was exquisite - like ice and fire combined, here." He touched a spot just above his heart. "A love that pierced deeper than any blade, that would have drained my very life had fate not intervened."

"What happened?" (Y/n) whispered, aware she was leaning forward in her chair, drawn by his tale.

"The dawn came," he said simply. "And with it, an end to that particular enchantment. Though not without leaving its mark." His fingers traced what must have been a scar beneath his clothes. "Some loves, dear, are meant to transform us. To remake us entirely."

The moonlight seemed to gather around him as he spoke, making his beauty almost painful to look at. "I saw him once more after that night. He stood beneath my window in the garden, beautiful as ever, but changed somehow. His smile held secrets I finally understood. He raised his hand to me - not in farewell, I think, but in promise."

Jimin's eyes fixed on (Y/n) with sudden intensity. "Strange, isn't it? How some experiences echo through time? How some souls are destined to meet, to repeat these ancient patterns?"

The air in the room felt thick, charged with meaning she couldn't quite grasp. Outside, clouds passed over the moon, throwing the room into momentary darkness. When light returned, Jimin had moved closer to her chair, his presence making her skin prickle with awareness.

"But listen to me," he said softly, his cool fingers brushing her cheek. "Filling your head with dark tales before bed. You'll have nightmares."

"I already have nightmares," she found herself saying. "Or perhaps they're not nightmares at all..."

A clock somewhere in the house struck ten, breaking the spell of Jimin's story. He straightened, something shifting in his manner - becoming more formal, more contained. "I've kept you too late," he said, though his eyes lingered on her face as if memorizing its features. "And filled your head with strange tales."

"Walk me to my door?" he asked, offering his arm with courtly grace. Madame Perrodon's soft sigh of resignation followed them into the corridor.

The walk to the blue room seemed both endless and too brief. Their footsteps echoed on the wooden floors, marking what felt like a procession of sorts. At his door, Jimin turned to her, taking her hand in his cool grip.

"Dream sweet dreams," he murmured, bringing her fingers to his lips in a gesture that made Madame Perrodon clear her throat pointedly. His eyes held (Y/n)'s even as he backed into his room, something hungry in his gaze that made her shiver. The click of his lock seemed unusually loud in the quiet hallway.

Back in her room, Madame Perrodon's familiar routines felt somehow altered, as if Jimin's story had changed even these simple acts of preparation for bed. The French woman's fingers were gentle but efficient as she helped (Y/n) out of her dinner dress, unlacing stays and unpinning her hair with practiced ease.

"The amulet too, mademoiselle?" Madame Perrodon asked, reaching for the leather cord around (Y/n)'s neck.

"Yes," (Y/n) touched the silver charm that had grown warm against her skin. "It... it catches on my nightgown sometimes."

She watched in her mirror as Madame Perrodon carefully placed the amulet on her bedside table, next to the candlestick. The silver seemed to catch the light oddly, almost appearing to pulse in the flickering flame.

"Shall I leave a candle?" Madame Perrodon asked, hovering by the door as always.

"No," (Y/n) replied, already settling into her bed, mind still full of Jimin's tale. "The moonlight is enough."

Indeed, moonlight poured through her windows, turning the room to silver and shadow. As Madame Perrodon's footsteps faded down the corridor, (Y/n) found herself watching the patterns it made on her ceiling, thinking of another moonlit room, another young person preparing for bed, unaware of what the night might bring...

Moonlight transformed her familiar room into something altogether different - shadows lengthening, ordinary objects taking on strange new forms. (Y/n) lay watching the silver patterns on her ceiling, Jimin's story echoing in her mind. His words about visitations in the night seemed to hang in the air like incense, making everything feel slightly unreal.

From her bedside table, the amulet caught the moonlight, its silver surface seeming to pulse with gentle warning. As she drifted in that space between waking and sleeping, a sudden draft - though no window was open - sent the charm tipping over the edge of the table. It fell with a muffled thud into the thick carpet, its protective presence now out of reach.

The room felt different after that, as if some invisible barrier had dissolved. The air grew thick, heavy with anticipation, and that sweet-strange scent that always surrounded Jimin began to fill her lungs. Somewhere in the house, a clock struck midnight, its chimes sounding distorted and far away.

Sleep, when it came, was thin and uneasy. She floated in and out of consciousness, each time unsure whether she was truly awake or still dreaming. The moonlight shifted across her walls like water, and shadows in the corners seemed to breathe with alien life.

Then came the weight - familiar yet terrible, different from her usual nighttime visitations. Something large and dark crouched at the foot of her bed, its form too fluid to properly grasp. Larger than a cat but smaller than a person, it seemed to shift and change in the uncertain light, its edges bleeding into the surrounding darkness.

The thing at the foot of her bed seemed to drink in the moonlight rather than reflect it. As (Y/n) watched, paralyzed by terror and that strange languor that always accompanied these nighttime visits, it began to move - not crawling exactly, but flowing across her counterpane like liquid shadow.

That sweet-strange scent grew stronger, making her head spin. The creature drew closer, its form continuing to shift and change. She could make out something like fur, black as pitch, and eyes that caught the moonlight in a way that made her heart stutter - eyes she knew, eyes she'd spent weeks watching across dinner tables and garden paths.

The paralysis that held her began to fade, replaced by a growing horror as the thing drew level with her chest. Its weight settled over her, both familiar and terribly wrong. She wanted to scream, to call out, but her voice seemed trapped in her throat.

Then came the pain - sharp and sudden, like two needles piercing the flesh above her breast. This wasn't the usual dreamy pleasure-pain of her nightly visitations. This was immediate, terrible, real. The pain seemed to spread like ice through her veins, and with it came a horrible clarity.

As she watched, the dark creature began to transform. The black fur seemed to melt away, revealing a form she knew too well - Jimin's beautiful face, terrible in its perfection, emerged from the darkness. His eyes, when they met hers, held both triumph and tenderness.

The scream that had been building finally tore free from her throat, shattering the night's silence. The figure jerked back, and for a moment she saw both forms at once - the beautiful young man and the dark beast, overlaid like double-exposed photographs.

Then it was moving toward her door - her locked door - seeming to flow through the solid wood like smoke through a keyhole. The pain in her breast throbbed with each beat of her racing heart, even as running footsteps echoed through the house.

"(Y/n)!" Her father's voice from down the hall. "(Y/n)!"

"Mademoiselle!" Madame Perrodon's cry joined the chorus of concern, accompanied by the sound of multiple servants rushing toward her room.

Her door burst open, lantern light flooding the space and chasing away the last of the shadows. Her father reached her first, face pale with worry as she clutched at her nightgown, tears streaming down her face.

"He was here," she gasped, trembling violently. "Jimin - he was here, but not himself, something was wrong, something terrible-"

"Impossible," Madame Perrodon interjected, pressing a cool hand to (Y/n)'s forehead. "You were dreaming, dear. A nightmare-"

"No!" The pain in her breast throbbed with terrible conviction. "He was here! Like some kind of... some kind of dark creature, and then it was him, I saw him! Please, you must check his room-"

Her father exchanged worried glances with Mrs. Klaus and Thomas, who hovered anxiously in the doorway. The amulet lay forgotten on the floor, its silver surface dull in the lantern light.

"Very well," her father said softly, as one might speak to a frightened child. "Thomas, Mrs. Klaus - come with me."

(Y/n) listened to their footsteps hurrying down the corridor, heard them reach the blue room. The sound of knocking echoed through the silent house.

"Mr. Park?" Her father's voice, trying to maintain propriety even in this strange hour. "Mr. Park, forgive the intrusion, but there's been a disturbance..."

More knocking, more urgent now. Silence answered.

"The door's locked, sir," came Thomas's voice.

A moment of hesitation, then her father's command: "Break it down."

The sound of splintering wood made (Y/n) jump, even with Madame Perrodon's arms around her. Then came a moment of terrible silence.

"Empty," her father's voice carried clearly through the house. "The bed hasn't been slept in... the windows are locked from inside..."

She could hear them moving through the room, checking closets, looking behind curtains. Their lantern light cast moving shadows in the hallway, like dancers performing some macabre ballet.

"Impossible," Mrs. Klaus's voice drifted down the corridor. "I saw him enter myself, not an hour ago..."

More searching, more confusion. (Y/n) sat trembling in her bed, the pain in her breast a constant reminder that this had been no mere nightmare. Madame Perrodon kept murmuring soothing nonsense, stroking her hair as if she were still a child.

"The gardens," (Y/n) insisted, her voice hoarse. Before anyone could protest, she was already moving toward the doors, something pulling her into the darkness beyond. Perhaps it was memory - how many evenings had she spent out there with Jimin, his cool presence both comfort and contradiction?

The November air wrapped around her like a shroud, her white nightgown offering no protection against its bite. Behind her, she could hear the others following - her father's worried stride, Madame Perrodon's anxious muttering, Thomas with his wavering lantern that made the shadows dance like living things.

The garden paths, so familiar in daylight, had transformed into twisted mazes under the moon's cold gaze. Everything looked different, as if the night had rewritten the landscape she'd known since childhood. The great oak by the pond stood like a sentinel, its bare branches clawing at the star-strewn sky. Even the pond itself seemed different - not reflecting the moon but swallowing its light, like an eye turned inward.

Their lantern light caught what remained of her mother's roses, those once-proud bushes now reduced to skeletal forms. (Y/n) found herself drawn to them, remembering how gradually they'd declined over the autumn - each day losing a little more color, a little more life, the change so subtle it was only noticeable in retrospect. Like her own transformation, perhaps.

She reached out to touch one bare stem, careful of its thorns. How many times had she watched Jimin do the same, his cool fingers tracing patterns among the dying blooms as if reading some secret message in their decay?

"Mademoiselle, please," Madame Perrodon pleaded, finally catching up and trying to wrap the shawl around (Y/n)'s shoulders. "This night air will be the death of you."

Death. The word hung in the frozen air like smoke. (Y/n) turned away from the roses, that strange ache in her chest deepening. The gardens held no answers tonight, only echoes of what had been and dark promises of what might come.

Above them, clouds scudded across the moon's face, making the shadows shift and change. For a moment, she thought she saw movement near the oak tree - a darker patch of darkness that seemed to flow rather than move. But when Thomas raised his lantern, nothing was there except the night itself.

"There's nothing for us out here," her father finally said, his voice carrying a weariness that seemed more than physical. "Let's return to the house."

The journey back felt like a retreat, their small party moving in silence through the gardens. (Y/n)'s bare feet had gone numb with cold, but she welcomed the sensation - it distracted from the deeper ache in her chest.

Inside, they checked the blue room once more, finding it still empty and cold, the bed undisturbed. Her father organized the servants into search parties to continue through the night, but Madame Perrodon insisted on taking (Y/n) back to her room.

"You're shaking like a leaf," the French woman muttered, tucking her charge back into bed. "Whatever happened - whatever you think happened - can be dealt with in the morning."

But sleep was impossible. (Y/n) lay listening to the sounds of the search continuing throughout the house - footsteps, whispered conversations, doors opening and closing. Eventually, even these sounds faded into the deep silence of late night.

She must have drifted off eventually, for the next thing she knew the morning came like a physical assault. Sunlight, usually gentle through her eastern windows, seemed to pierce Saffron's skull with needle-sharp rays. She turned away from it with a soft cry, the movement sending new waves of pain through her body. Every muscle ached as if she'd spent the night running rather than searching.

The house already hummed with unusual activity - servants' footsteps hurrying past her door, urgent whispers she couldn't quite make out. Everything felt slightly wrong, shifted just enough to make the familiar strange. Even the simple act of sitting up required enormous effort, her limbs heavy and uncooperative.

It was when she went to press her hand against her aching head that she saw them - spots of blood on her nightgown, vivid as rubies against the white fabric. With trembling fingers, she pulled the collar aside. There, just above her breast, were two marks like needle punctures, an angry red that seemed to pulse in time with her racing heart. The skin around them felt hot to touch, sensitive enough that even the light pressure of her fingertips made her gasp.

The room spun slowly around her as she stood, having to catch herself on the bedpost. Her reflection in the mirror showed a stranger - hair wild around her shoulders, skin pale and ash stricken except for two fever-bright spots high on her cheeks. She looked like one of the consumptive heroines in her Gothic novels, beautiful in their decay.

No one stopped her as she drifted into the hallway, though she was scandalously underdressed - no cape or wrapper over her nightgown, her hair completely down. Servants rushed past, their arms full of linens or medical supplies, too preoccupied to notice the impropriety of her appearance. The house itself seemed to sway around her, or perhaps that was just her unsteady steps.

As she passed her father's study, fragments of conversation drifted out through the half-open door.

"...the milliner's daughters both succumbed in the night. Same wasting illness..."

"Poor things had grown so weak these past weeks..."

"Doctor Werner is baffled... just like the others, fading away despite their youth..."

The words should have shocked her, should have drawn some reaction. Instead, they seemed to come from very far away, as meaningless as the buzz of summer insects. Her feet carried her forward, drawn by some force she couldn't name.

The corridor to the blue room felt endless, though she couldn't remember deciding to go there. Whispers followed her like shadows - servants discussing her father's plans to summon another doctor, Madame Perrodon's worried voice speaking of her deteriorating condition. None of it seemed to matter.

Jimin's room, when she finally reached it, was a shock to her system. Gone was his usual immaculate ordering of space. The bed looked as if a struggle had taken place there, sheets twisted and torn. Books lay scattered across the floor, their spines broken as if they'd been thrown. A chair lay overturned near the window, which stood open despite the cold - impossible, given how they'd found it locked the night before.

She moved through the chaos in a daze, bending to pick up a fallen book despite how the movement made her head spin. A flash of dark red caught her eye - a single rose, nearly black, lay crushed beside the bed. Something about it nagged at her memory, but thinking felt like trying to catch smoke with bare hands.

Then she smelled it - that sweet-strange scent that always surrounded him, somehow stronger here despite his absence. It seemed to wrap around her like an embrace, making her knees weak, her thoughts fuzzy. Darkness crept at the edges of her vision as she swayed, catching herself on the bedpost, before something caught her eye.

The armoire seemed to draw her forward like a lodestone, her feet moving without conscious thought. That sweet-strange scent grew stronger with each step, making her head swim. Her hand trembled as it reached for the brass handle, cool metal shocking against her fever-warm skin.

Time seemed to stretch and warp as she pulled the door open. There, folded impossibly into the space, was Jimin. He looked like a Renaissance painting of a sleeping angel - dark hair falling across his face, formal clothes still pristine despite the room's destruction. But something was wrong about how he fit into the space, as if his form didn't quite follow the normal rules of flesh and bone.

"Jimin?" The name escaped her lips like a prayer, or perhaps a plea.

His eyes opened instantly, showing no trace of sleep. In the shadows of the armoire, they seemed to hold an inner light - burgundy rather than brown. The sight sent fresh waves of memory crashing through her mind: those same eyes watching her from the foot of her bed, from the face of a creature made of shadow and hunger.

A sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob tore from her throat. She stumbled backward, her legs threatening to give way beneath her.

"(Y/n)," his voice wrapped around her like silk, and suddenly he was there, supporting her with those cool, strong hands. How had he moved so quickly?

"Shhh, my dear," Jimin murmured, gathering her closer. His cool touch seemed to ease the fever burning beneath her skin. "You're trembling like a caught bird."

Despite every instinct screaming at her to pull away, Saffron found herself melting into his embrace. His fingers traced soothing patterns up her spine, into her hair, each touch carrying that familiar mix of comfort and possession that made her head spin.

"The marks," she tried again, but her voice emerged weak, dreamy. "I saw you... there was a creature..."

"Let me see," he whispered, his cool fingers already moving to her collar before she could protest. The touch against her wounded flesh should have hurt, should have frightened her, but instead it brought an odd relief. His thumb traced gentle circles around the punctures, drawing out the heat and pain until she sagged against him.

"There now," his voice had taken on that hypnotic quality that made everything feel soft and distant. "Nothing but dreams and shadows. You've been ill, dear heart. Feverish. Imagining such terrible things..."

One hand continued to stroke her hair while the other pressed against the marks on her breast, as if he could heal them through touch alone. Or perhaps he was claiming them - the thought surfaced hazily before drowning in the sweet-strange scent that surrounded them both.

"I would never harm you," he murmured against her temple, though something in his tone suggested deeper meanings. "Everything I do, every touch, every moment... it's all for love of you."

"You're exhausted," he murmured against her hair, gathering her closer as her legs threatened to give way entirely. "Let me take care of you."

She should protest, should tell someone he'd been found, should question how he'd ended up in that armoire - but his cool touch against her fevered skin made thinking impossible. The world had taken on that dreamlike quality again, everything soft and hazy except for Jimin.

"I can walk," she whispered, but even as she said it, he was lifting her with impossible grace, cradling her against his chest as if she weighed nothing at all.

The journey back to her room felt like floating. His sweet-strange scent wrapped around her, making the pain in her breast fade to a distant throb. She found herself pressing closer, seeking more of that delicious coolness, her face tucked against his neck.

"My beautiful girl," he breathed, his lips brushing her temple. "So trusting, even now. Even after your nightmares tried to make you fear me."

