Claimed by the Prince of Darkness

Chapter 65 - 65: Where the floor runs red

It was the hour of midnight and the lamp burnt low but steady on the desk, its warm glow pooling over an open book.Ruelle's head rested against the page she had been reading, her breathing slow, lashes still. Somewhere in the quiet, the tick of the clock counted each second into the dark. The faint scrape of a key in the lock broke the silence and her brows drew together as she stirred, lifting her head.

The door opened, and Lucian stepped inside, closing it with the same quietness with which he entered. His shirt clung to him like a second skin, dark hair damp and dripping, as though the night had followed him in. The lamplight seemed to dull when he moved past it, shadows stretching.

She glanced at the clock. Past two.

Lucian crossed the room without a word, his steps unhurried until he disappeared behind the folding divider.

Closing the book, Ruelle picked up the lamp. She made her way towards the couch until something caught her attention and she halted. The lamplight caught faint drops along the floor, trailing from the door to where he had gone. Not water. Darker. Thicker.

Blood.

Her gaze lifted just in time to see his hand reach for the back of his shirt, pulling it free in one motion. The fabric slid from his shoulders, shadows running over the shape of his back before tapering into his trousers. She heard the brief rush of water from the faucet before it went quiet again.

When Lucian emerged from behind the divider, bare from the waist up, the lamplight caught the wet gleam on his skin. And in that moment, Ruelle saw his bruised knuckles.

"...Did you hurt yourself?" she asked softly.

Lucian didn't look at her. "No."

The word was flat, the air around him seeming heavier now. He crossed to the cupboard and pulled out a clean shirt.

Ruelle was aware that vampires healed quicker than humans, but how quickly often depended on the depth of the wound.

She wondered what had kept Lucian out until this hour. She was curious, but she knew better than to ask. Not only because it would be prying, but because the air around the pureblood vampire seemed darker tonight.

Two afternoons later, the memory of Lucian's bloody knuckles lingered faintly in her mind, while the sun streamed through the tall windows of the dance hall. The music was already in motion when Ruelle found herself on the polished floor, paired with Kevin. At the far end, a pianist's hands moved over the keys while two violinists and a cellist wove a soft melody.

"Chin up! The floor already knows where it is. Look ahead," the instructor spoke loudly over the music. "Step, slide, lift, turn."

Kevin's shoulders stayed stiff under her hand, like he was holding the dance in place so it wouldn't break. On the next turn, his timing slipped. One wrong step sending him back too far.

"Kevin—" Ruelle's fingers caught his arm, halting him before he collided with a vampire couple.

The vampiress he'd nearly collided into gave a slow, mocking sneer, "Why bother teaching peasants the Nocturne Quadrille? They'll end up scrubbing floors and holding doors for us."

"Or serving as refreshments," added the vampiress's male partner with a lazy roll of his eyes.

Kevin's grip tightened, but Ruelle moved them to the other side of the floor. "Mistakes happen," she assured him. "Don't worry about it."

He gave a short, nervous laugh. "You're a quick learner in everything."

She smiled faintly. "My sister took lessons for a month before she quit. I went with her, so… maybe I picked up a thing or two. But watching and actually dancing?" She shook her head. "Different things."

"You're right." Kevin's steps stayed careful, the faint tension in his fingers never quite leaving. He tried to match her ease, but each time she steadied him, something in him shifted—made him wish the roles were reversed.

Ruelle had a way of coming through, whether it was the test results or the game of Hunt and Stake. She walked out in passing colours, while he had left with a limp.

When the bell tolled, the music thinned into silence. Ruelle followed Hailey to the bench along the wall, the polished floor still echoing with retreating footsteps. Kevin followed them. The instructor lingered near the corner, speaking in a low voice with the musicians.

"Third time," Hailey muttered, rubbing her foot. "I swear he was aiming for my foot."

Ruelle's gaze lowered briefly to Hailey's foot. Being paired with an Elite vampire could be punishing in its own way. Not always from cruelty, but from the careless strength they carried. She knew Hailey's mutter wasn't just complaint. The vampire's precision had likely come with little thought for her friend's toes.

"Hey, Kevin," a lanky first-year called from the doorway. "Coming to the underground?"

Kevin shook his head. "Not today."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Go on." He waved his hand dismissively.

Ruelle tilted her head and asked, "Underground?"

Hailey leaned in, narrowing her eyes like she'd uncovered a scandal. "You're not sneaking off to do something you're not supposed to… are you?"

"It's just a sparring platform." Kevin shrugged casually. "Most of the guys go."

"I've never heard of it." Hailey leaned back against the bench.

"You wouldn't like it," Kevin replied. "Humans—especially women don't go there. It's mostly Elites, Halflings, a few Groundling men. The fights are intense… messy."

Ruelle frowned. "And it's allowed?"

"If the Elites and Halflings have no problem, why would the faculty?" Kevin asked and it made sense, thought Ruelle to herself. "With the stakes up, the faculty, in fact, encourage it. Not to mention it helps people learn to fight."

Hailey's head turned towards Ruelle, and she brightly said, "We should go see it." Her curiosity was like a cat pressing its nose to a half-open door.

"I don't think you'd like it." Kevin's reply came too quickly, his gaze sliding to Ruelle and lingering a moment too long.

She hesitated, fingers resting loosely in her lap. If it was only watching… "I don't see the harm," her voice was soft.

In less than ten minutes, Ruelle and her friends descended the narrow stairway, the stone steps dimly lit by fire torches fixed along the walls. The air turned thick as they went lower. As they got closer, the laughter and shouts reached her first as a dull hum, only to end up getting louder with every step forward.

When they stepped into the underground arena, Ruelle's gaze went immediately to the raised platform in the centre, where two vampires moved in a vicious fight, the flash of teeth and the drops of blood falling on the ground. Light fell on them from the open circular ceiling, which was sealed with thick panes of glass.

Some spectators stood close to the platform's edge. Others had taken their seats on the steep, tiered benches, their figures half-swallowed by the dim light. The heat in the air was heavy, carrying the scent of iron and sweat, but no one seemed to mind it.

"Reynolds! I thought you weren't coming," the lanky first-year from earlier waved Kevin over, a worn leather bag hanging loosely from his wrist. His tone carried the eager confidence of someone who believed fortune favoured him tonight. "How much are you planning to wager?"

Kevin slipped a hand into his pocket and drew out a coin. He sighed, "Not more than a nickel. On Jagger."

"Oh, man. Not a shilling?" The young man's brows shot up. He clicked his tongue in mock disappointment, then turned toward Ruelle and Hailey. "How about you women?"

"I'm just here to watch," Ruelle replied with a small, polite smile. Her gaze drifted upward and stopped on a figure a few benches higher.

Lucian was seated with his friend, Sawyer. One of his arms rested along the back of the bench, the other on his knee, fingers relaxed. The torchlight caught the edges of his black hair, turning them to dark silk, and when his head angled, the light struck his eyes—red, sharp, and cold enough to seem forged from ice.

He watched the fight below without the slightest concern, as though the outcome had already been decided.

"Same here," Ruelle heard Hailey speaking. "Not that I have money to spare."

"If it's money you're short on, some of the Elites will lend to those in need," their classmate offered casually, nodding toward a group of Elites in blue robes and some wearing masks where they were seated apart from the rest.ake Huxley to the infirmary," an Elite snapped, his tone sharp enough to break the spell Lucian had cast. A pair of Groundlings moved forward, careful not to meet one another's eyes as they lifted the limp weight of the fallen vampire.