The moment Damien stepped into the room, the air shifted—like the walls themselves were bracing for what was about to happen. He didn’t say anything at first. He didn’t need to. That stare of his, cold enough to frost glass, locked right onto Penelope as if he could peel the truth straight out of her silence.
“Who laid a hand on you?” he asked, voice low, almost quiet, yet the kind of quiet that felt far more dangerous than shouting. When she didn’t answer—maybe she couldn’t—his patience snapped like a bone under pressure.
“WHO?!”
The roar cracked through the room, rattling her bones and making the candle flames quiver.
In the corner, the butler—poor man already trembling—finally found his tongue. “S-Sir… it was… Mr. Reverale.”
The change in Damien’s expression was instant. A shadow crossed over his face, wiping out the last trace of humanity he’d been holding onto. That tight clench of his jaw made it clear something terrible had just been set into motion.
“Bring him. Now.”
The butler blinked like he thought he misheard. “A-at this hour, Master?” he stuttered.
Damien didn’t bother repeating himself. Instead, he stepped closer to Penelope, one hand lifting and slamming the wall beside her head with enough force to make dust fall from the beams. He didn’t touch her, but he didn’t need to—she was thoroughly trapped between his arm and that look.
Then he slowly turned toward the butler, his voice dropping to something soft and lethal.
“Would you prefer I find time after I break your neck?”
That was all the encouragement needed. The butler vanished so fast he nearly left behind an echo.
Half an hour later—long, tense minutes where Penelope didn’t dare move—the servant returned, dragging Mr. Reverale, who was grumbling and confused.
“Damien! Honestly, what’s the meaning of this?” Reverale laughed uneasily. “Middle of the night summons? Trouble sleeping?”
He had no idea.
Damien didn’t answer. Instead, he reached for the nearest object—a red apple sitting on a plate. Or rather, the thin blade stabbed right through the fruit, the edge glinting like an omen. When Reverale extended a hand, trying to act casual, Damien caught it.
And slammed it flat on the table.
Before Reverale could form a full sentence, the blade came down. Swift, sharp, efficient—almost elegant in its brutality. One slice, and four fingers flew, scattering like macabre little pieces of fruit. Blood splattered across the wooden surface, dripping in frantic patterns.
Reverale’s scream tore through the room.
Damien didn’t even flinch. “No one touches what’s mine,” he said, wiping the blade with a napkin in a delicate, disgusted motion, like he’d simply spilled wine on his sleeve. “Take this as a warning. Next time, you won’t have a hand left to reach with.”
The butler nearly fainted. Reverale collapsed, clutching what remained of his hand. Penelope just stood frozen, realizing she had vastly underestimated what kind of creature Damien Quinn actually was.
And that brings us to Damien Quinn—aristocratic vampire, unpredictable storm in human skin, and apparently the type who sees violence as a perfectly reasonable form of communication. He has this twisted way of treating people like possessions, bargains, or pawns—sometimes all three at once. Even his “shopping trips” to the black market end with him buying a so-called “guest.”
Penelope, that unfortunate guest, naïvely assumed she was only staying for a night or two. She thought she’d slip out the first chance she got. But living under the same roof as Damien Quinn—the brooding, sleepless, therapy-averse vampire who believes she belongs to him—is beginning to feel a lot less like temporary lodging and a lot more like a beautiful, velvet-lined trap she walked right into.