Her bed appeared before her as if by magic - had they walked there? Had they floated? His hands were gentle as he laid her down, drawing covers up around her with tender care. When he made to move away, she caught his sleeve with weak fingers.

"Stay," she pleaded, though some part of her mind whispered that she should want him as far away as possible. "Please."

His smile in the morning light was beautiful and terrible. "Of course," he settled beside her on the bed, gathering her close again. His cool fingers returned to the marks on her breast, touch feather-light yet somehow claiming. "Sleep now. Let me watch over you."

The morning light seemed dimmer now, as if Jimin's presence somehow softened its harsh edges. His cool body curved around hers protectively, one hand resting over the marks on her breast while the other stroked her hair with hypnotic rhythm. Each touch seemed to draw the pain away, replacing it with a languid heaviness that made her eyelids droop.

"They searched everywhere," she murmured against his chest, fighting the seductive pull of sleep. "The whole house... every corner..."

"Did they?" His voice held that musical quality that always made her thoughts turn liquid. "How thorough they must have been. And yet..." His fingers traced idle patterns on her skin. "Sometimes the most obvious places are the easiest to overlook. Like how you might stare at a word so long it loses meaning."

She wanted to question this, to ask how they could have missed him in that armoire during their thorough search, but his sweet-strange scent surrounded her, making everything feel soft and distant.

"Sleep now," he whispered, his lips brushing her temple. "You're exhausted from your night of searching."

His coolness was a balm against her fevered skin, and despite every question still burning in her mind, she found herself drifting. The last thing she felt was his hand pressing gently over the marks, as if claiming them even in her sleep.

She woke to Madame Perrodon's worried face hovering over her, the French woman's hand gentle but insistent on her shoulder.

"Finally," Madame breathed. "I've been trying to wake you for nearly an hour, mademoiselle. Such deep sleep - most unusual for you."

(Y/n) blinked in confusion, the morning's events feeling like a distant dream. The space beside her was empty, though she could have sworn... But Jimin's cool presence was gone, leaving only the lingering trace of his sweet-strange scent on her pillow.

"Mr. Park explained everything," Madame Perrodon continued, helping her sit up. "About finding himself in that armoire - a sleepwalking habit from childhood, poor thing. He was quite mortified to have caused such disruption. Your father was most understanding."

The explanation felt wrong somehow, like a dress that almost fits but pulls at the seams. But (Y/n)'s mind was still clouded with what had been, surprisingly, the most restful sleep she'd had in weeks.

"We must dress quickly," Madame was saying, already pulling out a black dress. "The milliner's daughters..."

Reality crashed back with terrible force. Catherine and Marie - gone in a single night, taken by the same mysterious illness that had been slowly consuming the village's young women. The same weakness that seemed to be creeping through (Y/n)'s own veins.

The journey into town was a blur of grey skies and concerned glances. Her father insisted on the carriage despite the short distance, claiming the walk would tax her strength too much. She didn't argue - even the simple act of dressing had left her trembling.

Jimin sat beside her, his cool hand covering hers in a gesture that looked merely comforting to others but felt like possession. The familiar sweet-strange scent of him helped ease the carriage sickness that had lately begun plaguing her.

The milliner's shop was closed, black crepe draped across its windows. Inside, the sisters lay in their coffins like sleeping princesses from a dark fairy tale. Catherine's golden hair had been arranged to hide how thin she'd grown near the end. Marie's small hands clutched a prayer book, as if seeking comfort even in death.

"They were reading to each other, when they found them," someone whispered nearby. "As if they'd simply fallen asleep mid-story..."

(Y/n) felt tears sliding down her cheeks. She'd spoken with them just weeks ago, sharing whispered conversations after Sunday service. They'd been so alive then, so vibrant. How quickly everything could fade.

"Hush, dear," Jimin murmured, his arm steady around her waist as she swayed. His voice held perfect sympathy, though something in his eyes when he gazed at the coffins seemed almost... satisfied. But surely that was just her grief-addled mind playing tricks.

The days following the funeral seemed to blur together. (Y/n) spent most of her time drifting between sleep and waking, each day bringing new weakness. Even sitting up to read exhausted her now.

That morning, she overheard Marcel in the garden below her window, his voice carrying up to where she lay.

"Fading away, she is," he was saying, presumably to her father. "My Emma, bright as a spring morning, now pale as winter frost. Can barely lift her head from the pillow, poor lamb. Just like those milliner's girls before..." His voice cracked. "Begging your pardon, sir, but seeing the young miss looking so peaked too..."

The gardens had grown wild in Emma's absence. (Y/n) could see the untended paths from her window, remembering how she used to watch the girl working beside her grandfather. When had she stopped noticing Emma's absence? Everything before Jimin's arrival felt like a half-remembered dream.

Dr. Werner arrived that afternoon, his black bag and grave expression suggesting he'd been at least partially briefed by her father. Madame Perrodon helped (Y/n) into a sitting position, propping her with pillows that felt too heavy to bear.

"Baron," Dr. Werner said, packing away his instruments with methodical precision. "Might I speak with you for a moment?"

Her father moved from where he'd been hovering near the door, coming to stand by the doctor. Madame Perrodon remained a silent presence near (Y/n)'s bed.

"These symptoms," the doctor began in low tones that nevertheless carried to (Y/n)'s ears. "How long has she been experiencing them?"

"The weakness began gradually," her father replied, his voice tight with worry. "At first we thought it merely fatigue, but lately..."

"She sleeps poorly?"

"Yes, though she seems unable to recall her dreams clearly. And her appetite..."

"Has diminished significantly," the doctor finished, his expression grave. "And these spells of languor - they're worse during daylight hours?"

Her father nodded. "She seems to rally somewhat in the evenings, but by morning..."

Dr. Werner's face grew increasingly troubled as her father listed her symptoms. His hand moved unconsciously to touch his medical bag where he'd noted his findings about the marks.

"Baron," Dr. Werner said gravely, his voice dropping even lower. "I must be frank with you. These symptoms - they are identical to those displayed by the milliner's daughters before their deaths. The same strange marks, the same pattern of decline."

Her father's face paled. "Surely you don't suggest-"

"I suggest nothing yet," the doctor interrupted carefully. "But there are precautions that must be taken. She must be watched, particularly during the night hours. Has she mentioned any... unusual occurrences? Sensations of a presence in her room perhaps?"

Through her half-closed eyes, (Y/n) watched her father sink heavily into the chair beside her bed. "She had some disturbance, several nights ago. Claimed she saw something - or someone - in her room. We searched the house but found nothing amiss."

"Ah." The doctor's pencil scratched against his notebook again. "And she sleeps alone?"

"Madame Perrodon's room adjoins hers," her father gestured to the French woman, who stood like a statue near the window. "Though lately..."

"Lately?"

"The connecting door has been locked some nights. From (Y/n)'s side, though she claims no memory of doing so."

Dr. Werner's frown deepened. "Most concerning. And these marks - you've noticed them before?"

"Marks?" Her father leaned forward sharply. "What marks?"

The doctor gestured to his own chest, just above the heart. "Two small punctures, like needle pricks. They appear to fade and return. The milliner's daughters showed identical marks, in precisely the same location. As does young Emma, the gardener's granddaughter."

(Y/n) wanted to protest, to explain about her dreams, about Jimin's story of his own similar wounds - but exhaustion pulled at her like lead weights. Even keeping her eyes open had become an impossible task.

"What do you suggest?" Her father's voice seemed to come from very far away.

"She must not be left alone," the doctor's reply was firm. "Particularly after sunset. The door between her room and Madame Perrodon's must remain open. And..." he hesitated, "perhaps it would be wise to maintain a record of any visitors to the house, especially during the evening hours."

"Visitors?" Her father's tone sharpened. "You cannot possibly suggest-"

"I suggest nothing, Baron. Merely that in cases such as these, every detail must be noted. Every pattern observed. The similarities between these afflicted young women are too striking to ignore."

A week had passed since the doctor's visit, each day bleeding into the next in a haze of enforced bed rest and careful monitoring. Jimin's absence felt like a physical ache, though she couldn't be certain if he was truly gone or if the new precautions simply kept him from her side. Time had become fluid, marked only by Madame Perrodon's constant presence and the changing of guards outside her door.

This particular morning found her at her dressing table, barely recognizing the reflection before her. The girl in the mirror was a stranger - cheekbones sharp beneath almost translucent skin, eyes huge and fever-bright in their dark-circled hollows. Her hair, once thick and lustrous, fell limply as Madame Perrodon's gentle hands worked to arrange it.

"Perhaps a ribbon," the French woman murmured, more to herself than (Y/n). "To add some color..."

Every movement felt like swimming through honey. Even holding her head up as Madame Perrodon dressed her hair required immense effort. The black dress they'd chosen felt unusually formal for a morning at home, but thinking about why seemed beyond her current capabilities.

"There," Madame Perrodon said finally, helping her to stand. "Your father's waiting in the front hall."

The journey downstairs was painfully slow, each step carefully monitored. Strange, how the house seemed unusually still this morning, as if holding its breath. Through the front windows, watery autumn sunshine cast long shadows across the drive.

Her father waited by the door, his face grave as he offered his arm for support. She wanted to ask why they were standing here, why everything felt draped in such heavy silence, but even forming questions seemed too difficult.

The sound came first - the slow, measured tread of multiple feet on gravel. Then figures emerged from the morning mist. Marcel came into view, his aged shoulders straining beneath a wooden box she didn't immediately recognize. Three other men helped support the corners, but it was Marcel's bowed head that caught her attention. How strange to see him away from the garden, and in such formal black attire.

Behind them came a group of villagers, all in dark clothes. Emma's mother was there, supported by relatives. Why was she crying? And where was Emma? She hadn't seen the girl in the gardens lately...

The morning air felt suddenly thick, hard to breathe. Something about the careful way they moved, the measured steps, the box they carried - recognition hovered just at the edges of her mind, but her thoughts were too sluggish to grasp it.

"Papa?" she whispered, her voice small. "Why is Marcel..."

The words died in her throat as understanding finally, terribly dawned. Her legs gave way, but her father's arm kept her upright as her childhood friend's final journey passed before them

"Papa?" she whispered again, her voice catching as she watched Marcel's slow progress down the drive. "That's not... Emma isn't..."

The world seemed to tilt sideways, reality rearranging itself into something terrible she couldn't quite comprehend. Her eyes followed the simple wooden box - coffin, her mind finally supplied, that's a coffin - as if staring hard enough might change what it contained.

She'd just been thinking about Emma yesterday, hadn't she? Or was it last week? Time had become so strange lately. She remembered watching from her window as the girl helped her grandfather with the roses, her laugh carrying up through the air. When had that been? Before Jimin arrived? Everything before him felt like a half-remembered dream.

"She was ill, my dear," her father said softly, his arm tightening around her waist as she swayed. "Like the milliner's daughters. We thought it best not to distress you with the news, given your own condition."

The procession moved with terrible slowness past their position by the door. Marcel's face was set in lines she'd never seen before, aging him decades in what must have been mere weeks. How had she not noticed his absence from the gardens? The roses growing wild without Emma's careful attention?

Behind the coffin, Emma's mother's sobs seemed to echo in the still morning air. The sound struck something deep in (Y/n)'s chest, making her own breath catch painfully. She remembered summer afternoons, Emma sneaking her treats from the village, sharing whispered confidences about books and boys while Marcel pretended not to hear as he pruned nearby bushes.

"She can't be," (Y/n) found herself saying, though the evidence passed before her eyes. "She was fine. She was..." But had she been? When was the last time they'd actually spoken? Everything felt so hazy, like trying to catch smoke with bare hands.

The morning light seemed too harsh suddenly, making her head spin. Or perhaps that was the realization that while she'd been drifting in her twilight world with Jimin, Emma had been fading away entirely. Just like the milliner's daughters. Just like...

Her knees buckled completely this time. Dark spots danced at the edges of her vision as her father caught her weight. She was dimly aware of Madame Perrodon appearing at her other side, of worried murmurs and gentle hands trying to guide her back inside.

"No," she protested weakly, though even speaking took immense effort. "I have to... Marcel shouldn't have to..."

But what could she do? She could barely stand, barely think through the fog that seemed to fill her head. Everything felt distant except the terrible sight of Marcel carrying his granddaughter's coffin, his determined steps carrying her away forever.

Her father and Madame Perrodon guided her back into the house, away from the terrible sight of Marcel's bowed shoulders disappearing into the morning mist. The grand hall spun around her, familiar paintings blurring into dark smudges against the walls. Every step felt like wading through deep water, her legs threatening to give way entirely.

They settled her in her room, Madame Perrodon's cool hands gentle as she helped (Y/n) out of the black dress and into her nightgown. The simple act of changing exhausted her completely. She fell into a deep, heavy sleep before her head touched the pillow.

When she woke, the quality of light suggested late afternoon, and the house hummed with unusual activity. The scrape of furniture being moved echoed through corridors, rapid footsteps on wooden floors, voices calling back and forth with strange urgency. Her room was empty, Madame Perrodon's usual vigilant presence notably absent.

In her white nightgown and wrapper, hair falling loose around her shoulders, she drifted into the corridor like a ghost. The household's usual ordered rhythm had transformed into careful chaos. Maids hurried past with fresh linens, too focused on their tasks to notice her. From below came Mrs. Klaus's voice directing the transformation of the best guest rooms.

Even her father's study door stood open, papers scattered across his usually immaculate desk, suggesting hasty departure. Strange, how the household's chaos made her invisible - no one rushing past seemed to notice the master's daughter wandering the halls in her nightclothes, pale as a wraith in the lengthening shadows.

Her feet carried her up the grand staircase, each step requiring more effort than the last. The upper corridor seemed different somehow, transformed by the golden afternoon light and the unusual bustle below. As she passed the blue room - Jimin's room - something made her pause. Perhaps it was the quality of silence behind that door, so different from the chaos elsewhere. Or perhaps it was that sweet-strange scent that always surrounded him, seeping out from beneath the door like mist.

Before she could decide whether to knock, the door opened. Jimin stood there, beautiful as always in the dying light, though something about his expression seemed different - more intense, almost hungry.

"I wondered when you'd come," he said softly, stepping back in silent invitation. The room behind him was dim, heavy curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. "You look tired, dear."

She stepped into the familiar blue room, now cast in shadows from the drawn curtains. The space felt different somehow - not just from the dim light, but as if Jimin's awareness of impending departure had already begun to empty it of his presence. Yet his sweet-strange scent seemed stronger than ever, making her head swim in that now-familiar way.

"You shouldn't be out of bed," he murmured, closing the door behind her with a soft click. His cool hands found her shoulders, steadying her swaying form. "Not after this morning."

So he knew about Emma. Of course he did - how could anyone in the house not know? Yet he hadn't come to her, hadn't offered comfort. Something about that nagged at her tired mind, but his proximity made thinking difficult.

"The house is strange today," she said, letting him guide her to sit on the edge of his bed. "Everyone rushing about..."

"Change comes whether we wish it or not," he replied cryptically, settling beside her. His fingers found her hair, gently combing through the tangled strands. The gesture was achingly familiar, yet held something new - an urgency, a possessiveness that made her shiver. "Time grows short, dear."

"What do you mean?" But even as she asked, she found herself leaning into his cool touch, her body betraying her as it always did around him. The room seemed to spin slowly, though whether from weakness or his intoxicating presence, she couldn't tell.

"How pale you've grown," he observed, his other hand cupping her cheek. His thumb traced the dark circles beneath her eyes. "Like moonlight given form. Beautiful."

She should protest this - should question why he found her increasing illness beautiful - but his touch was so soothing against her fevered skin. When he drew her closer, she went willingly, letting her heavy head rest against his shoulder.

"What do you mean, time grows short?" she asked again, but his cool fingers were already trailing down her throat, making it hard to focus. The scent that always surrounded him seemed stronger in the dim room - roses on the edge of decay mingled with honey turned too thick, too sweet. It should have repulsed her, yet she found herself breathing deeper, wanting more.

"Say it again," he commanded softly, his mouth moving against her throat. "My name on your lips... I'll miss that most of all."

The words made no sense, yet she found herself obeying, his name falling from her lips like a prayer. His grip tightened in response, one hand tangling in her hair while the other slipped lower, tracing the curve of her spine through her thin nightgown. Each touch left trails of delicious cold that made her arch closer, seeking more of that sweet relief against her fever-hot skin.

The room had grown darker still, the blue walls deepening to midnight shades. In the mirrors, their reflection seemed to blur at the edges, as if they too were transforming into shadows. Or perhaps that was just her weakened vision, everything growing soft and strange as his scent overwhelmed her senses.

"I should have waited," he murmured, more to himself than her. His fingers found the marks below her breast, pressing gently until she gasped. "Should have been more patient. But you're so..." His other hand tightened in her hair, tilting her head back to expose more of her throat. "So perfectly made for this."

"For me."

She should question his words, should ask what he meant, but his cool lips were trailing down her neck, each kiss making thought more impossible. The impropriety of their position barely registered anymore - her in his lap, her nightgown slipping off one shoulder, his hands growing bolder as the room grew darker.

"Everything changes," he continued, his voice taking on that hypnotic quality that made her feel like she was drowning in honey. "But some things are eternal. Some hungers..." His teeth grazed her pulse point, sending shivers down her spine. "Some loves...

