Chapter 1

Hello and welcome! Thank you so much for dropping by for my first story—it truly means the world to me. After a long debate with myself, I finally mustered the courage to share my inner world with you all 🥹

Mood boards:

Magna

Irina

Take Me in Blood is a passion project born purely from my imagination. Everything written here is PURELY FICTIONAL.

I will post new chapters every week on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

I hope you enjoy it as much as I do, and please read the warnings before you proceed. Feedback is heavily appreciated, so feel free to drop a comment!

WARNINGS:

Dark Themes & Violence: Explicit violence, gore, weapons handling, crime syndicate dynamics, kidnapping/abduction, stalking, and mentions of past sexual abuse/trauma, mentions of human trafficking.

Explicit & Dubious Content: Explicit sexual content, dub-con (dubious consent) situations, and exploration of BDSM dynamics within a high-stakes, forced-proximity environment.

Morally Gray Character: The male lead exhibits psychopathic, violent, and highly manipulative traits.

With all that said, enjoy!

I held my breath as the bullets flew; the scent of blood suffocated the room. I was alone and stripped of protection. The captor bared teeth, sneering and leering at me with indecency, until a bullet shattered his skull, dropping him instantly.

Then a stranger stepped into my line of sight, appearing like a delirious dream. In a matter of seconds, his gun tore through the remaining men crowding the cramped space, painting himself and the walls crimson.

I prayed to the God of Death, who bewitched me.

Magna was his name.

“For every step you take, you will be reminded of the tremors that took hold of you when I consumed your soul.”

The words on the glowing screen before me lured me into a deep, manic state of mind. My breath quickened, and a deep tightness formed below my belly.

I slid my thumb across the screen, devouring the paragraph for the third time. Desperate for that fleeting spark of thrill once more.

I hated how easily my defenses broke down with a few simple words.

Then again, dark romance novels had devoured my entire world. I’ve read, analyzed, and dissected them meticulously such that one day I might write another masterpiece for myself.

But lurking beneath the adrenaline was a sinking anchor that threatened my mind.

I swiped over to a blank document tab. My empty manuscript—three lonely lines staring back at me, the cursor blinking against the stark white page like a void.

I was completely dry.

Achieving fame in the literary world was a double-edged sword. I had foolishly believed that once I reached the top of the bestseller lists, every problem in my life would vanish.

And while it solved one of my most critical problems—financial independence from my family name—it introduced me to a plethora of others.

Obsession. Harsh scrutiny. The crippling pressure of trying to surpass your previous peak.

Some might call it self-indulgent privilege, but the heavy weight pressed heavily on my shoulders. So crushing that in this very moment, I was about to do something entirely reckless just to feel alive.

The bathroom door popped open in my periphery, and a familiar figure came into the bedroom. My ex.

He sauntered over to the bed, wearing nothing but a towel hanging around his waist. Honey-brown curls plastered to his forehead, looking as if he had stepped directly out of a high-end swimsuit commercial.

He was dangerous, the kind that hides his lethality behind glossed words. The exact archetype I used to chase, the one that had inspired my first breakout book.

I turned my eyes back to the blinking cursor on my phone screen, trying to summon a single line of dialogue after looking at his face.

Nada.

Not a single word came to my mind.

The only impulse I felt was an overwhelming urge to throw the phone straight at his face.

Then he crawled over the sheets beside me, bringing with him suffocating coconut shampoo. I flattened my back against the headboard.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” He crooned, voice dripped with synthetic warmth. But I knew his nature was darker than the ink sprawling across his chest. Butterflies should represent innocence, but he tainted the symbol in every sense.

Noticing my fixed stare on the screen, he snatched the phone from my hands.

“Look at me,” he said, gently cupping my chin in his hands. “What happened?”

Tears pricked my eyes. His touch felt less like comfort and more like a blade pressed against my throat.

What made it worse was that nothing new had happened. I had only come over under the pretense that I was having a crisis, seeking inspiration. The lie was on the tip of my tongue before he swooped down and placed a smooth kiss on me.

But the kiss was utterly tasteless. Instead of passion, I tasted cheap tobacco and the distinct perfume of the woman I caught under him over six months ago.

