One

The old taxi engine rumbled before dying in front of the isolated house. Angela clutched the strap of her backpack against her chest, drawing in a deep breath. The air here felt different—thicker, charged with an invisible electricity that prickled across her skin. Montemori looked like something torn from an ancient tale: narrow cobblestone streets, shuttered windows behind heavy curtains, long shadows stretching across weathered stone walls.

The driver, an old man with few teeth and fewer words, stepped out to open the trunk. Angela muttered a clumsy grazie. He only nodded, then climbed back into the car, leaving her alone before the cabin that was now her home.

It was small, but enchanting—rust-red bricks wrapped in ivy, a worn wooden porch, round windows staring back like watchful eyes. Too quiet. No birds, no rustle of wind. As though the entire village held its breath, waiting for her next move.

Inside, the air smelled of old wood and dried herbs. Simple furniture, a stone fireplace, shelves sagging with dusty books. She dropped her backpack to the floor and let out a trembling sigh.

You did it, Angela. You’re free.

Or at least that’s what she wanted to believe.

The afternoon crawled by. After cleaning a little and unpacking the bare essentials, Angela wandered outside. A narrow trail behind the cabin led her into an ancient forest. The trees whispered in a tongue she didn’t know, their crowns weaving a ceiling of heavy shadow.

She felt it then—eyes on her. A shiver up her spine. She spun around. Nothing.

You’re imagining things.

She forced herself onward, though each step seemed too loud against the silence.

And then she saw him.

A figure, standing among the trees. Tall. Black hair like midnight, eyes the color of molten gold. He didn’t move. He only watched her, gaze so fierce it stole the breath from her lungs.

Angela swallowed.

“Ciao…?” The word escaped softer than she meant.

He tilted his head, studying her like she was some puzzle to solve. Then, without a sound, he turned and vanished into the trees. Too quick. Too silent. A ghost.

Angela stood frozen, heart hammering.

Who was he?

And why had her body, on some raw, instinctive level, answered his presence like a spark to dry kindling?

She shook herself and hurried back toward the cabin, never noticing the three pairs of eyes tracking her through the forest shadows.

The sky was burning orange and purple when she returned to the village. The forest loomed behind her like something alive, shadows stretching, whispering. Fear clawed at the edge of her thoughts, though her steps carried her forward.

That man.

Those golden eyes still seared into her memory.

No one had ever looked at her that way. As if he knew her. As if he could see every hidden scar she carried.

She wrapped her arms around herself, the cool evening air stroking her bare skin. The light dress she wore was no match for the chill—and she knew it wasn’t just the night air.

On the main street, she noticed how the village changed. Shutters closed. Doors locked. No voices, no laughter. It was as if the whole place recoiled when she appeared.

She felt the stares. Cold. Suspicious.

But not like his.

His gaze had burned with hunger. Not the hunger of a man, but of something far older.

Angela quickened her pace. That’s when she felt it again—the prickling awareness of not being alone.

She rounded a corner and froze.

He was there.

Leaning against a stone wall, as if he had stepped straight out of the shadows. Black hair falling across his brow. Golden eyes locking her in place, binding her like invisible chains.

Angela parted her lips, but no sound came.

He walked toward her—slow, deliberate, predatory. Every instinct screamed run, but she couldn’t. She was a moth caught in flame.

When he stopped a breath away, she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.

He was massive. Tall, broad, heat radiating off him like a furnace. His scent—burnt wood, damp earth, something raw and male—wrapped around her, dizzying.

His voice came at last. Low. Rough.

“You’re new here.”

Not a question. A fact.

Angela licked her lips nervously.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I just arrived.”

His head tilted again, studying her as though memorizing every heartbeat.

“This place…” he murmured. “It’s not safe for you.”

A chill coursed through her.

“Why?”

He smiled then—but it wasn’t kind. It was a predator’s smile.

“Because you’re different. And different things don’t last here… not without protection.”

Angela stepped back. He closed the gap. Not touching her, but filling the space with his heat, his scent, his overwhelming presence.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

He hesitated. Then:

“Zane.”

The name rolled off his tongue like a vow.

Angela’s pulse thundered in her ears. Something inside her—ancient, buried—recognized that name. Recognized him.

For a fleeting second, she saw a shadow cross his eyes. Pain? Desire? She couldn’t tell.

But she knew one thing: her life had just changed forever.

And she didn’t even realize it yet.

He leaned in, close enough that she stopped breathing. Waiting—for what? A kiss? An attack?

Instead, Zane inhaled her scent, his eyes fluttering shut like he was feeding on her in some invisible way.

“You don’t know it yet, little one,” he murmured against her skin, “but now… you’re mine.”

And then, just as suddenly, he was gone. Swallowed by the darkness.

Angela collapsed to her knees in the empty str

eet, trembling, breath ragged.

What had just happened?

And why, deep inside, did part of her scream to follow him?