"Love?" she echoed dreamily, the word floating between them like smoke. His hands had grown more possessive, one splayed across her back while the other traced patterns on her collarbone that felt like ancient writing.

"A different kind of love," he breathed against her skin. "Deeper than mortal affection. The kind that consumes, that transforms..." His fingers found the marks again, making her gasp as pleasure-pain spiraled out from his touch. "The kind that lives in dreams and shadows."

The last rays of sunlight had vanished now, leaving them in a darkness broken only by faint moonlight filtering through the heavy curtains. His pale skin seemed to glow in the dim light, making him look less human than ever. Beautiful, terribly beautiful, like something from a Gothic novel come to life.

"I'm dizzy," she whispered, though whether from weakness or his intoxicating presence, she couldn't tell. The sweet decay scent of him filled her lungs, making everything feel distant and dream-like.

"Then let me hold you," he murmured, shifting them until she lay across his bed, her hair spilling across the blue silk counterpane. He moved over her like a shadow given form, his cool weight both comforting and overwhelming. "Let me memorize you like this, while there's still time."

His words should have worried her, should have made her question what he meant by 'still time', but his touch was growing more insistent, more intimate. Cool fingers slipped beneath the collar of her nightgown, tracing the line of her shoulder, while his other hand cradled her head with impossible tenderness.

"So warm," he breathed, pressing his face against her throat. "So alive. Even now, fading as you are, your heart beats so strongly..." His lips found her pulse point, lingering there as if counting each beat. "If only..."

His cool touch traced fire across her fevered skin, each caress somehow both soothing and igniting. The sweet-decay scent surrounding them made her head swim as his lips found her throat, her collarbone, lower still. Her nightgown had slipped from one shoulder, his mouth following the path of exposed skin with deliberate slowness.

"My sweet girl," he breathed against her flesh, one hand tangling in her hair while the other explored with increasing boldness. The contrast between his cold touch and her burning skin made her gasp, arch into his caress. "So responsive... so perfect..."

When her trembling fingers found his shirt buttons, he helped her, revealing that marble-perfect chest with its telling scars. Her hands explored the cool expanse of him as his own touch grew more intimate, slipping beneath her nightgown with possessive purpose.

"Let me show you," he murmured, his skilled fingers drawing sounds from her she'd never made before. "Let me make you mine... in every way..."

His cool fingers trailed down her throat, following the flutter of her pulse as it quickened beneath his touch. The thin fabric of her nightgown did nothing to shield her from the delicious chill of his hands as they explored lower, tracing the curve of her breast, thumbs brushing over sensitive peaks until she gasped.

"So responsive," he murmured against her neck, his mouth leaving trails of frost-fire on her fever-hot skin. "Every touch makes your heart race..." His hand slipped lower, gathering the fabric of her nightgown until it bunched around her thighs. "Let me hear you, dear."

Her nightgown slipped from one shoulder, his lips immediately following the exposed skin with cool, open-mouthed kisses. His fingers found bare skin, trailing patterns up her inner thigh that made her whimper. The sweet-decay scent surrounding them grew stronger as his touch grew bolder, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves that made her arch off the blue silk counterpane.

"Please," she gasped, though what she was begging for she couldn't say. Her hands found his shirt buttons, desperate to feel more of his cool skin against hers. He helped her, shrugging the fabric away to reveal that marble-perfect chest. The moonlight caught the twin scars above his heart - so like the marks he'd left on her own breast.

"Touch me," he encouraged as her fingers explored the cold expanse of his torso. His own fingers continued their intimate dance between her thighs, circling her most sensitive spot before dipping lower to gather her growing wetness. One long finger slipped inside her, making her cry out at the strange intrusion.

"That's it," he breathed, watching her face as he added another finger, stretching her gently. His thumb continued its circles above while his fingers moved in and out with devastating precision. "Let me hear how much you want this..."

Her hips rose to meet his touch of their own accord, seeking more of that exquisite pressure. His free hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back to expose her throat to his hungry mouth.

His cool mouth traced patterns down her throat while his fingers maintained their rhythm, drawing increasingly desperate sounds from her lips. Each stroke inside her made her arch closer, seeking more of his delicious chill against her burning skin. The sweet scent that always surrounded him seemed to pulse with each wave of pleasure, making everything feel dreamlike yet achingly real.

"Perfect," he breathed against her collarbone, his thumb circling faster as his fingers curled inside her. "So warm, so alive..." His other hand slipped beneath her nightgown, palm flat against her stomach before sliding up to cup her breast. "Every inch of you was made for this."

She clutched at his shoulders, his bare skin perfect and cold beneath her burning palms. Her body tightened around his fingers as he worked her closer to some precipice she'd never known existed. When his cool mouth closed around her nipple through the thin fabric, she cried out, back bowing off the bed.

"Please," she gasped, though what exactly she was begging for remained unclear. Everything felt too much yet not enough - his touch, his weight above her, the way his fingers seemed to know exactly how to drive her mad.

Moonlight painted moving shadows across the blue walls as their forms entwined on the silk counterpane. His cool touch drew increasingly desperate responses from her fever-hot skin, each caress bringing them closer to that inevitable moment. The sweet-decay scent grew stronger, making everything feel dreamlike yet terribly real.

"My heart," he breathed against her throat, his movements growing more urgent. "Say you'll be mine forever..."

The mirrors seemed to hold only darkness now, as if the world beyond their embraced had ceased to exist. Somewhere far below, the household continued its frantic preparations, but those sounds couldn't penetrate their private realm of shadow and sensation.

Her pulse raced beneath his lips as he traced the path he'd marked so many times in dreams. This time would be different - no more nighttime visitations, no more playing at mortality. His teeth grazed her skin, drawing a gasp that was equal parts fear and desire.

His fingers curled inside her with devastating precision, drawing sounds she'd never imagined making. The room spun slowly around them, blue shadows deepening as his cool mouth traced patterns down her throat, across her collarbone, finding every sensitive spot that made her arch and gasp.

"Beautiful," he breathed against her skin, his thumb circling faster while his other hand pinned her wrists above her head. "The way you respond to every touch..." His mouth found her breast through the thin fabric, teeth grazing the sensitive peak until she cried out. "The way your heart races..."

The sweet-decay scent grew stronger as pleasure built inside her, making everything feel unreal yet achingly present. Her nightgown had slipped further, exposing more skin to his hungry mouth. Each kiss left trails of delicious frost that made her burn hotter, need him more.

"Please," she gasped, though what exactly she was begging for remained unclear. Her body tightened around his fingers as he drove her closer to some precipice she'd never known existed. "Jimin..."

"Say it again," he demanded softly, his movements growing more insistent. "Say my name while I make you mine completely."

His fingers kept their relentless rhythm as her pleasure built higher, each stroke bringing her closer to something tremendous, something that would change everything. The sweet-decaying smell overwhelmed her senses as his cool mouth found that spot on her neck that always made her shiver.

"Now," he breathed against her pulse point, his thumb circling faster while his other hand tightened in her hair. "Come for me, dear. Let me feel you..."

Her body tightened around his fingers as the first waves of pleasure crashed through her. In that moment of perfect vulnerability, his teeth broke skin - not the usual gentle pierce but something deeper, more permanent. The twin sensations of ecstasy and sharp pain merged into something transcendent, making her cry out his name into the darkness.

The pleasure seemed endless, each pull of his mouth drawing out her release as her blood filled his. Her fingers clutched at his shoulders, torn between pushing him away and drawing him closer as everything she was flowed into him.

"Mine," he growled against her throat, his fingers still moving inside her, prolonging both pleasures until she thought she might shatter completely. "Forever mine..."

As the last tremors subsided, Jimin lifted his head from her throat, his tongue catching a final drop of blood. The moonlight caught his face as he brought his fingers to his mouth, cleaning them with deliberate slowness while holding her gaze. Something about the gesture should have shocked her, but she felt beyond such mortal concerns now.

He settled against her chest, his cool weight comforting rather than crushing. Her fingers found their way into his dark hair, stroking through the silk-soft strands as she admired how the moonlight painted his perfect features. His own fingers traced the fresh marks on her breast with possessive tenderness.

"Dawn comes too quickly," he murmured, more to himself than her. His touch lingered on the punctures, as if memorizing their placement. "They'll be here soon..."

"Don't leave," she whispered, her voice weak but urgent. The thought of separation felt like physical pain. "I can't... I think I love you."

He smiled up at her - that beautiful, terrible smile that had captured her from the first. "Love," he echoed, pressing a kiss to the marks he'd made. "Yes, I suppose that's what this is. A different kind of love..."

Rising with fluid grace, he began to put her back together - smoothing her nightgown, arranging her hair with careful fingers. The cool cloth he produced from somewhere felt heavenly against her heated skin as he cleaned away the evidence of their passion. Every touch felt like a goodbye.

When he tucked her into his bed, the blue silk cool against her skin, she could barely keep her eyes open. His kiss, when it came, tasted of copper and promises.

"Dream of me," he whispered against her lips.

Through heavy lids, she watched him move to the window. The last thing she saw before sleep claimed her was his silhouette against the moon, beautiful as a painting. Or perhaps that was just a dream.

Consciousness returned slowly, like swimming up through dark water. The first thing (Y/n) noticed was the rose on the pillow beside her - its petals so dark they appeared almost black in the pre-dawn light. Something about it nagged at her memory as she reached out with trembling fingers to touch the aged bloom.

"I attended a ball once..." Jimin's voice echoed in her memory, the story he'd told her in this very room suddenly taking on new meaning. "He'd given me a rose, dark as wine..." The petals crumbled at her touch, soft as ash.

Her hand flew to her throat, finding the fresh marks that throbbed with each heartbeat. Not dream marks this time - these felt different, permanent. The sweet-decay scent that always surrounded him lingered in the air, but she knew with terrible certainty that Jimin himself was gone.

She lay in his bed still, surrounded by blue silk and shadows. Her nightgown felt impossibly soft against her sensitized skin, though she couldn't remember him redressing her. Every movement brought fresh awareness of what they'd shared - intimate aches, cooling trails where his fingers had traced possession into her flesh. The marks on her breast throbbed in time with those on her throat, a matched set of claims she'd welcomed in the darkness.

Beyond the heavy curtains, dawn was breaking - she could feel it somehow, a pressure against her skin even through the thick fabric. The blue room felt different in this strange half-light, as if Jimin's departure had already begun erasing traces of his presence. Yet that sweet-strange scent remained, making her head swim with memories of his cool touch, his tender possession, the way he'd...

Urgent footsteps in the corridor interrupted her reverie. Multiple sets, she realized, moving with purpose toward the blue room's locked door. Her father's voice carried through the wood, tight with worry, but the other voice - deeper, rough with grief and rage - sent recognition shooting through her like lightning.

"The lock, damn you!" Baron Rheinfeldt commanded, and her heart clenched. Bertha's father. Of course she recognized that voice - how many summer afternoons had she spent in his gardens, playing with his daughter? Before Bertha had grown ill, before she'd... "Break it down if you must!"

The door shuddered under impact once, twice - then burst open with a crack of splintering wood. Rheinfeldt stood in the doorway, his face haggard with travel and purpose. The kind eyes that had once watched her and Bertha gathering flowers were now hard as granite, filled with a terrible knowledge. Her father appeared behind him, candle casting wild shadows across his worried features.

"Where is he?" Rheinfeldt demanded, scanning the room with desperate intensity. His gaze caught on the rumpled sheets, the black rose crumbling to ash on the pillow, the marks visible at her throat. Something like horror crossed his weathered features.

"Where is the monster?"

"Uncle Rheinfeldt?" The childhood name slipped out before she could stop it. She hadn't seen him since Bertha's last visit , his grief had carved new lines in his once-jovial face. "I don't understand..."

"No, child. You don't." His voice softened for a moment, remembering perhaps how she and Bertha had once called him that. But then his face hardened again as he strode to the window, yanking back curtains that had remained drawn for months. "But you will."

(Y/n) flinched from the morning light, unexpectedly painful against her sensitive eyes. Her father moved to her side, his hand cool against her fevered brow. "You're burning up, sweetheart. We need to-"

"A doctor cannot help her now," Rheinfeldt cut him off sharply. He turned from the window, and she saw he held a leather folio she hadn't noticed before. "Just as no doctor could help my Bertha. Our only hope lies in destroying the creature before..." He broke off, something like pity crossing his features as he looked at her throat.

"Baron, please," her father started, but Rheinfeldt was already shouting into the corridor, his voice seeming to shake the house's foundations.

"Prepare the wagon! Now! Horses, weapons - everything!" His commands echoed through the halls. "We hunt him before he gets too far. Before he claims another innocent like my Bertha!"

Servants rushed past the doorway, carrying strange bundles - wooden stakes, crosses, things that seemed pulled from old tales rather than reality. Their usual measured efficiency had taken on a frantic edge, as if they too sensed how little time remained.

"Papa?" (Y/n)’s voice sounded distant to her own ears. The morning light that had merely hurt her eyes moments ago now seemed to burn. "What's happening?"

Rheinfeldt strode to the bed, his movements sharp with urgency. "After Bertha..." His voice caught for a moment. "After I lost her, I began researching similar cases. Girls wasting away from mysterious illnesses, strange marks upon their breasts... The pattern stretched back centuries." He thrust the folio at her father, who went pale at whatever he saw inside.

"This is impossible," her father breathed, looking between whatever he held and (Y/n)'s increasingly unnatural pallor. "He can't be..."

"The same creature," Rheinfeldt confirmed grimly. "Taking different names, different forms even, but always the same pattern. Always young women in the same village, gradually weakening. Strange dreams, marks upon their breasts..." He broke off as Madame Perrodon appeared with traveling clothes. "Quickly now. The sun rises - we must reach the crypt before nightfall."

"Crypt?" The word felt ashen in (Y/n)'s mouth. She thought of Jimin's perfect face, his cool touches, the tender way he'd arranged her hair before... before... "I don't understand. Last night, he..."

"Last night he marked you as his next victim," Rheinfeldt's voice grew harsh again. "Just as he marked my Bertha. Just as he's marked countless others across centuries." He pulled something else from the folio - a yellowed sketch that made her breath catch. "This was drawn in Vienna, 1846. The name then was Minji..."

There on aged paper was Jimin's face - unchanged across decades, beautiful and terrible as a painting that never aged. But something about the features seemed softer, more feminine somehow. The longer she stared, the more the image seemed to shift between male and female, like a trick of candlelight.

"Baron Vordenburg arrives within the hour," Rheinfeldt continued, already moving to supervise the packing. "He knows the location of the crypt, the proper rituals..." He broke off, glancing at the lightening sky visible through the windows Jimin had kept so carefully curtained. "But we must hurry. Once night falls..."

The journey down the grand staircase was torture. Each step sent waves of strange sensation through (Y/n)'s body - not illness, though they all believed it so, but transformation. The sunlight streaming through the windows felt like knives against her skin, making her burrow deeper into the cloak her father had wrapped around her shoulders.

"She can barely stand," her father protested as they reached the entrance hall, his arm supporting most of her weight. "Surely we should wait-"

"Every moment we delay brings her closer to her fate," Rheinfeldt cut him off sharply. But (Y/n) caught the tremor in his voice, the way he couldn't quite meet her eyes. She wondered if he saw Bertha in her now - but no, Bertha had truly been ill, truly been a victim. What (Y/n) felt coursing through her veins was something else entirely.

The sweet-decay scent that still clung to her skin seemed to pulse with each slowing heartbeat. Her father's touch, once comforting, now felt scalding against her cooling flesh. Everything was changing, transforming, becoming something other than human. She thought of Jimin's words "Some loves transform us completely." Only now did she understand what he'd meant.

The wagon waited in the courtyard, already loaded with their grim cargo - crosses that made her eyes water, holy water that seemed to ripple without being touched, wooden stakes carved with symbols she couldn't bear to look at directly. Her father helped her into the back, where he'd created a nest of blankets to shield her from the sun's assault.

As they pulled away from the estate, (Y/n) pressed her face against the wagon's wooden side, finding a gap through which to watch her home recede into distance. The roses she'd tended were just visible, their petals drinking in the morning light. She remembered Jimin walking with her in the gardens, always in late afternoon, always in shadows. Had he been remembering his own mortal days, his own last moments in sunlight?

"The pattern was always the same," Rheinfeldt's voice carried from the front of the wagon. "Young women of good family, gradually weakening. Strange dreams, marks upon their breasts..."

But they were wrong about her, about all of it. She wasn't weakening - she was strengthening, changing, becoming something eternal. Each bump in the road made her more aware of how different her body felt. Her heartbeat had slowed to a rhythm as ancient as the earth itself. Colors seemed sharper, scents more intense, every sensation magnified to almost unbearable clarity.

The countryside rolled past in a blur of too-bright colors as (Y/n) drifted between memories of last night and awareness of what awaited them. She thought of Jimin's cool fingers in her hair, his tender touches, the way he'd looked at her in the blue room's shadows. Not a monster taking a victim, but a lover sharing his eternal gift.

"The crypt lies within consecrated ground," Rheinfeldt continued, shuffling through his papers. "An old monastery, long abandoned. They thought holy ground would contain him, but..."