I shoved him back with both hands. He lost his balance and hit the mattress with a thud.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” he barked, his face contorted. I used to worship his features, but standing there flushed with anger, he looked less like an actor and more like a stray dog.

Filthy and disloyal. Would accept scraps of any kind.

I kept my mouth shut. I scooped my phone off the hardwood floor, grabbed my leather jacket from the armchair, and slammed the front door behind me.

It was my most satisfying moment of the day.

________________

On the subway home, I felt an urge to scrub his sickening cologne from my skin.

I unlocked my phone and began purging my digital archives, deleting every photograph of him one by one. Looking back, keeping them for six months after the breakup had been an act of pure denial.

Every time his bright smile appeared on the screen, my mind would turn the image into something gory, as I imagined hundreds of violent ways to distort his face.

I knew there was a dark streak in me.

Ever since I was a girl, I have been fascinated by the sight of red paint splattered across clean surfaces. My father used to buy me heavy crimson acrylics in bulk alongside stacks of blank canvases just so I could throw the paint and immerse the whiteness with red.

I loved the sight of purity corrupted by scarlet. And when I eventually found out about dark romance novels, the explicit words, the forbidden relationship tropes, I revelled in the taboo thrill.

My daily routine warped into devouring every dark book I could get my hands on.

Until one fateful day, my real world collided with the dark fiction I read.

I suppose it was inevitable, for an heiress of the largest construction company in the country. The empty paint buckets from my childhood home were nothing compared to the pristine, gated fortress my father built to keep the world out.

Yet despite their security, I was gone for twenty-four hours when I was sixteen. Kidnapped.

That was the extent of the words I could use to explain. Or else I might lose my mind detailing every bit.

Just as my thoughts spiraled down the familiar dark hatch, a notification banner popped on the top edge of the screen:

Sebastian369 just shared a new post.

I tapped on the pop-up immediately, staring at my next prospective target.

For the past six months, I had been searching for inspiration across dating apps, going on endless dates, seeking something raw enough to break my creative block.

But none of the men I met possessed the edge I required.

I needed someone who could understand my dark fixations—someone who could stand in the middle of my storm and hold me through it.

I had never confessed my strange fixations to anyone, mainly because no one had ever proved worthy of the truth. None of them were honest enough to reveal their own dark corners, so why should I lay mine bare?

But this man, this “Sebastian” that I have been observing for two weeks, has posted some very intriguing posts.

I tapped his latest photograph. The image revealed a face of striking, dangerous proportions—a sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and menacing dark eyes stared directly into the camera. His carefully sculpted broad shoulders were prominent enough to break a brick in half. He stood with his arms crossed, projecting an effortless, terrifying authority.

Even better, he composed his entire profile aesthetic strictly of black, white, and deep red—perfectly matching my own layout, as if we were cut from the same cloth.

In his latest photo, set against the dim backdrop of an upscale lounge, he wore a dark crimson turtleneck. The color jumped off the screen; I could stare at it for hours.

He looks exceptional in red.

Then another notification flashed across the screen, and it was a direct message from him.

“Ready for tonight?”

I bit my lip as my body temperature rose.

“Can’t wait to see you.”

________________

Two hours later, I was pulling my hair taut with the straightener before the bathroom mirror, pressing a rich scarlet lipstick to my lips.

I leaned in closer to apply a sharp stroke of dark mascara, then turned side-to-side to inspect my dress in the full-length glass. The dark crimson dress dipped low at my waist, hugging my hips to create a sharp silhouette.

Earlier today, I had felt like a stray cat picking through scraps. Now, standing in this dress, I felt invincible.

Satisfied with my reflection, I grabbed my clutch and headed out into the evening air.

Upon arriving, the restaurant was buzzing with soft jazz and filled with people. Everyone was dressed to the nines, with men in their suits and women in their elegant evening gowns.

I stepped across the polished entryway and approached the host stand. The young man in uniform was typing rapidly into his terminal, gesturing for another party to proceed, before his eyes swung over to me.

He froze.

I offered him a subtle, knowing smile. “Irina Valensky. I have a reservation at seven.”

He blinked rapidly, clearing his throat as he checked the screen before making a hasty gesture toward the main dining area.

“Right this way, ma’am,” he stammered, his posture stiffening.