(Y/n) pressed deeper into her blanket nest as the sun climbed higher. She could feel Jimin out there somewhere, moving through hidden paths toward the same destination. The marks on her throat and breast throbbed in time with her slowing pulse, calling her toward something vast and dark and eternal.

"All those girls," her father's voice cracked slightly. "Emma, Catherine, the others... How did we not see?"

But (Y/n)'s thoughts were only of Jimin - his perfect face in the blue room's mirrors, his cool weight above her, the exquisite moment when he'd made her his forever. Not victim and monster, but equals in transformation. How could she make them understand that what flowed through her veins now wasn't death, but a different kind of life?

The wagon rattled onward as morning stretched into afternoon. With each mile, (Y/n) felt herself slipping further from humanity. Sounds grew sharper - she could hear every creak of the wheels, every shift of the hunters' weapons. Scents became overwhelming - leather and wood, sweat and fear, and underneath it all, that sweet-decay perfume that meant Jimin was somewhere ahead, waiting.

The sun began its slow descent as dense forest closed in around them. Ancient trees blocked much of the painful light, their branches reaching across the road like grasping fingers. (Y/n) felt something pull at her blood, at the marks Jimin had left on her throat and breast. They were getting closer. Soon they would reach the crypt, and she would have to choose - the mortality they fought to preserve, or the dark eternity Jimin offered.

The thought of them destroying him made her chest ache with a pain that had nothing to do with transformation. They didn't understand what he was, what she was becoming. They saw only a monster who had to be stopped, not the beautiful, lonely creature who had finally found someone to share his endless night.

As the wagon wheels crunched onto different ground, (Y/n) dared to peek out from her blankets. Crumbling stone walls rose around them - the remains of the monastery Rheinfeldt had spoken of. Statues of saints, worn nearly featureless by time, watched their progress with blind eyes. Nature had begun reclaiming this sacred space - ivy crawled up weathered stone, tree roots burst through ancient paving stones, and moss carpeted what must once have been paths between buildings.

The wagon creaked to a stop in what had once been a courtyard. As her father helped her down, (Y/n) felt it - that pull in her blood growing stronger. Somewhere beneath these ruins, Jimin waited. And soon she would have to decide: the warm world of sunlight and mortality, or the eternal darkness of his love.

"Stay close," her father murmured, supporting her weight as the hunters began unloading their grim cargo. Crosses that made her eyes water, vials of water that seemed to ripple without being touched, wooden stakes carved with symbols she couldn't bear to look at directly.

But (Y/n)'s attention was elsewhere. Through her changed senses, she could feel Jimin's presence like a song in her blood. He was below them, in the crypt's endless darkness, waiting. Perhaps he already knew they had come. Perhaps he had always known how this would end.

"The entrance lies there," Rheinfeldt pointed toward a structure that seemed to grow out of the hillside itself. Unlike the monastery's slow decay above ground, this entrance appeared eerily well-preserved. Its heavy iron door gleamed as if recently tended, though that seemed impossible in such a forgotten place.

The hunters moved with practiced efficiency, checking weapons, conferring in low voices about approach and strategy. Her father had stepped away briefly to help Rheinfeldt with some ancient text, leaving her alone for the first time since they'd burst into the blue room.

(Y/n)'s eyes found a smaller path leading around the side of the ruined church. Overgrown with vines and shadow, it seemed to beckon her with promises of darker passages, hidden ways down to where Jimin waited. The pull in her blood grew stronger, urging her toward that secret route.

While the men were occupied with their preparations, she began to drift backward, one careful step at a time. The transformation had already changed her - her movements were silent now, graceful in a way that felt foreign yet natural. When she reached the shadow of a crumbling wall, no one had noticed her absence.

The hidden path led down through tangles of ancient roses, their blooms dark as wine. Their scent reminded her painfully of the black rose she'd found on Jimin's pillow that morning - had it only been that morning? It felt like lifetimes ago. Each step took her further from the hunters and closer to where she knew Jimin would be. The sweet-decay scent grew stronger, making her head swim with memories of the blue room, of his cool touches, of the moment he'd made her his forever.

A weathered door, half-hidden by ivy, opened at her touch. The passage beyond was dark, but her changed eyes pierced the shadows easily. Stone steps led down into earth that felt alive around her, the walls themselves seeming to pulse with centuries of dark magic.

Behind her, distantly, she heard her father's voice raised in alarm as they discovered her missing. But she was already descending, drawn forward by something stronger than family ties or mortal love. Each step took her closer to where she belonged - to cool arms that would hold her forever, to a darkness that felt more like home than sunlight ever had.

The passage twisted deeper, the air growing thick with that sweet-familiar scent that made her blood sing. Ancient carvings covered the walls - beautiful faces caught in eternal ecstasy or agony, it was impossible to tell which. The marks on her throat and breast throbbed stronger with each step, leading her toward their maker.

When the passage finally opened into a vast chamber, she knew she had found him. Mirrors hung between stone columns, their tarnished surfaces holding centuries of secrets. At the chamber's center stood what appeared to be an altar, but she knew it for what it truly was - his resting place, where he waited between hunting grounds, between loves that burned too bright and brief.

"I knew you would come alone."

Jimin's voice sent shivers down her spine - that same musical tone that had first enchanted her, though now it held edges of something darker, older. He emerged from the shadows as if he'd been formed from them, beautiful as ever in the chamber's eternal twilight.

"They're coming," she whispered, moving toward him as if drawn by invisible threads. "With stakes and crosses, holy water and ancient texts..."

"Let them come." His cool fingers found her face, traced the changes already visible in her features. "You're nearly complete, dear heart. The transformation almost finished." His other hand settled over the marks on her breast, making her gasp as sensation spiraled out from his touch. "Soon nothing they bring can harm you."

His touch felt different now - no longer the shocking contrast of cold against heat, but a perfect matching of temperature that made her realize how completely she had changed. When his arms drew her closer, it felt like coming home.

"I couldn't let them hurt you," she breathed against his chest, where those twin scars lay beneath his shirt - mirror images of the marks he'd left on her. "Not after... not when I understand now what this really is."

"And what is this?" he murmured into her hair, his fingers tracing patterns on her cooling skin. His voice held centuries of loneliness, of searching for someone who would understand, who would choose this darkness freely.

"Love," she answered simply, tilting her face up to his. "A different kind of love. The kind that transforms completely."

His hands cradled her face with impossible tenderness, thumbs tracing the new sharpness of her cheekbones. "How long I've waited," he breathed, his dark eyes holding centuries of loneliness. "How many lives I've lived, how many loves I've lost, searching for someone who would understand. Someone who would choose this freely."

The urgency of approaching footsteps faded away as he drew her closer. In that moment, there was only this - his cool skin perfect against hers, the sweet-decay scent surrounding them like a veil, the way the ancient mirrors caught and multiplied their reflection until it seemed a thousand versions of them stood locked in eternal embrace.

"I'm not afraid," Saffron whispered, her fingers finding the buttons of his shirt, tracing those twin scars above his heart. "Not of the darkness, not of forever. Not when it means being with you."

When his lips found hers, it was different from their kisses in the blue room. No more the thrilling contrast of cold and heat - now they matched perfectly, two pieces of the same eternal darkness. His mouth moved against hers with desperate tenderness, centuries of longing poured into a single kiss. She tasted forever on his tongue, tasted the sweetness of decay that had always surrounded him, understanding now that it was the flavor of transformation itself.

His hands tangled in her hair as the kiss deepened, grew more urgent. She could feel his hunger - not for blood now, but for connection, for someone who finally understood what it was to be both monster and lover, both predator and willing prey. When she gasped against his mouth, it wasn't from the cold of his touch but from the intensity of feeling completely, perfectly known.

"My heart," he breathed between kisses, his lips trailing fire-frost down her throat, lingering over the marks that bound them together. "My eternal love."

Above them, voices echoed down the proper passage. They had found her trail, would reach them soon. But in that moment, with Jimin's arms around her and eternity singing in her blood, Saffron found she couldn't fear what approached.

"They come to save you," Jimin murmured against her lips, though he made no move to release her from his embrace. "To return you to the sunlit world, to mortal days and human love." His fingers traced the marks on her throat with possessive tenderness. "As if you could ever go back now. As if you'd want to."

The voices grew closer, torch light beginning to flicker at the passage entrance. Saffron pressed herself closer to him, breathing in that sweet-decay scent that had become more precious than air. His cool hands slipped beneath her cloak, finding all the places he'd marked her as his own.

"There's still time," he whispered, though his grip tightened as if he couldn't bear to let her go. "Time to pretend this was all my doing, not your choice. They would believe it - that I enchanted you, corrupted you. You could return to your father's love, to gardens in daylight..."

"No," she caught his face between her hands, making him meet her gaze. In the ancient mirrors surrounding them, their reflection rippled like water - sometimes male and female, sometimes both, sometimes neither. All the faces he'd worn across centuries, all the loves he'd known and lost. "I choose this. I choose you."

His kiss turned desperate then, hungry with more than blood-need. She met his passion with her own, understanding now that this was what he'd been waiting for across centuries - not just a victim to feed upon, but someone to share his endless night. Someone who would want the darkness as much as he did.

"Saffron!" Her father's voice shattered their moment, echoing off ancient stone. "Dear God - get away from that monster!"

They broke apart slowly, reluctantly, though Jimin kept one arm around her waist. The hunters filed into the chamber, crosses raised, stakes ready. Her father's face transformed with horror as he saw how willingly she leaned into Jimin's embrace.

"Step away from him, child," Rheinfeldt commanded, his voice tight with barely contained fury. "Before it's too late."

"It was too late the moment I saw her," Jimin said softly, his cool fingers intertwining with hers. "Or perhaps the moment she saw me for what I truly was, and chose to love me anyway."

"She's enchanted," her father pleaded, taking a step forward. "Whatever hold you have on her-"

"No enchantment," Saffron interrupted, feeling Jimin's arm tighten protectively around her waist. "No thrall, no corruption. Every choice was mine." She touched the marks on her throat, watching her father flinch at the gesture. "From the first moment in the blue room, every surrender was willing."

The hunters spread out in a practiced formation, their crosses casting sacred light that made shadows dance across the ancient mirrors. But Saffron noticed something strange - the holy symbols that had burned her eyes in the wagon now seemed to hold no power. The transformation was complete, then. She was truly his.

"Like my Bertha," Rheinfeldt's voice cracked with rage and grief. "She grew weaker each day, speaking of strange dreams she could barely remember. A beautiful visitor in the night - we didn't understand until it was too late. Until she was gone."

"Yes," Jimin acknowledged softly. "She was sustenance, like the others before her. I won't deny my nature, or the lives I've taken." His arms tightened around Saffron. "But this... this is different. For the first time in centuries, I chose to reveal myself fully. To walk in twilight rather than just shadow."

"You're a creature who feeds on innocent girls," Rheinfeldt snarled. "Who drained my daughter in her sleep while she thought she was merely dreaming!"

"I am what I am," Jimin replied, no denial in his voice. "A predator, yes. A hunter of mortal life. But Saffron..." His cool fingers traced her face with a tenderness that belied his deadly nature. "She is the first I've wanted beside me in this eternal night. The first to know me fully, to choose this darkness freely."

"Choose?" Her father's voice broke on the word. "You've been planning this since she was a child! That first night visit years ago - you marked her then, didn't you? Chose her to be your victim?"

"I marked her as mine, yes," Jimin admitted. "But I returned to claim her as an equal, not just feed. For the first time in centuries, I wanted more than simple sustenance. I wanted..." His eyes met Saffron's with ancient longing. "I wanted someone to share this endless night."

"Spread out," Rheinfeldt commanded the hunters, his voice hard with purpose. "Remember your training. The crosses will weaken him, but only the stake will end this."

The hunters moved with practiced efficiency, forming a circle around the lovers. Their torches cast wild shadows across the ancient mirrors, making it seem as if dozens of copies of Jimin and Saffron were trapped within the tarnished glass.

The sweet-decay scent grew stronger as Jimin tensed behind her. She could feel something building in the air - a power older than the stones around them, something dark and hungry awakening. The shadows between the columns began to move in ways shadows shouldn't.

"Last chance, child," Rheinfeldt warned, raising his own stake. "Step aside."

But Saffron stayed where she was, arms spread to shield Jimin, though she felt him trying to pull her behind him. "I won't let you hurt him."

"Then you leave us no choice." Rheinfeldt's face hardened. "On my signal-"

The chamber suddenly plunged into darkness as every torch extinguished simultaneously. In the chaos that followed, Saffron felt Jimin's cool hands grasp her waist, spinning her away from the hunters' blind strikes. His lips found her ear in the perfect darkness.

"Trust me?" he whispered.

The absolute darkness held no secrets from her changed eyes. She could see everything with perfect clarity - the hunters stumbling with their useless torches, her father's desperate face as he called her name, Rheinfeldt trying to maintain formation despite the chaos.

"Always," she breathed back to Jimin, feeling his arms tighten around her.

The shadows themselves seemed to come alive, flowing like liquid darkness around them. Jimin's cool lips found hers in a desperate kiss as the chamber's ancient mirrors began to shatter one by one, their breaking a symphony of destruction that echoed off stone walls.

"No!" Her father's voice cracked with terror. "Saffron!"

But she was already moving with Jimin, his grace becoming hers as they danced between the hunters' blind strikes. Each broken mirror seemed to release more darkness into the chamber, until the very air felt thick with shadow. The sweet-decay scent that always surrounded him grew overwhelming, making everything feel dreamlike yet terribly real.

"The entrance!" Rheinfeldt shouted. "Don't let them reach-"

His words cut off as more mirrors shattered, their breaking glass a terrible music. Saffron felt Jimin guiding her toward something - not the passage she'd entered through, but another way, hidden behind centuries of shadow and secret.

"I won't let them take you from me," he whispered against her hair as they moved. "Not now. Not ever."

The passage twisted deeper, each step taking them further underground. But Saffron began to notice something changing in Jimin's movements - a growing heaviness, a reluctance in his perfect grace.

"The sun," he murmured, his voice tight with ancient compulsion. "Dawn approaches. I can feel it, even this far below."

She understood then - why he hadn't simply fled the monastery, why this hidden passage led down rather than out. Like in all the old tales, he was bound to his resting place during daylight hours. The transformation in her blood wasn't complete enough yet to save him from this curse.

"Here," he said finally, as the passage opened into a smaller chamber. Unlike the ceremonial tomb above, this space felt truly ancient. A stone sarcophagus lay at its center, its surface worn smooth by centuries. This wasn't for show or ceremony - this was where he truly slept between nights, between hunts, between loves.

"I cannot fight it," he whispered, his movements becoming more sluggish as dawn's power reached even here. "The sun calls me to sleep, as it has for centuries."

Behind them, the hunters' voices grew closer. They knew these passages too - some ancient knowledge passed down through generations of those who hunted his kind.

"The sun," Jimin whispered, his legs buckling as dawn's ancient power reached even these depths. "I can't..." For the first time, she saw real fear in those eternal eyes - not fear of death, but fear of leaving her.

"Then we face it together," Saffron said softly, supporting his weight. The stone sarcophagus waited before them, its surface worn smooth by centuries of use. When she pushed against the heavy lid, it moved as easily as the blue room's curtains had once done.

Jimin looked up at her with something like wonder, even as the dawn's power pulled at him. "You would choose this? An eternity of darkness, of daylight deaths, just to stay with me?"

"I chose you the moment I let you into my room," she whispered, helping him toward his resting place. The silk-lined interior seemed to welcome them both, as if it had been waiting for this moment across centuries. "Every step since then has led to this."

His cool fingers found her face, tracing its changed features with desperate tenderness. "So many years," he breathed, pulling her down with him into the sarcophagus's embrace. "So many loves lost to time. I never dared hope..." His voice caught as she settled against him, her head finding that perfect place over his heart. "Never dared dream someone would choose to share this curse freely."

"Not a curse," she murmured, feeling his arms tighten around her as dawn's power grew stronger. "A different kind of love. The kind that transforms completely." Her fingers found the buttons of his shirt, seeking those twin scars above his heart - mirror images of the marks he'd left on her breast. "The kind that lasts forever."

"My heart," he breathed against her hair, his perfect features already taking on that death-like stillness. But his embrace remained strong, possessive, eternal. "My love... my everything..."

The sweet-decay scent that had always surrounded him enveloped them both now, roses on the edge of transformation. She felt her own body beginning to respond to dawn's approach, that same ancient sleep calling to her changed blood. It should have frightened her, this descent into temporary death, but in his arms it felt right. Perfect. Inevitable.

"Every dawn," Jimin murmured, his fingers threading through her hair even as the sun's distant power made his movements slower. "Every dawn for eternity, we'll sleep like this. No more solitary deaths, no more waking alone." His cool lips found her forehead, lingering there. "You've ended centuries of loneliness with a single choice."

Their bodies fit together perfectly in the silk-lined space, as if his resting place had been waiting for her all along. She could feel his heart slowing beneath her cheek, matching rhythm with her own as dawn approached. The sweet-decay scent surrounded them like a veil, making everything feel dreamlike yet achingly real.

"I love you," she whispered against his chest, where those ancient scars lay. "Beyond death, beyond daylight, beyond everything they think they know about monsters and victims." Her fingers traced patterns on his cooling skin. "I choose this. Choose you. For every dawn, every dusk, every eternal moment between."

His arms tightened around her with desperate possession. "My heart," he breathed, voice growing fainter as the sun's power pulled at them both. "My eternal love..." His perfect features were taking on that death-like stillness, but his eyes still held hers with centuries of longing finally fulfilled.

"Here!" Rheinfeldt's voice echoed distantly, torchlight spilling into their sanctuary. But Saffron could barely keep her eyes open now, the daylight's power drawing her down into that strange sleep alongside her love.

"Together," Jimin whispered, his last word before dawn claimed him completely. She felt his arms lock around her, ensuring that even in death-sleep, they wouldn't be separated.

The last thing she saw was her father's face, transformed by horror as he realized what she'd become, what she'd chosen. But she couldn't bring herself to regret, not with Jimin's eternal embrace holding her as they descended together into daylight's dark dreams.

The torchlight cast wild shadows as the hunters crowded into the chamber, their crosses and stakes at the ready. But they hesitated at the sight before them - not a monster and his victim, but two lovers entwined in death-like sleep, their faces bearing identical expressions of perfect peace.

"Dear God," her father whispered, the stake trembling in his grip. "Saffron..."

"She's chosen to join him in his curse," Rheinfeldt said grimly, though something like pity crossed his weathered features. "Look how she lies with him - not in thrall, but in love."

Their bodies were intertwined intimately in the silk-lined sarcophagus - Saffron's dark hair spilled across Jimin's chest, his arms locked around her in eternal protection, their faces close as if they'd been sharing secrets when dawn took them. Even in death-sleep, his grip on her remained possessive, ensuring nothing could separate them.

"We must end this," one of the hunters urged, raising his stake. "Before nightfall-"

"Wait," her father stepped forward, reaching a trembling hand toward his daughter's face. But he pulled back before touching her, seeing how perfectly she matched Jimin's ethereal stillness. "She's smiling. Even in this cursed sleep, she's smiling."

Indeed, both their faces held expressions of profound peace - no sign of the monster he'd been hunting, no trace of the innocent girl they'd come to save. Just two eternal lovers, finally united after centuries of searching.

Yes, let me move us toward the ending. Let's maintain the emotional weight while bringing it to its conclusion:

"She's my daughter," her father whispered, moving closer to the sarcophagus despite the hunters' warnings. "My little girl who loved roses and poetry. Who blushed at dinner parties and dreamed of romance." His hand hovered over her peaceful face. "And now look - she's found a love so consuming she'd choose eternal darkness for it."

"A cursed love," Rheinfeldt reminded him, but his voice held more sorrow than rage now. "No matter how beautiful it appears."

The hunters readied their stakes again, but with visible reluctance. The scene before them defied everything they'd been taught about the monsters they hunted. Jimin's eternal face showed only love as he held Saffron, his entire body curved around her protectively even in death-sleep. Her hand still rested over his heart, where those twin scars lay beneath his shirt - mirror images of the marks he'd left on her.

"The sun climbs higher," one hunter warned. "If we're to act, it must be now."

Her father straightened suddenly, something resolute crossing his features. "No."

"What?" Rheinfeldt stepped forward. "You can't mean to-"

"Look at them," her father gestured to the eternal lovers. "Really look. My daughter made her choice. For the first time in his centuries of existence, he revealed himself fully to someone. Offered transformation instead of just taking life." His voice caught. "Who are we to destroy a love strong enough to transform death itself?"

Silence fell in the ancient chamber as the hunters looked between themselves, stakes lowering one by one. Even Rheinfeldt seemed to deflate, years of vengeful purpose draining away as he watched how tenderly Jimin held Saffron in their shared sleep.

"Then we seal this place," Rheinfeldt finally said. "Let them have their eternal love, but contained where they can harm no others. It's... it's more mercy than I ever thought to show such a creature."

Her father stepped forward one last time, looking down at his daughter's peaceful face. He withdrew something from his coat - her mother's rosary, worn smooth by years of prayers. With trembling fingers, he placed it in the sarcophagus beside them.

"For whatever peace it might bring you, my daughter," he whispered. "In whatever eternal life you've chosen."

The hunters worked efficiently but quietly, as if hesitant to disturb the lovers' rest. Ancient stone groaned as they sealed the chamber's entrance, ensuring no mortal would stumble upon this sanctuary of eternal love. The last torch light caught Jimin and Saffron's still faces, casting them in a golden glow before darkness claimed the chamber completely.

As sunset approached, color began returning to their still forms. Jimin woke first, his eternal eyes opening to the perfect darkness of their sanctuary. His first conscious thought was surprise - he had expected stakes, not survival. His arms tightened instinctively around Saffron as she stirred against his chest.

"We're alive," she whispered, her transformed vision adjusting to the darkness that would now be their eternal home. Her fingers found something beside them - cool beads worn smooth by years of devotion. "My father's... my mother's rosary."

Jimin's cool fingers traced her face in the darkness. "They chose mercy," he said softly, wonder in his ancient voice. "In all my centuries, I've never known hunters to..."

"They saw our love for what it truly was," Saffron touched the rosary again, feeling the weight of her father's final blessing. "Not a curse or a corruption, but a choice. A transformation." She lifted her face to his in the perfect dark. "Our eternal choice."

The sealed chamber held no terror for them now - it was their sanctuary, their palace of shadows. Somewhere far above, her father and the hunters were sealing them away from the mortal world. But here in the darkness, Jimin's cool lips found hers with centuries of longing finally fulfilled.

"Every sunset," he whispered against her mouth. "Every sunset for eternity, we'll wake like this. Together."

The sweet-decay scent filled their sanctuary as they held each other in the perfect darkness, the rosary a reminder of both what they'd left behind and what they'd gained. Above them, they could hear the hunters at work - stone grinding against stone as they sealed the chamber.

"Listen," Jimin murmured, his fingers threading through her hair. "They build our eternal home." There was still wonder in his voice, as if he couldn't quite believe the mercy they'd been shown. "No more hunting in shadows, no more solitary dawns."

Saffron touched the rosary once more, imagining her father placing it beside them while they slept. Such a human gesture of love, a blessing for an inhuman existence. "He understood, in the end," she whispered. "They all did."

Her father's voice drifted down to them as the final stones were moved into place: "What do we tell the household?"

"The truth," they heard him say, his words carrying a father's grief and acceptance. "That love transformed her completely. That she chose an eternal night with him over all our mortal days."

The last echoes of movement faded above them as the hunters completed their work. The chamber settled into its perpetual darkness, but neither of them feared it now. This was their realm, their paradise of shadow.

Jimin drew her closer in the darkness, his cool lips finding the marks on her throat that had sealed their eternal bond. The chamber that should have been their tomb had become their sanctuary instead, blessed by her father's final gift and the hunters' unexpected mercy.

"Dance with me," he whispered, pulling her to her feet in their perfect darkness. "Let's celebrate our first sunset of forever."

As they moved together, their steps echoing off ancient stone, her father's final words seemed to linger in the air - that love had transformed her completely, that she had chosen eternal night over mortal days. The rosary lay on their silk-lined resting place, a bridge between the world they'd left and the eternity they'd chosen.

Some say that on certain nights, when the moon is full and roses bloom their darkest, beautiful music can be heard drifting up from beneath the monastery ruins. Perhaps it's just the wind in ancient stones, or perhaps it's two eternal lovers dancing in their sanctuary of shadows, celebrating a love that defied both death and daylight.

In gardens nearby, roses grow wild and untamed, their petals darker than any natural bloom. Their sweet-decay perfume serves as a reminder of two souls who chose to transform death itself with the power of their love - a predator who learned to love truly, and a girl who chose darkness freely, dancing together through their eternal night.

81 notes · View notes

tatumrileyslover · 2 months ago

Text

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔅𝔩𝔲𝔢 ℜ𝔬𝔬𝔪

𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔬𝔫𝔢

Pairing: Park Jimin x Reader

Genre: vampire!AU, victorian!AU, strangers to lovers, slow burn, forbitten forbidden love, eventual light smut, angst, gothic,

Warnings: blood, death, smut, manipulation, possessive behavior, mild violence, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, gaslighting.

Word count: 30k

a/n: ok so this isn’t meant to be in two parts I just hit the tumblr limit so this is the first part. this was originally supposed to be out for Halloween but god did I get too into it and made it more than double the length I want it to be lol. anyway this is based of the gothic novel Carmilla.

𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔱𝔴𝔬

The house sat like a slumbering beast against the autumn sky, its grey stone walls rising from mist-shrouded gardens that had long since forgotten their original design. What was once carefully manicured grandeur had softened over decades into something wilder, though no less beautiful - roses climbed beyond their trellises to embrace weathered statues, and ancient trees stretched their branches toward leaded glass windows that caught the dying light like caught tears.

It was the last great house for fifty miles in any direction, a fact that both the local townspeople and its inhabitants were acutely aware of. While other noble families had slowly surrendered to changing fortunes, selling their lands and titles piece by piece, the family had endured it all. Their walls remained strong, their cellars remained stocked, and their daughter remained safely tucked away behind iron gates and stone walls.

(Y/n) stood at her bedroom window, watching the road that wound through the valley like a black ribbon. Soon it would bring Bertha, her dear friend from the finishing school in Graz. The thought brought a smile to her face as she pressed her fingertips to the cool glass. Three years had passed since they'd last seen each other, maintaining their friendship through letters that grew increasingly infrequent as distance and time worked their inevitable magic. But now, finally, Bertha would be here - bringing with her stories of balls and suitors and all the life that seemed to exist everywhere except within these walls.

A rap at the door drew her attention. "Come in, Papa."

Her father entered, his tall frame casting a long shadow in the candlelight. Though still handsome, years of solitude had etched themselves into the corners of his eyes and mouth. Since her mother's death twelve years ago, he had devoted himself to his studies and his daughter in equal measure, though the former often seemed to win out over the latter.

"Still watching the road, my dear? It will not make her arrive any faster."

"I know, Papa." (Y/n) turned from the window, her skirts rustling against the thick carpet. At nineteen, she possessed the kind of beauty that came from never knowing hardship - skin untouched by sun, hands that had never known labor, eyes that still held the bright curiosity of childhood. "But I cannot help it. The house feels different already, knowing she's coming. Less..."

"Less what, my dear?"

"Less like a cage," she said softly, then immediately regretted her words at the shadow that crossed her father's face. "Forgive me, Papa. I don't mean to sound ungrateful. I know everything you do is for my protection."

He crossed to her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You are all I have left in this world, (Y/n). Your mother..." He paused, as he always did when speaking of her mother. "She made me promise to keep you safe. The world beyond these walls grows more dangerous with each passing year."

(Y/n) nodded dutifully, though her heart ached. She knew every inch of this house, from the wine cellars with their dusty bottles to the attic where her mother's belongings still sat in trunks, untouched since the day she died. She knew which floorboards creaked, which windows caught the morning light, which corners held shadows even at midday. The servants were kind but distant, treating her with the careful reverence one might show a precious object in a museum.

Her world was contained within these walls, and while she could not truly miss what she had never known, sometimes she felt like a character in one of her beloved novels - the imprisoned princess waiting for life to begin. Her only real glimpses of the outside world came from her books, filled with adventures and romance, and from her occasional trips into town with her father for Sunday services.

Even those brief excursions felt like stepping into another world. The townspeople would stare and whisper behind their hands - not unkindly, but with the sort of fascination reserved for rare creatures. The family's wealth and isolation had bred countless rumors over the years, though none came close to the simple truth: they were just lonely, the three of them. Father, daughter, and the great house that held them both.

From her bedroom window, (Y/n) watched the winding road that cut through the valley below their estate. Even at this early hour, she could make out the occasional carriage making its way through the autumn mist. Each distant movement caught her eye, her heart quickening before inevitably sinking as they passed the turn that would bring them up towards the Manor.

"Mademoiselle, you're fidgeting again," Madame Perrodon's gentle reproach came accompanied by a firmer stroke of the hairbrush. "How can I be expected to tame these waves if you cannot sit still?"

"I apologize, Madame." (Y/n) forced herself to be still, though her eyes remained fixed on the distant road. It had been three years since she'd last seen Bertha - three years of letters describing balls and suitors and a world so different from (Y/n)'s carefully contained existence. She could still remember their last afternoon together, huddled in this very window seat, Bertha's eyes bright with excitement about the finishing school that awaited her in Graz.

"Your mother's roses are particularly beautiful this autumn," Madame Perrodon commented, her fingers working deftly to pin (Y/n)'s soft hair into an acceptable style. "Though Marcel lets them grow wild as wolves these days."

The mention of her mother drew (Y/n)'s attention to the familiar portrait hanging opposite her dressing table. The smile seemed to hold secrets, her hands painted delicately among the same roses that now grew unchecked below. Sometimes, in certain lights, (Y/n) thought she could see herself in that smile, though her own felt considerably more practiced.

Through the open door came the excited whispers of maids passing in the hallway. "The kitchen's been baking since dawn..." "All the best linens..." "Miss Rheinfeldt's room is prepared..."

On any other Sunday, they would be preparing for their weekly journey into town for services. (Y/n) felt a twinge of disappointment - she would miss her brief exchanges with Catherine and Marie, the milliner's daughters. Their whispered conversations about books and fashion during the fellowship hour were one of her few connections to girls her own age, even if her father and Madame Perrodon watched these interactions with careful eyes.

"There," Madame declared, securing the final pin. "Now you look-"

But (Y/n) had already risen, drawn to her window by the sound of wheels on gravel. Below, she could see Marcel and Emma in the gardens, their heads turning toward the sound as well. How she envied their easy companionship, the way Emma could freely kneel in the dirt beside her grandfather, learning the secrets of the gardens that had once been her mother's pride. On warmer days, (Y/n) would often sit on the stone bench nearby, watching them work while pretending to read. Marcel would share stories of her mother's passion for the roses, how she would spend hours tending them herself despite her station.

The old house creaked and sighed its morning song around her, floorboards protesting beneath thick carpets as (Y/n) made her way down the grand staircase. Carved angels watched her descent from the bannister, their wooden faces worn smooth by generations of trailing hands. Her mother had once told her they were guardians, keeping watch over the family. Now their blank eyes seemed to follow her, as if they knew something she didn't.

The morning light filtered through tall windows, catching dust motes that danced in the air. Preparations for Bertha's arrival had stirred up the house's usual stillness. Somewhere below, she could hear Mrs. Klaus, the housekeeper, directing maids about the proper arrangement of fresh flowers. The scent of baking bread and autumn spices wafted up from the kitchen - Bertha had always loved Cook's cinnamon cakes.

Memories of their last visit together surfaced as (Y/n) paused on the landing. They had been sixteen then, sharing secrets in the library's window seat while rain drummed against the glass. Bertha, already worldlier despite their same age, had whispered about a young man she'd danced with at her cousin's wedding. (Y/n) had listened, enraptured, trying to imagine what it would feel like to waltz in someone's arms.

The great hall below bustled with unusual activity. Curtains had been drawn back fully, allowing autumn light to illuminate the family portraits that lined the walls. Generations of ancestors stared down at her, their painted eyes holding the same careful reserve she saw in her father's. Her mother's portrait was different though - hung separately near the library doors, captured in the garden she'd loved so dearly. Sometimes (Y/n) would catch her father standing before it, lost in thoughts he never shared.

The morning air had turned peculiar as (Y/n) stepped out onto the terrace. What had started as a bright autumn day now held an odd heaviness, as if the sky itself were holding its breath. The roses swayed in a wind that carried the first real bite of winter, their late blooms scattering crimson petals across the gravel paths.

Marcel and Emma were working near her mother's favorite fountain, their quiet conversation carrying across the garden. The old gardener looked up as she passed, touching his cap with soil-stained fingers.

"The weather's turning, Miss," he called, his weathered face creasing with concern. "Best not stay out too long."

But (Y/n) was already moving toward her favorite spot - the ancient oak that stood sentinel by the pond. Its branches spread like protective arms above the water, creating a private world beneath its canopy. Here, she had spent countless hours reading, dreaming, watching the play of light on water. Here, she and Bertha had shared their last goodbye, promising to write every week.

The oak's massive roots created a natural seat, worn smooth by years of use. Settling herself against the trunk, (Y/n) opened her book but found herself watching the drive instead. The mist had thickened rather than burning off, unusual for this time of day. It crept up from the valley like something alive, wreathing the gardens in white tendrils that seemed to reach for her with ghostly fingers.

The mist continued to thicken, unusual for this time of day, creeping up from the valley like something alive. A chill wind rustled through the oak's branches, sending leaves spiraling down to dot the pond's surface. Each ripple distorted (Y/n)'s reflection, making her appear and disappear like a ghost in the darkening water.

"Please hurry, Bertha," she whispered, pulling her shawl tighter. The weather seemed determined to spoil their reunion. Already the bright autumn morning had given way to something more ominous - clouds gathering above the estate like mourners, the air heavy with unshed rain. If the Rheinfeldts didn't arrive soon, they risked traveling these winding roads in a storm.