I followed him through the dining room to a quiet corner table.

Checking the time on my phone, I took a slow breath. I was thirty minutes early, and my fingers were fidgeting against the tablecloth.

No matter how many dark books kept me company during quiet nights, reading was never quite enough to quell the deep craving inside me. And the realization that none of my previous flings had come close to satisfying that craving had driven my desperation to its peak.

My taste was refined, laced with power dynamics and physical intensity. I had never experienced the true extent of it in reality, but the thoughts occupied my mind every night.

I wondered if I would ever find him—this perfect individual who could quell my deviant taste instead of shirking from it.

Then, suddenly amidst my thoughts, a prickling feeling crept up the nape of my neck.

I turned quickly and noticed shadows moving all around, yet nothing unusual came up. Being in a family where surveillance was a constant threat, I’d become attuned to the weight of prying eyes.

Someone was watching me. And yet, I couldn’t spot the source.

Shaking off the uneasy chill, I flagged down a passing staff member to order a drink.

A server in his late twenties approached, dressed in a sharp black-and-white uniform. He started to deliver a greeting, but the moment our eyes met, the words caught in his throat.

“H-hello, I’ll be your server this evening,” he stammered, clearing his throat. “What can I get started for you?”

“I’ll start with a Flaming Jewel,” I replied smoothly. “I’ll order food a bit later.”

He jotted down the order before hesitantly asking for my ID. I slipped the card from my purse and handed it over, catching the faint flush on his cheeks when our fingers brushed.

Too easy.

“Thank you, Ms. Valensky. I’ll bring your drink right out,” he said, struggling to regain his professional composure. He lingered for a second, as if debating whether to ask if I was dining alone.

I offered a polite, knowing smile.

“My partner will be joining me shortly,” I added effortlessly. “Please keep the menus here.”

He nodded quickly, turned, and nearly tripped over a chair leg on his way back toward the bar.

I hid a smirk behind my hand. This dress was lethal.

Moments after my drink arrived, the main dining lights dimmed, and the crowd broke into applause. A spotlight illuminated the small stage at the center of the room, revealing a vocalist in a glittering gown standing before a vintage microphone. She struck a sensual first note, her rich voice washing over the room.

Her talent was undeniable; her passion laced through every vibrato and riff. Yet, I couldn’t bring myself to focus on the music. My mind was elsewhere, chasing the dark intrigue that had brought me here.

Suddenly, a shadow fell across my table. A man in a tailored jacket with slicked-back blonde hair blocked my view of the stage.

“What’s a breathtaking woman like you doing sitting all alone?” he asked, leaning in.

His opening line sounded as if it had been lifted straight from a bad script.

“I’m waiting for my partner,” I answered, keeping my tone polite but distant. “He’ll be here any minute.”

Instead of backing off, the man leaned closer, resting both palms flat on my table and invading my space. The heavy smell of bourbon on his breath made my stomach turn.

“Don’t be so cold. I noticed how lonely you look. I’m sure I can be better company.”

Disgust flashed through me as his eyes drifted down toward my neckline. I sneered at him, making no effort to hide my repulsion.

His expression hardened. Before I could pull back, his hand shot out and gripped my shoulder tightly.

My fists clenched. I began to stand up, preparing to throw everything I had into a right hook.

Before I could swing, an arm shot out from behind me, catching the man’s wrist in a vise-like grip.

A deep, intoxicating scent of rain and cedar enveloped me.

I turned my head, and my breath caught in my throat.

A profile so deadly, my eyes widened in astonishment. A high bridge, an angular jawline, and jet-black eyes that burned with a terrifying, predatory stillness. The photos on my phone hadn’t come close to capturing his presence. He was an absolute enigma.

The intruder tried to yank his hand free, but the grip on his wrist didn’t budge. My eyes then wandered to the forearm protruding from behind me, laced with popped veins, implying the strength of the grip.

A sharp chill ran straight down my spine.

The man let out a strained cry as his wrist was twisted further, drawing gasps from the surrounding tables and cutting through the singer’s melody.

Finally, Sebastian released him, letting the man stumble backward onto the floor.

“You would be wise,” Sebastian growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that sounded like metal scraping stone, “to walk away right now.”