The sound of approaching hooves cut through her thoughts. (Y/n) straightened, heart leaping - but no, this was a single rider, not the Rheinfeldts' carriage. Through gaps in the mist, she could make out a figure in a dark coat, riding with the urgent purpose of a messenger rather than a social caller.

From their position near the roses, Marcel and Emma paused in their work to watch the rider's approach. A servant hurried out to meet him, and even at this distance, something in their exchange made (Y/n)'s stomach tighten. The messenger's stance, the careful way the servant accepted what appeared to be a letter...

"That doesn't bode well, does it?" Emma's voice carried softly across the garden.

"Hush, girl," Marcel replied, but his tone held worry rather than rebuke.

(Y/n) turned back to the pond, forcing herself to dismiss their concerns. Perhaps it was simply business for her father - he often received correspondence from his associates in Vienna. The water's surface had grown as dark as steel, reflecting the gathering clouds. A few fat drops of rain began to fall, creating perfect circles that spread and disappeared.

Footsteps on the gravel path made her look up. Her father approached slowly, his usual brisk stride replaced by something heavier, more measured. Without speaking, he lowered himself to sit beside her on the oak's roots - an intimacy so unusual that (Y/n) felt her breath catch.

"Papa?" Her voice sounded very young suddenly, even to her own ears.

He didn't speak immediately, his hands working at something in his lap. When he finally turned to her, she saw he held a letter. The broken seal bore the Rheinfeldt family crest.

"My dearest," he began, his voice gentle in a way that made her want to cover her ears. "I have news about Bertha."

With trembling fingers, (Y/n) accepted the letter. The paper was fine, expensive - the kind Bertha's father always used for his correspondence. But as she unfolded it, the familiar letterhead seemed somehow more formal, more foreboding:

From Baron Rheinfeldt

Castle Rheinfeldt

October 15th, 1872

My Dear Friend,

It is with the heaviest of hearts that I must write to you, bearing news that has shattered our household and will, I fear, bring great sorrow to your own - particularly to your dear (Y/n), whose friendship meant so much to my beloved Bertha.

I know you were expecting us within the week, and I cannot express the pain it causes me to instead send this letter. My darling daughter, my only child, has been taken from us in circumstances so peculiar and distressing that I can scarcely put them to paper. Yet you must know, if only to spare your household the anxiety of waiting for an arrival that can never come.

Three weeks ago, Bertha began to speak of strange dreams. She would wake in the night, claiming visitations from a dark figure that left her weak and frightened. We dismissed these as mere fancies at first - you know how imaginative she could be. But soon she grew pale and listless, her strength declining day by day. The local physician could find no cause for her malady, though she complained of a sharp pain in her breast and a gradual suffocation that seemed to worsen as each night fell.

Two nights ago, she woke screaming that the figure was in her room, but when we rushed to her aid, nothing was amiss. By morning, she could barely speak, her pulse so faint as to be almost imperceptible. Before the sun set that day, my beautiful child, my darling Bertha, had left this world.

The doctors speak of a mysterious illness, but can offer no true explanation for how a young woman in the bloom of health could decline so rapidly. I write this not only to explain our absence but to warn you - there have been other cases in our region of young women suffering similar fates. Perhaps it is some fever that has yet to be understood by medical science.

Please convey my deepest apologies to (Y/n). I know she and Bertha had been planning this reunion with great excitement. The thought of their joy makes this tragedy all the more bitter to bear.

Your friend in profound grief,

Baron Frederick Rheinfeldt

The letter trembled in (Y/n)'s hands, its meaning somehow both clear and incomprehensible. She read it again, then a third time, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less final.

"But," she said finally, her voice small, "we've prepared her room. Cook made cinnamon cakes."

Her father's hand found her shoulder, squeezing gently. The gesture only made everything feel more wrong.

"The roses," she continued, the words spilling out like water. "They're beautiful right now - Bertha always loved them in autumn. She said they looked like sunset caught in flowers. We were going to press them in books, like we used to. I saved that collection of poetry she wrote about in her last letter - the one with the blue binding she described. It's on her bedside table, waiting..."

Tears came then, not in great heaving sobs, but in silent streams that seemed to surprise her. She touched her cheek, looking at the moisture on her fingers as if she couldn't quite understand where it had come from.

"She can't be..." (Y/n) smoothed the letter in her lap, focusing on removing every crease. "We were going to show her the new kittens in the stable. She doesn't even know about them yet. And her room - we put fresh lavender in all the drawers, just as she likes. The blue guest room, Papa. Her favorite. Madame Perrodon helped me arrange dried flowers just as she described seeing at that ball in Vienna..."

The afternoon light had begun to fade, the mist curling thicker around the garden's edges. Her father shifted uncomfortably on the oak's roots beside her.

"My dear, perhaps we should-"

"And the piano," (Y/n) interrupted, her voice taking on a peculiar, singsong quality. "We've had it tuned specially. That new piece she mentioned - the Mozart sonata. I've been practicing it for weeks so we could play it together. She was so excited about showing me how her technique has improved since finishing school. She said..." Her voice cracked. "She said we would play it for you, after dinner on her first night here."

A cool wind rustled through the oak's branches, sending dead leaves spiraling down to dot the pond's surface. Each ripple distorted (Y/n)'s reflection, making her appear and disappear like a ghost in the darkening water.

"(Y/n)." Her father's voice was gentle but insistent. "The weather is turning. We should return to the house."

But she shook her head, clutching the letter tighter. "Just a little longer. She might still... There could be a mistake. Baron Rheinfeldt is older now, he could have become confused. If we just wait..."

The hours crept by, marked only by the gradual darkening of the sky and the periodic attempts of servants to coax them inside. First Marcel, pausing in his work to suggest rain was coming. Then Emma, sent by Cook with a tray of tea that grew cold, untouched. Finally Madame Perrodon herself, wringing her hands in distress at the sight of her charge sitting so still in the growing dark.

"Mademoiselle, please. You'll catch your death."

"You see?" (Y/n) seized on the common phrase with desperate hope. "People say that - 'catch your death.' But they don't really die. It's just something people say."

The sun had long since disappeared behind heavy clouds, the mist thickening into true darkness. One by one, lights began to appear in the house windows, warm squares of yellow that seemed to emphasize the gathering gloom in the garden. The pond's surface had grown as dark as steel, reflecting nothing now but the occasional ripple of rain drops.

Her father had remained beside her throughout, his silence both a comfort and a terrible confirmation. Now he stirred again, his joints surely aching from sitting so long on the hard roots.

"My dearest," he began, but stopped at the sound of distant carriage wheels on the road below.

(Y/n)'s head snapped up, hope flaring painfully in her chest. Through the mist, she could make out the bobbing lights of carriage lanterns, weaving their way up the treacherous road that led to their estate.

"You see?" she whispered. "You see? I knew if we just waited-"

The crash, when it came, was distant but unmistakable - the splintering of wood and the high, terrible scream of frightened horses cutting through the night air. The lantern lights jerked violently, then disappeared altogether.

Father and daughter sat frozen, straining to hear through the darkness. The silence that followed seemed to stretch eternally, broken only by the soft patter of rain on leaves.

"Papa?" (Y/n)'s voice had lost its childish insistence, fear creeping in at last.

(Y/n) was moving before her mind could catch up with her legs, her skirts gathered in trembling hands as she rushed toward the road. Behind her, she could hear her father's voice calling out, "(Y/n)! Wait!" but the sound seemed distant, unimportant.

The path down to the road was treacherous in daylight; in the gathering dark it was nearly impossible. Her boots slipped on wet leaves, branches caught at her hair and dress like grasping fingers. The mist had settled thick between the ancient trees, turning familiar paths into something alien and forbidding. Behind her, she could hear the gathering sounds of pursuit - servants calling out, the bounce of lantern light, her father's increasingly urgent voice.

It wasn't until she reached the road itself that doubt began to creep in. The fog here was even thicker, seeming to swallow the weak moonlight whole. The trees pressed close on either side, their branches forming a dark canopy overhead that blocked what little light remained. Every sound seemed muffled, wrong - as if the fog itself was drinking them in.

"Miss (Y/n)!" Marcel's voice, accompanied by approaching lantern light. "Please wait for us!"

She paused then, her heart pounding, suddenly aware of how far she'd run and how dark it had grown. The crash had sounded closer. Or had her fear made her imagine that?

Her father caught up to her first, slightly out of breath. "Reckless girl," he muttered, but there was relief rather than anger in his voice. Behind him came Marcel and two other servants with lanterns, their light creating strange, shifting shadows among the trees.

A horse's frightened whinny cut through the fog, much closer now. (Y/n) moved forward more cautiously, her father's hand firm on her arm. The lantern light caught something metallic ahead - the gleam of an overturned carriage wheel, still spinning slowly.

As they drew closer, the scene emerged from the fog like a painting being unveiled. The carriage lay on its side, one wheel completely shattered. The horses, still partially harnessed, stamped and snorted nervously, their breath visible in the cold air. This was not the Rheinfeldts' familiar family carriage - this was something altogether grander and stranger, its black lacquered surface gleaming wet in the lantern light, its gilt trim suggesting foreign wealth.

"Hello?" her father called out. "Is anyone hurt?"

A movement near the carriage door drew their attention. A woman's voice, low and melodious, called back in accented French. "Ah, thank heaven. We've had quite the accident, as you can see."

The door, now facing skyward, opened with some effort. A figure emerged - a woman, elegant even in disarray, her dark traveling clothes of the finest quality. There was something striking about her face, though (Y/n) found she couldn't quite focus on its details in the shifting light.

"Allow me to assist you, Madame," her father stepped forward, helping the woman climb down from the tilted carriage. Marcel and the other servants moved to steady her descent.

"You are most kind," the woman said, switching to perfect if accented English. "We were on our way to visit friends in the next county when our driver took ill suddenly. The fog..." she gestured eloquently at their surroundings. "The road proved more treacherous than expected."

"Your driver - is he-?" her father began.

"Gone, I'm afraid. Fled into the woods in some sort of fit. But my greater concern is my son." Here she turned back to the carriage, genuine distress entering her voice. "He was thrown rather badly when we overturned. I haven't been able to wake him."

"Several of my men might assist in extracting him, Madame," her father offered, already gesturing to the servants.

The elegant woman nodded, stepping aside with a grace that seemed out of place in their dire circumstances. The lantern light caught her features strangely - one moment sharp as cut glass, the next oddly indistinct, like a painting seen through water.

Marcel and Thomas, one of the stronger footmen, approached the carriage carefully. The fog seemed to curl around their feet as they worked, making their movements appear dreamlike and sluggish. From within the dark interior came the sound of shifting fabric, a soft groan.

"Gentle, if you please," the woman called out, though her tone held more courtesy than real concern. "He is all I have in this world."

The words were right, (Y/n) thought, but something in their delivery rang false, like an actress reciting well-rehearsed lines. She found herself watching the woman's face, trying to fix its details in her mind, but each time she looked away, the memory of those features seemed to slip like water through her fingers.

"Carefully now," her father directed as the servants began to lift their unconscious charge. The lantern light swept across the scene, and (Y/n) felt her breath catch in her throat.

The young man they carried was beauty made flesh - there was no other way to describe him. His face, unconscious and unguarded, held a quality that seemed to transcend mere human comeliness. Dark hair fell across his forehead in elegant disarray, and even in the poor light, his skin held a luminous quality, like moonlight on fresh snow. His clothes, though disarranged by the accident, were clearly of the finest quality - black velvet and silk that seemed to drink in the lantern light.

There was something about his face that tugged at (Y/n)'s memory, something tantalizingly familiar that danced just beyond her grasp. She found herself moving forward without conscious thought, drawn by an impulse she couldn't name.

"(Y/n)," her father's warning tone brought her up short. She realized she'd nearly reached out to touch the unconscious stranger's hand.

"He will be well, I think," the woman said, watching (Y/n) with an expression that might have been amusement. "Just stunned by the fall. What fortune that we should crash so near to such a grand house." Her gesture encompassed the manor, barely visible through the fog above them. "I don't suppose..."

"Of course," her father said immediately, nobility's obligations winning out over any hesitation. "We can offer shelter while arrangements are made for your onward journey."

"You are too kind." Again, that perfect courtesy that somehow felt hollow. "I hate to impose further, but I find myself in something of a predicament. I have urgent business that cannot wait - a matter of inheritance that requires my immediate presence. My son, however, is in no condition to travel."

(Y/n) watched in growing amazement as the woman outlined her request with elegant precision. Might her son remain here, under their care, while she attended to these pressing matters? She would, of course, send word within a day or two of her return date. She had friends in the region she'd been traveling to visit - though oddly, she didn't name them - who would vouch for their character.

"I cannot ask you to take on such a responsibility," she said, in a tone that suggested she expected exactly that.

"Nonsense," her father replied, though (Y/n) detected a slight unease in his voice. "We can hardly turn away those in need, especially of our own class. Your son will be well cared for until your return."

"You ease my heart," the woman said, though (Y/n) noticed she hadn't once looked back at her unconscious son since the servants had lifted him. "I can arrange alternate transport from the next town, if one of your men might assist me that far?"

It was all happening so quickly. Even as her father gave instructions for a groom to accompany the mysterious woman, even as Marcel and Thomas began their careful ascent toward the house with their unconscious burden, (Y/n) found herself struggling to understand how smoothly it had all been arranged. It was only when the woman stepped close to bid her farewell that a chill ran down her spine.

"Watch over him for me, dear one," the woman said softly, her fingers brushing (Y/n)’s cheek in a gesture that felt both intimate and alien. This close, her eyes seemed to hold a peculiar depth, like wells that went down forever. "He can be... difficult when he wakes. But I'm sure you'll manage him beautifully."

Then she was gone, disappearing into the fog with their groom, leaving behind only the overturned carriage and her unconscious son - and a lingering sense that something momentous and terrible had just been set in motion.

The house seemed to stir with nervous energy as they made their way back up the path, lanterns bobbing like will-o'-wisps through the fog. Marcel and Thomas carried their unconscious guest with careful precision, while Madame Perrodon hurried ahead to prepare the blue guest room - Bertha's room, (Y/n) thought with a sudden pang that felt almost like betrayal.

The entrance hall's warmth was a shock after the chill fog, the familiar space somehow changed by the evening's events. Servants whispered in corners, stealing glances at the beautiful stranger being carried up the grand staircase. The house itself seemed to hold its breath, ancient wood creaking under strange footsteps.

"The blue room, sir?" Madame Perrodon called down from the landing, her face pinched with concern.

(Y/n) felt her throat tighten. "Papa, not-"

"It is the most suitable guest room," her father said quietly. His hand found her shoulder, squeezing gently. "And it is... available."

The blue room had always been the grandest of their guest chambers. Its walls were painted a soft cornflower blue that caught the morning light beautifully, making the gilt-framed mirrors dance with reflected sunshine. Now, in the flickering candlelight, those same walls seemed almost grey, the mirrors reflecting only shadows as they carried his limp form through the doorway.

The bed was already turned down - prepared that morning for Bertha, (Y/n) remembered with another stab of grief. The very sheets that had been aired with lavender for her friend would now cradle this strange young man. She watched as they laid him carefully on the blue silk counterpane, his dark hair stark against the pale pillows, his face ethereally beautiful in the candlelight.

"Mademoiselle," Madame Perrodon touched her arm. "Perhaps you should retire. It's been a trying day."

But (Y/n) couldn't move, transfixed by the scene before her. Mrs. Klaus had appeared with hot water and cloths, presumably to tend to any injuries. The housekeeper's usually efficient movements seemed hesitant as she approached the bed, as if she too sensed something not quite natural about their mysterious guest.

"He appears unmarked," Mrs. Klaus said finally, her voice holding a note of surprise. "Not a scratch on him, despite the violence of the accident."

"Providence," her father murmured, though he didn't sound entirely convinced.

(Y/n) found her gaze drawn to his face again. In the better light, she could study his features properly - the elegant arch of his brows, the perfect curve of his mouth, the almost translucent quality of his skin. There was something about him that nagged at her memory, like a word trapped on the tip of her tongue.

"Look how peaceful he sleeps," she heard herself say, her voice sounding distant to her own ears. "Like a painting."

"(Y/n)." Her father's tone was sharper now. "To your room. It's not proper for you to..."

He trailed off as the boy stirred slightly, his head turning on the pillow. Everyone in the room seemed to freeze, watching, but he didn't wake. A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead, and again (Y/n) felt that maddening sense of familiarity.

"Come, mademoiselle." Madame Perrodon's grip on her arm was firmer now. "You've had a shock. First the news about poor Bertha, and now this excitement. You must rest."

The mention of Bertha's name seemed to break whatever spell had held (Y/n) in place. She allowed herself to be led from the room, though she couldn't help glancing back one last time. In the moment before the door closed, she could have sworn she saw his lips curve in the slightest smile.

Sleep proved impossible that night. (Y/n) lay in her bed, listening to the house settle around her with unfamiliar creaks and sighs. Even Madame Perrodon's usual soft breathing from the adjoining room provided little comfort. The events of the day swirled in her mind like autumn leaves caught in a whirlwind - Bertha's letter, the crash, the strange elegant woman, and most persistently, the beautiful unconscious young man now sleeping in what should have been her friend's room.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face, hauntingly perfect in the candlelight. That maddening sense of familiarity tugged at her thoughts, like a half-remembered dream. There was something about the curve of his mouth, the arch of his brow...

A floorboard creaked in the hallway - probably just Mrs. Klaus making her nightly rounds, but (Y/n) found herself holding her breath, straining to hear. The blue room was just down the corridor. Was their mysterious guest still sleeping? The woman - his mother, though something about that relationship felt odd - had said he might be 'difficult' when he woke. What had she meant by that?

The wind picked up outside, branches scratching against her window like skeletal fingers. The sound reminded her of the carriage crash, of the fog-shrouded road. How strange that the woman had left so quickly, abandoning her supposedly beloved son to the care of strangers. And where had the driver gone? The more (Y/n) thought about it, the more questions arose.

She must have drifted off eventually, for she found herself in that strange space between sleeping and waking, where reality blurs at the edges. The moonlight through her window seemed to pool like silver water on the floor, and in its glow, she thought she saw a figure standing at the foot of her bed. A beautiful face looking down at her, familiar yet wrong somehow...

(Y/n) jerked awake, her heart pounding. The room was empty, the moonlight now nothing more than pale squares on the carpet. But the sense of a presence lingered, making her skin prickle with unnamed awareness.

"Madame?" she called softly, but only silence answered from the adjoining room.

Sleep proved even more elusive after that. She lay awake until the first grey light of dawn began to creep through her windows, bringing with it the usual morning sounds of the household stirring to life. She could hear servants moving below, their muffled voices carrying up through the floorboards. The smell of breakfast began to wind its way up the stairs - fresh bread and coffee, the normal rhythms of the house attempting to reassert themselves after the previous day's disruption.

A knock at her door made her start. "Mademoiselle?" Madame Perrodon's voice. "Are you awake?"

"Yes, come in."

The French woman entered, already dressed for the day, her face carrying an odd expression. "Your father requests your presence at breakfast. Our... guest still sleeps."

The morning light in the breakfast room seemed too harsh, too ordinary after the strangeness of the night. (Y/n) picked at her toast, aware of the unusual tension around the table. Her father sat at his customary place, the morning paper untouched beside his coffee cup. Even the servants seemed to move differently, their usual efficient routines interrupted by frequent glances toward the ceiling - toward the blue room above.

"Has anyone checked on him?" (Y/n) finally asked, breaking the heavy silence.

"Mrs. Klaus looked in at dawn," her father replied, frowning slightly. "Still sleeping, apparently. Quite deeply."

"It's nearly ten o'clock," Madame Perrodon observed, her usual calm manner betraying a hint of unease. "Should we perhaps summon Dr. Werner?"

"The mother said he would sleep unusually long," her father said, though he didn't sound entirely convinced. "Something about a previous illness making him sensitive to travel."

"Did she?" (Y/n) asked, trying to recall the woman's exact words from the night before. But like so much about their mysterious visitor's mother, the details seemed to slip away when examined too closely.

The breakfast room fell silent again, broken only by the clink of silver against china and the tick of the great clock in the hall. Through the windows, (Y/n) could see Marcel in the gardens, seemingly intent on his work but positioned suspiciously close to the section beneath the blue room's windows.

Hours crept by with excruciating slowness. (Y/n) attempted to focus on her needlework, but found herself counting the chimes of the clock instead. Eleven. Twelve. One...

It was well past two in the afternoon when Mrs. Klaus appeared in the drawing room doorway, her usually unflappable demeanor slightly disturbed. "Sir," she addressed (Y/n)'s father, "The young gentleman is awake. He's asked to pay his respects to the household."

Something in the housekeeper's tone made (Y/n) look up sharply. Mrs. Klaus's face held an odd expression - not quite fear, but something adjacent to it.

"How does he seem?" her father asked, setting aside his book.

"Most..." Mrs. Klaus paused, seeming to search for the right word. "Most elegant, sir. Though perhaps still somewhat affected by his ordeal. He's asked to dress properly before receiving visitors."

"Of course," her father nodded. "We shall receive him here when he's ready."

The next half hour was torture. (Y/n) found herself smoothing her skirts repeatedly, hyper-aware of her reflection in the drawing room mirrors. That nagging sense of familiarity had returned, stronger now that their guest was awake.

When the drawing room door finally opened again, the late afternoon sun had begun to slant through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor. In that golden light, their guest appeared like something from a painting - perfectly composed, unnaturally beautiful. His dark clothes were immaculate, showing no sign of the previous night's accident. His face...

(Y/n) felt her breath catch. In the daylight, that sense of recognition was almost overwhelming.

He moved into the room with impossible grace, every gesture deliberate yet fluid, like a dancer marking steps to unheard music. His dark eyes found (Y/n)'s immediately, and something passed between them - recognition, connection, a current of awareness that made her hands tremble in her lap.

"Sir," he addressed her father with a slight bow, his voice musical and deeply cultured. "I must express my profound gratitude for your hospitality. My name is..." Here he paused, almost imperceptibly, "Park. I find myself indebted to your kindness."

"Not at all," her father replied, though (Y/n) noticed he seemed slightly dazzled by their guest's presence. "We could hardly leave you in such circumstances. I am the Baron, and this is my daughter, (Y/n)."

Those dark eyes returned to her face. "Mademoiselle." He took her offered hand, his fingers cool against her skin. "Your beauty rivals the stars in their midnight dance"

(Y/n) felt herself flush, acutely aware of how forward such a comment was - and how, strangely, no one seemed to mind. Even Madame Perrodon, usually so quick to enforce propriety, appeared captivated.

"You must still be recovering from your ordeal," (Y/n) found herself saying. "Please, sit." She gestured to the chair nearest hers, then wondered at her own boldness.

He smiled - a subtle thing that seemed to transform his entire face - and accepted the seat. "You are too kind. Though I confess, the accident itself is somewhat... hazy in my memory."

"Not unusual, given the circumstances," her father said. "Your mother mentioned you'd been unwell recently?"

Again that barely perceptible pause. "Yes, a recurring condition that makes travel... challenging. Which makes your generous offer of shelter all the more appreciated."

"How fortunate that you were so near when the accident occurred," (Y/n) said, then immediately worried it might sound accusatory.

But he only turned that devastating smile on her again. "Fortune indeed. Though I believe some meetings are destined, don't you? Written in the stars, as poets would say."

The way he looked at her as he said it - as if they were sharing a private joke, as if they'd known each other forever - made her heart flutter strangely. That nagging sense of familiarity grew stronger.

"Do you read poetry, Mademoiselle?"

"(Y/n)," she corrected without thinking, then blushed again. "And yes, I'm particularly fond of the Romantics."

"Ah!" His entire face lit up with genuine enthusiasm. "Then we must discuss Byron. 'The Dream' has been much in my thoughts lately." He began to recite softly:

"'Our life is twofold; Sleep hath its own world,

A boundary between the things misnamed

Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world...'"

His voice seemed to caress each word, giving them new meaning. (Y/n) found herself leaning forward slightly, drawn in by his presence, his passion for the poetry she loved.

Her father cleared his throat, but she noticed his expression had softened. It had been weeks since he'd seen her truly engaged with anyone, she realized. Not since the excitement of planning Bertha's visit...

The thought of Bertha should have brought fresh pain, but somehow it felt distant, unimportant compared to the magnetic presence of their guest.

"Perhaps," her father said carefully, "you might show our guest the library after tea? I understand you share a love of literature."

Tea had been a strangely intimate affair, their guest, displaying impeccable manners while barely touching his cup. Now, as (Y/n) led him through the manor's winding corridors toward the library, she found herself acutely aware of his presence behind her, the way the air seemed to change when he moved.

The library had always been her sanctuary, its floor-to-ceiling shelves creating the impression of a forest made of books. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the tall windows, catching dust motes that danced like golden snow in the air. She turned to gauge his reaction and found him already watching her, that same knowing smile playing at his lips.

"Your home is remarkable," he said, moving past her to trail his fingers along the spines of nearby books. "These volumes... quite a collection. Your father's?"

"Many were my mother's," (Y/n) replied, watching as he pulled out a volume of Byron. "She had quite passionate opinions about literature."

"Had?" He glanced up, those dark eyes suddenly intent.

"She passed when I was seven."

"Ah." Something flickered across his face - understanding? Recognition? "My condolences. Though I suspect she left you her love of poetry?"

(Y/n) moved closer, drawn by the way his fingers caressed the book's leather binding. "You quoted Byron earlier - 'The Dream.'"

"Yes." He turned toward her fully then, and she realized how close they'd gotten. His voice dropped lower, intimate. "You must call me Jimin. Somehow 'Park' feels... inadequate. Too formal for what I sense between us."

The way he said it - as if they shared some profound secret - made her breath catch. That nagging familiarity surged again, stronger than ever.

"Have we..." she started, then hesitated. "This may sound strange, but I feel as though..."

"As though we've met before?" His smile held something dangerous now, thrilling. "Perhaps in dreams?"

The word triggered something - a memory trying to surface - but before she could grasp it, he was moving again, graceful as a cat, pulling another book from the shelves.

"Ah, Coleridge. Another poet fascinated by dreams and the boundaries between worlds." He began to read, his voice taking on a hypnotic quality.

The library had grown darker around them, the sunset painting the sky beyond the windows in shades of blood and gold. For a moment, neither spoke, the silence heavy with unspoken things. His closeness should have made her uncomfortable, yet somehow it felt... inevitable.

"I hardly slept last night," (Y/n) found herself confessing, her voice barely above a whisper. "There was something... strange."

Jimin's expression shifted subtly, a flash of intense interest quickly masked. "Strange how?"

"I thought..." she hesitated, aware of how foolish it might sound. "I woke in the night - or perhaps I was still dreaming - and there was a figure, standing at the foot of my bed. Just... watching me."

His fingers, still lingering near her face, stilled completely. "And this frightened you?"

"No," she realized, surprised by her own answer. "It should have, shouldn't it? A stranger in my room. But it felt... familiar somehow. Like a half-remembered lullaby."

The last rays of sunlight caught in his dark eyes, making them appear almost burgundy. "Dreams have their own truth," he said softly. "Sometimes truer than what we think we know when awake."

Something in his tone made her shiver, though not unpleasantly. She found herself studying his face in the fading light, trying to catch that elusive sense of recognition that kept dancing just beyond her grasp. "Do you dream, Jimin?"

His smile held secrets. "Oh yes. Though sometimes I find it hard to distinguish between dreams and memories. Don't you find them remarkably similar? Both grow hazy around the edges, both feel real while we're in them..." He shifted slightly closer. "Both can haunt us long after we think we've forgotten them."

The library had grown so dark that his face was now mostly shadow, yet his eyes seemed to catch what little light remained. (Y/n) was acutely aware of how improper their situation had become - alone in the growing dark, sitting far too close. Yet she couldn't bring herself to move away.

"Tell me about your life here," he said suddenly, his voice gentle. "This beautiful cage of yours."

She started at his choice of words - so similar to her own thoughts. "How did you-?"

"I recognize the look," he interrupted softly. "The way you watch the road from your windows. The hunger in your eyes when you speak of your friend... Bertha, was it?"

The name should have brought fresh pain, but somehow it felt distant, unimportant in the face of his overwhelming presence. "Yes, she was... she was to visit. Before..."

"Before fate intervened," he finished for her. "Perhaps it was meant to be this way. Perhaps I was meant to find you instead."

The presumption of such a statement should have shocked her, yet she found herself nodding. "I've never been able to talk to anyone like this," she admitted. "Even Bertha... there were always proper things to say, proper ways to be. This feels..."

"Different," he supplied. "Real. As if we've known each other forever." His cool fingers found hers in the darkness. "As if we've met before."

That nagging sense of familiarity surged again, stronger than ever. There was something about his face in the shadows, something about the way he looked at her...

The sound of footsteps in the corridor broke the spell. They moved apart just as Madame Perrodon appeared in the doorway, carrying a lamp that made them both blink at its sudden brightness.

"Mademoiselle, it's nearly time to dress for dinner." Her tone held a gentle reproof. "And the lamps should have been lit an hour ago. It's not good for your eyes, reading in such dim light."

(Y/n) stood, suddenly aware of how long they'd been secluded together, how improper it must seem. But when she glanced at Jimin, he appeared perfectly composed, as if they'd been discussing nothing more intimate than the weather.

"My fault entirely, Madame," he said, rising with fluid grace. "I'm afraid I quite lost track of time, enchanted by your charge's conversation."

Something in the way he said it - so perfectly proper yet somehow suggesting deeper meanings - made (Y/n)'s cheeks flush. Madame Perrodon's expression suggested she caught the undertone as well, though she said nothing.

"Will you join us for dinner?" (Y/n) asked, not ready for their conversation to end.

A shadow seemed to pass over his face. "I fear I'm still somewhat fatigued from yesterday's... excitement. Perhaps tomorrow? The daylight hours particularly tax my strength."

"Of course," she said quickly, concerned. "You must rest."

He caught her hand as she passed, his touch cool and electric. "Dream of me," he whispered, too soft for Madame Perrodon to hear.

Something about the way he said it - half playful, half command - sent another shiver down her spine. As if she could dream of anything else.

Dinner that evening felt like a strange performance where (Y/n) couldn't quite remember her lines. The familiar rhythms of the household - the clink of silver against fine china, the measured steps of servants, her father's occasional comments about estate matters - seemed to come from very far away. Her thoughts kept drifting upstairs, to the blue room where Jimin now rested.

"(Y/n)?" Her father's voice broke through her reverie. "You've been pushing the same pea around your plate for ten minutes."

"I'm sorry, Papa." She forced herself to take a bite, though the food held little interest. "I suppose I'm a bit tired."

Her father studied her over his wine glass, his expression thoughtful. "Our guest seems... interesting. You spent quite some time in the library today."

Something in his tone made her glance up sharply, but his face held only mild curiosity. If anything, he looked pleased - the first time she'd seen such an expression since Bertha's letter arrived.

"He's very well-read," she offered carefully. "We discussed poetry, and..."

"And?" her father prompted when she trailed off, remembering the intensity of Jimin's gaze in the falling darkness.

"He understands things," she found herself saying. "About feeling... isolated. Different." The words came out before she could stop them, more honest than she'd meant to be.

Her father's face softened. "I know these past years have been lonely for you, my dear. Perhaps it's providence that brought him to us, especially after..." He didn't need to finish the sentence. Bertha's death hung between them, an invisible weight.

"Yes," (Y/n) whispered, though something about suggesting providence in connection with Jimin felt strange, almost blasphemous.

"Still," Madame Perrodon interjected from her place at the table, "proper chaperoning must be maintained. A young man, however well-bred..."

"Of course, of course," her father waved off the concern. "But surely some companionship would do (Y/n) good. And he seems a perfect gentleman."

Perfect. The word echoed in (Y/n)'s mind. He was perfect - too perfect, perhaps. Like a painting of a person rather than a person themselves. Even now, she found she couldn't quite recall the exact details of his face, though she'd spent hours studying it. It was as if his features shifted slightly in her memory, like reflections in moving water.

"Mademoiselle?" One of the maids - Anne - was at her elbow. "You've gone quite pale. Are you unwell?"

"Just tired," (Y/n) repeated, though tired wasn't quite the right word. She felt... anticipated, as if she were waiting for something to begin. "Perhaps I should retire early."

"A wise choice," Madame Perrodon said, rising to accompany her.

As they climbed the grand staircase, (Y/n) found her eyes drawn to the blue room's door. No light showed beneath it, but she had the strangest feeling that behind that heavy oak panel, in the darkness, Jimin was awake. Waiting. Thinking of her as she thought of him.

"Sweet dreams, my dear," Madame Perrodon said as they reached (Y/n)'s room. Something in her tone suggested she'd noticed the lingering glance at the blue room's door.

Alone in her room, (Y/n) moved to her window. The night was clear, stars scattered across the sky like diamond dust. Somewhere in the gardens, a nightingale began to sing. The sound made her think of Jimin's voice, the hypnotic way he'd spoken of dreams and memories.

Her reflection in the window glass looked strange to her - pale, eyes too bright, as if she were already half in a dream. Behind her, shadows gathered in the corners of her room, and she could have sworn they moved like living things...

That night, sleep came to (Y/n) like a creeping tide. The moon hung full and low outside her window, casting strange shadows that seemed to move of their own accord. In that liminal space between waking and dreaming, time began to slip and stretch like pulled taffy.

She first became aware of her paralysis when she tried to turn away from the moonlight. Her limbs felt leaden, refusing to obey even the simplest commands. The air in her room grew thick, heavy with an invisible presence that seemed to press down upon her chest.

Then came the smell - that peculiar sweetness she'd noticed about Jimin, like roses on the edge of decay mixed with something older, something that reminded her of ancient books and midnight gardens. Instead of frightening her, the scent brought an odd comfort, making her mind drift deeper into that strange half-conscious state.

The mattress dipped beside her, as if someone had sat down with infinite care. Cool fingers seemed to brush her cheek, trail down her neck with exquisite tenderness. She should have been terrified - would have been, in any other circumstance. But there was something achingly familiar about the touch, about the presence that filled her room like smoke.

A weight settled over her, not crushing but encompassing, as if she were being embraced by the night itself. That sweet, strange scent grew stronger, and with it came a sensation of being cherished, desired, consumed - all at once. The moonlight caught something moving above her - a face perhaps, beautiful and terrible in equal measure - but before she could focus on its features, consciousness began to slip away entirely.

The last thing she felt was a sharp, sweet pain just above her breast - two points of exquisite sensation that sent waves of pleasure-pain through her increasingly distant body. A voice might have whispered something, ancient words in a language she didn't know but somehow understood, but by then she was falling into deeper dreams...

Morning came with strange heaviness. (Y/n) woke feeling as though she'd been drugged, her limbs weighted with an unfamiliar lethargy. Sunlight streamed through her windows, yet she felt none of its warmth. There was a peculiar sensation in her breast - not quite pain, but a presence, as if someone had pressed their hand there and the pressure lingered, though nothing showed.

"Mademoiselle?" Madame Perrodon's voice seemed to come from very far away. "Are you unwell? It's past nine..."

"Just tired," (Y/n) managed, though 'tired' wasn't the right word. She felt simultaneously drained and oddly euphoric, as if she were floating just slightly above herself.

The morning passed in a dream-like haze. She found herself drifting off during breakfast, her father's voice fading in and out like a poorly tuned piano. The tea tasted strange in her mouth, the toast turning to ash on her tongue.

"Perhaps you should rest today," her father suggested, watching her with concern. "You're quite pale."

But the thought of returning to bed held no appeal. Instead, she found herself drawn to the upper corridor, to the blue room where their guest presumably still slept. The door, she noticed, was firmly locked - Mrs. Klaus's knocking going unanswered as she attempted to deliver tea.

It wasn't until late afternoon that Jimin finally emerged. (Y/n) had taken refuge in the library, attempting to read but finding the words swimming before her eyes. His entrance was silent - she looked up to find him simply there, watching her with those dark, knowing eyes.

"You look tired," he said softly, settling into the chair opposite hers. In the fading daylight, his own face held a similar languor, as if he too were recovering from some midnight exertion.

"Strange dreams," she found herself saying, though she couldn't quite remember them. Just impressions remained - a weight on her chest, cool fingers against her skin, a presence both terrifying and beloved.

Something flickered in his eyes - interest? Recognition? But he only smiled that secretive smile and began speaking of other things. As darkness fell, his lethargy seemed to lift. By evening, he was almost vibrant, his movements acquiring that fluid grace she remembered from their first meeting.

That week settled into a strange pattern. Each morning, (Y/n) woke feeling increasingly drained, yet somehow lighter, as if she were slowly becoming less substantial. Jimin's door remained locked until late afternoon, no amount of knocking drawing response. Their conversations, when he finally appeared, grew more intimate, more intense.

"Tell me about your dreams," he would say, his voice holding that hypnotic quality that made her want to confess everything. But the dreams remained elusive - just fragments of sensation, of presence, of a pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.

News came, carried by Marcel who'd been to the village, that Catherine - the milliner's daughter - had taken ill with some mysterious malady. "Weak as a kitten," the gardener reported, "and her sister Marie looking hardly better."

The information stirred something in (Y/n)'s mind - a half-formed connection she couldn't quite grasp. But then Jimin would appear, beautiful in the gathering darkness, and all other thoughts would fade away.

Their early days together fell into a strange rhythm. Though Jimin never appeared before late afternoon, the house seemed to hold its breath waiting for him. (Y/n) found herself drawn to the library as the sun began its westward descent, knowing he would eventually materialize in the doorway like a figure stepping out of a dream.

On this particular afternoon, autumn rain drummed against the windows, creating a cocoon of grey light and shadow. (Y/n) sat in her usual window seat, a book open but unread in her lap, when she felt rather than heard his approach.

"You're watching for me now," he observed, his voice holding that mixture of amusement and satisfaction that made her cheeks warm. "Do I make such entertaining company?"

"You make interesting company," she corrected, marking how the rain-light seemed to make his skin almost luminous. "Though you never speak of yourself."

He settled beside her with that fluid grace she'd come to expect. "What would you know? My histories are long and dark - hardly suitable conversation for a young lady."

Before she could press further, voices in the entrance hall drew their attention. Through the library's open door came the sound of her father greeting someone - a man's voice, educated but unfamiliar, speaking with urgent authority.

"The deaths in the neighboring village..." the voice was saying. "Most concerning patterns... Similar to cases I've studied..."

(Y/n) felt Jimin tense beside her, though his face remained perfectly composed. Something shifted in the air between them, like the pressure change before a storm.

Their visitor proved to be Father Laurent, a scholar-priest from the nearby monastery. He carried himself with the confident air of a man used to being heard, his dark robes still beaded with rain. But it was the wooden box he carried that drew (Y/n)'s attention - ornately carved with symbols she didn't recognize.

"My dear," her father gestured her forward as she and Jimin entered the drawing room. "Father Laurent has brought something he thinks might interest you. Given your recent... fatigue."

The priest's eyes moved between her and Jimin, something knowing in his gaze that made her uncomfortable. "Yes, indeed. Though I see you have a guest...?"

"Park Jimin," her father supplied. "A temporary addition to our household after an accident on the road."

"Most fortunate," Father Laurent murmured, though his tone suggested he thought it anything but. His attention returned to (Y/n). "My child, I've brought something that might help with your... affliction."

From the wooden box, he withdrew a necklace - a simple leather cord from which hung a small silver charm. The metal caught the grey light strangely, seeming to hold it rather than reflect it.

"An old blessing," the priest explained, moving to place it around her neck. "For protection against... night terrors."

(Y/n) was acutely aware of Jimin's presence behind her, the way the air seemed to crackle with some unnamed tension. As Father Laurent's fingers brushed her neck, securing the charm, she heard the softest intake of breath from Jimin - something between a hiss and a sigh.

"How kind," Jimin's voice was perfectly modulated, yet somehow held an edge she'd never heard before. "Though surely a young lady has no need for such... medieval trinkets?"

In the days following Father Laurent's visit, the charm around (Y/n)'s neck grew to feel like both comfort and burden. Though she often caught Jimin eyeing it with something like distaste, he never mentioned it directly. Instead, his attempts to occupy her attention seemed to grow more focused, more intense.

One particularly languid afternoon, she found herself drawn to the blue room. The door, usually so firmly locked, stood slightly ajar - an invitation she couldn't resist. Inside, Jimin lay across the bed fully dressed, one arm thrown elegantly across his eyes.

"I wondered when you'd come," he said without moving, as if he'd been waiting for her. "The sun is so harsh today. Draw the curtains?"

She did, watching how the heavy blue velvet transformed the room into a twilight world. When she turned back, he had shifted to make space beside him on the counterpane.

"Come," he said softly. "Lie beside me. Like we used to."

The words struck her oddly - they'd never done this before - but she found herself moving forward anyway. It wasn't proper, she knew, to be here without Madame Perrodon's supervision, but Jimin had a way of making improper things seem natural, inevitable.

"Why do you always lock your door?" she found herself asking as she carefully settled beside him, the question that had burned in her mind finally finding voice.

His smile widened slightly, though his arm remained over his eyes. "Do I? Perhaps I sleepwalk. Perhaps I have secrets I must keep." His free hand found hers, fingers intertwining with that unnatural coolness she'd grown used to. "Perhaps I'm afraid of what might come visiting in the night."

"You mock me," she said, though without heat.

"Never." He turned then, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at her. The dim light caught in his dark eyes, making them appear almost burgundy. "I would never mock your curiosity. It's one of the things I find most..." he paused, seeming to taste the word before speaking it, "...delicious about you."

The way he said it sent shivers down her spine, though not entirely unpleasant ones. They lay in silence for a moment, his cool fingers tracing abstract patterns on her palm.

"Tell me a story," he said finally. "Something from your childhood. A memory you hold dear."

She thought for a moment, and then, "I had the strangest dream once, when I was very young - perhaps six or seven. Though sometimes I wonder if it was a dream at all..."

His hand stilled in hers. "Tell me."

"I woke in the night - or thought I did. There was a figure standing by my bed, the most beautiful being I'd ever seen." As she spoke, the memory became clearer, details she'd forgotten surfacing like bodies in dark water. "They knelt beside me, stroked my hair. I felt... loved. Cherished. But also..."

"Also?" His voice had taken on an odd quality, intense yet somehow distant.

"Afraid. Not of them, exactly, but of how much I wanted them to stay. They spoke to me, though I couldn't understand the words. And then..." She touched her breast unconsciously, just below where the charm now lay. "There was a sensation, like being pierced by ice and fire at once. I screamed..."

"And the servants came running," Jimin said softly. "With candles and concerns. But found nothing amiss, save a very frightened little girl."

(Y/n) sat up slightly, looking at him with surprise. "How did you know?"

His smile was dreamy, distant. "Because I had the same dream at that age, watching over you, caressing you. Strange, isn't it? How some souls are destined to meet, how some moments echo across time until they find their mirror?" His cool fingers brushed her cheek. "Perhaps that's why I feel as though I've known you forever."

The charm at her throat seemed to pulse with sudden warmth, but she found herself leaning into his touch despite it. Something about his words rang both true and false, like a bell with a hidden crack.

"How strange," she murmured, settling back against the pillows. "That we should share such a similar dream."

"Perhaps not strange at all," Jimin replied softly. His fingers had moved to trace the line of her jaw, touch whisper-light but somehow burning cold. "Some meetings are written in the stars, dear one. Some souls call to each other across time itself."

The room had grown darker, though she couldn't remember the sun setting. In this half-light, Jimin's beauty took on an almost painful quality - too perfect to be quite real, like a painting that moved and breathed. His dark eyes seemed to drink in her face with an intensity that should have frightened her.

"You're trembling," he observed, his cool hand sliding down to rest over her heart. "Are you afraid?"

"No," she whispered, though her pulse raced beneath his palm. "I should be, shouldn't I? Everything about this is..." She gestured vaguely at their position, at the impropriety of lying together in the growing dark.

"Everything about this is exactly as it should be." His face was very close now, his sweet, strange scent making her head spin. "You're mine, (Y/n). You've always been mine, since that dream, since before that dream. Can't you feel it?"

The charm at her throat seemed to burn, but she couldn't focus on its warning. Not with Jimin's cool fingers trailing down her neck, not with the weight of his gaze holding her like a butterfly pinned to velvet.

"Mine," he murmured again, the word carrying a weight that made her shiver. His fingers traced patterns on her skin that felt like ancient writing, like secrets too old for human understanding. "My sweet, innocent girl."

The endearment should have felt patronizing, but instead it made her feel precious, cherished. His touch remained gentle, yet there was something possessive in it that stirred feelings she had no names for. The charm at her throat felt like it was burning now, but she couldn't bring herself to move away.

"I don't understand," she whispered, her voice trembling. "What is this? What are we to each other?"

His smile in the darkness was beautiful and terrible. "Everything," he breathed, leaning closer until his lips nearly brushed her ear. "We are everything to each other. Past, present, future - all flowing together like rivers to the sea."

The poetic words made her head spin, or perhaps it was his proximity, the sweet-strange scent of him overwhelming her senses. His cool fingers had found their way into her hair, loosening pins until soft strands fell around her shoulders.

"Beautiful," he murmured, watching the way her hair spilled across the blue silk of the counterpane. "Like night itself made tangible." His thumb brushed her bottom lip, the touch so intimate it made her gasp. "So innocent, so pure. Do you know what you do to me, dear?"

She shook her head, unable to form words. Her whole world had narrowed to his touch, his voice, the way his dark eyes seemed to glow in the gathering shadows. This was improper - beyond improper - but propriety seemed a distant concern, as unreal as the world beyond this room.

"Everything about you calls to me," he continued, his voice taking on that hypnotic quality that made her feel as though she were drowning in honey. "Your innocence, your trust, your..." he pressed his hand against her rapidly beating heart, "...life.

The room had grown darker as they lay together, the heavy blue curtains transforming late afternoon into premature dusk. (Y/n) knew she should leave - everything about this situation defied propriety - yet she found herself sinking deeper into the feather mattress, hyperaware of Jimin's cool presence beside her.

His fingers continued their delicate exploration of her palm, each touch sending little shivers up her arm. The simple contact shouldn't have felt so intimate, yet something about the deliberate way he traced each line made her breath catch.

"Your hands are always so cold," she murmured, watching his pale fingers contrast against her skin.

"And yours so warm," he responded, bringing her wrist to his lips in a gesture that walked the line between courtly and something else entirely. His breath ghosted across her pulse point, making her shiver. "Like you've captured sunlight beneath your skin."

She should pull away. A proper young lady would never allow such liberties. But Jimin had a way of making improper things seem natural, inevitable. When he tugged her closer, she found herself yielding, turning to face him on the blue silk counterpane.

"Sometimes," he said softly, his free hand moving to brush a strand of hair from her face, "I wonder if you know how extraordinary you are." His touch lingered at her temple, traced the curve of her cheek with exquisite slowness. "How rare it is to find someone who sees the world as you do, who understands..."

"Understands what?" she whispered, lost in the darkness of his eyes. The room seemed to be growing dimmer still, shadows gathering in the corners like conspirators.

Instead of answering, he let his fingers trail down her neck, each touch precise and deliberate. The charm at her throat seemed to pulse with warning heat, but she could focus only on the delicious contrast of his cool skin against her flushed warmth.

"Your heart is racing," he observed, his hand settling over the rapid beat. "Are you frightened of me, dear?"

"No," she answered truthfully. She should be - everything about this situation should terrify her. Instead, she found herself leaning into his touch like a flower seeking shade. "Though perhaps I should be."

His smile in the gathering dark was both beautiful and strange. "Wise girl." His fingers had found their way into her hair, carefully removing the last of the pins setting loose luscious waves that spilled across the pillows. "Though I prefer your trust to your wisdom."

The impropriety of her loosened hair struck her suddenly - this was something only a lady's maid or husband should see. Yet when Jimin's fingers carded through the strands, sending pleasant shivers down her spine, propriety seemed a distant concern.

"Like silk," he murmured, watching the way her hair caught what little light remained. His touch became more possessive, one hand tangling in the strands while the other traced patterns on her neck that felt like ancient writing. "Everything about you is so..."

He didn't finish the thought. Instead, he shifted closer, until she could feel the strange coolness that always emanated from him along her entire body. His face lowered to her neck, just beside the charm, and she felt rather than heard him inhale deeply.

"Jimin," she breathed, hardly recognizing her own voice. It came out halfway between protest and plea.

"Say it again," he demanded softly, his lips now brushing her throat with each word. "I love how my name sounds on your lips."

"Jimin," she whispered again, the name falling from her lips like a prayer. His mouth pressed against her pulse point in response, a kiss that felt more like worship.

The room spun slowly around them, or perhaps it was just her head spinning. Everything felt dreamlike - the deepening shadows, the cool press of his body against hers, the way his fingers traced arcane patterns down her arms. She was dimly aware that she should maintain some semblance of propriety, but propriety seemed to belong to another world entirely.

His hand at her waist pulled her closer still, grip possessive yet somehow reverent. "Do you know," he murmured against her skin, "how long I've waited for this? For you?"

The words made little sense, yet sent shivers down her spine nonetheless. His lips traveled up her neck with exquisite slowness, each kiss a point of delicious cold that made her gasp. When his teeth grazed her earlobe, she found herself clutching at his shoulders, unsure if she meant to push him away or draw him closer.

"My innocent girl," he breathed, his free hand now trailing down her side, following the curve of her waist. "So responsive to every touch." As if to demonstrate, his fingers splayed across her ribcage, thumb brushing just beneath her breast. Even through layers of clothing, the touch felt scandalously intimate.

She should stop this. Should remember her position, her reputation, all the careful lessons in propriety that Madame Perrodon had instilled. Instead, she found herself arching slightly into his touch, craving more of that wonderful chill.

"That's it," he encouraged softly, his nose trailing along her jaw. "Trust me. Let me..." His hand slipped higher, and she felt rather than heard his satisfaction when she gasped. "Perfect. You're perfect."

The charm at her throat burned in earnest now, but she barely noticed. Not when Jimin's mouth was leaving a trail of frost down her neck, not when his hands were teaching her body sensations she'd never imagined. Everything felt heightened, dreamlike - the silk beneath her, the weight of him beside her, the sweet-strange scent that always surrounded him now filling her lungs like incense.

His touches grew bolder, more demanding. One hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back to expose more of her throat while the other...

Footsteps in the corridor snapped through their private world like breaking glass. Voices approached - servants doing their evening rounds, discussing dinner preparations with comfortable familiarity.

Reality crashed back with stunning force. (Y/n) jerked away, suddenly aware of her state - hair loose and wild around her shoulders, dress rumpled, lips surely swollen from his attention. What had she been thinking? What had she allowed?

"I should..." she stumbled to her feet, face burning with shame and lingering desire. "I need to..."

"Go," Jimin said softly, still lounging on the bed with casual grace, as if nothing untoward had happened. But his eyes burned in the darkness, and his smile held something that made her shiver anew. "Dream of me."

She fled the room just as the servants' voices passed by, straightening her dress with trembling fingers. Behind her, she heard the distinctive click of his door locking once again.

𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔗𝔴𝔬

85 notes · View notes