My Beloved Vampire (English ver.)

The room was a sanctuary of shadows. The air smelled of incense and dried blood, as if each breath bound me tighter to the unreal. I lay sprawled across a massive bed, covered in black sheets that rustled with every movement. My wrists, trapped by silk ribbons, rested above my head. Naked, exposed, offered.

I felt him before I saw him.

His presence was a pressure on my chest, a caress behind closed eyelids. The vampire... my vampire. His silhouette emerged from the gloom with the elegance of an eternal predator, and his body—tall, sculpted like a cruel promise—leaned over me as if I were his altar.

—Jun… —he whispered my name with that voice of steel and honey that could make angels moan—. At last, you’re where you belong.

His breath grazed my neck before he bit me. Not with fangs yet. Just lips, tongue, and provocation. I shuddered beneath him, my body arching toward his hardness, already pressing between my thighs, hot, monstrously thick. He touched me as if he knew exactly where it ached with pleasure, where I whimpered unwillingly.

—You’re mine now —he said, teasing the tip of his cock against my entrance—. And I won’t be gentle. You know that, don’t you?

I nodded. Or maybe I begged for more. I didn’t even know the difference. I had barely prepared myself, and... he pushed in all at once. And I felt myself split, filled in a way nothing else could. He drove into me with fury, with need, as if desire burned him from within and I was the only relief. Every thrust was a sentence. Every moan of mine, a profane prayer.

—Jun, you’re so fucking tight —he growled in my ear, his tongue tracing the invisible mark I already felt branded into my neck—. I dreamed of you like this... spread out, trembling, begging.

His nails dug into my thighs as he lifted my hips, sinking deeper, hitting that spot that ached deliciously. I looked at him. His red eyes were liquid lava... bestial and eternal.

He stroked himself as he fucked me, and the friction of his skin against mine, the heat between us, the sweat, the madness—it all dragged me toward the abyss. I was close. So close.

—Don’t wake up yet —he pleaded, his voice rough with desire—. I want to come inside you. I want to mark you from within.

And just as I felt him spill, hot, violent, filling me with a wild groan... I woke up.

But I still felt his phantom seed inside me. And my body... was still stained.

I gasped awake, drenched in cold sweat, the sheets—no, the bus seat—damp, sticky. I blinked several times. Reality took too long to settle.

I wasn’t on a bed of black velvet. I was in the seat of an old, rattling bus. Outside, thick fog brushed against the trees, shrouding the landscape like a dense whisper. The driver acted as if nothing had happened.

But my body... my body burned. I looked down and found, to my shame, my pants stained with cum. My breath was still ragged. My hips ached as if someone had truly used me with exquisite violence. My legs trembled.

—It can’t be —I murmured, running a hand over my neck, instinctively searching for a mark—. No… it wasn’t real.

But something inside me knew it had been. Not in this plane. Not physically. But real, yes. Intensely. So real I could still feel the invisible weight of his body over mine, the cavernous voice in my ear, his fangs grazing my skin.

A sudden chill ran down my spine.

An incubus.

The thought hit me like an icy slap. I had always written about them: creatures that fed on human pleasure, that slipped into dreams with skin of desire and tongues of fire. I had always believed in them, yes, but like someone who believes in the monster they themselves created. They had never touched me. Never wanted me enough to make me feel like this.

Until now.

Was it because I fell asleep on this bus, crossing into a land so ancient that myths still breathed? Was it punishment? A calling? I tried to push the thought away—I had too much work to do. I hadn’t come here to fantasize, after all.

The rain hammered against the window. The winding road to the village stretched endlessly under the dark veil of night. I could barely see through the fog, and the storm didn’t help. I had decided to stay in this region of Romania for a while to finish my book, and though the initial idea was to find peace and focus, I now wondered if the isolation wasn’t too much.

After hours of travel, the bus finally stopped in front of a small, humble inn. The place looked like something out of an old tale, with dark stone walls and a flickering lantern by the entrance. After a brief conversation in English with the owner—a kind but reserved woman—I was given a room.

That night, after settling in, I went for a walk around the village. The drizzle continued, but I was fascinated by the atmosphere, the sepulchral silence. I took my laptop to work on the final installment of The Vampires of Mark. This third book would conclude the trilogy.

No one would expect Mark to end up choosing the vampire who had once betrayed him and caused him so much trouble. Yet, in the end, that same character proved to be someone worth trusting. I imagined many readers would be furious when they found out Mark stayed with Jim, who had originally been the story’s antagonist. To make matters worse, the supposed original protagonist gradually lost narrative strength, becoming clumsy and incapable of protecting the very Mark he had once vowed to shield.

Fortunately, the café was cozy, almost enveloping, and the warmth of the background music helped me focus. I wrote more than I had planned, and the food—surprisingly well-prepared—exceeded my expectations. Still, from time to time, I noticed certain glances drifting my way. Not hostile, not invasive, but laden with a mix of curiosity and something subtler… something like pity, as if they projected onto me a story they didn’t know but sensed.

At one point, I stood to ask for more coffee. Holding the empty cup in both hands, enjoying the warmth of the ceramic, something by the counter caught my attention. A wooden sign, the kind that looked like it had hung there since the place existed. The title, hand-carved, read Missing Persons. Its surface was worn, almost gray from years of sunlight streaming through the large window each afternoon, yet the photos pinned to it remained vivid, as if time refused to erase their faces.

I approached, drawn by an inexplicable unease. What I found left me frozen. Among the yellowed images and tattered clippings were young faces, many with dates marking disappearances from decades ago. One in particular made my skin crawl: a young man, twenty years old, reported missing over fifty years ago. His face was unnervingly perfect. And he wasn’t the only one. Nearly all of them shared that impossible beauty—fine features, harmonious symmetry, eyes of an almost unreal intensity. Beauty worthy of mythology.

I stood there, spellbound, feeling something stir inside me. It wasn’t fear… it was recognition. As if these images were pieces of a puzzle I had unknowingly started assembling. And the most unsettling thing wasn’t their disappearance, not even their beauty… but the growing suspicion that, somehow, they still existed. Somewhere, under different rules.

My thoughts halted abruptly. I hadn’t gotten far when I saw him.

Outside, in the gloom, a man stood out against the fog. Tall, elegant, with a presence that could be felt even from a distance. His skin was pale, almost glowing under the dim streetlights. Dressed in black, he locked eyes with me, and a shiver ran through me. But also… a strange pull.

He entered the café, but no one paid him the attention they had given me.

—Jun? —he said my name with a faint Romanian accent, making me doubt whether I’d heard it or imagined it.

I stopped, stunned. How did he know my name?

—Excuse me? —I asked, trying to keep my voice steady, though my pulse raced. No one else was around—just the two of us in the dark, the rain murmuring outside.

The man smiled, an expression I couldn’t fully decipher. His gaze was deep, and for some reason, I couldn’t move. There was something ancient, magnetic about him. Without waiting for an answer, he stepped closer.

—You must be tired. I’m Damian —he said, his tone soft and assured. He extended his hand, and though every logical part of me screamed to leave, I took it.

His fingers were cold as marble, his touch sending a jolt through me. Before I knew it, I was following him in the opposite direction of the village. My mind shouted that I shouldn’t go with a stranger, but my legs moved of their own will.

The path led us away from the village center, into a dark forest where shadows seemed to dance. Finally, after what felt like mere minutes, we reached a grand mansion looming among the hills. Its silhouette stood stark against the night, imposing and unsettling.

—Where are we? —I asked, feeling increasingly disoriented.

—My home —he replied simply.

I tried to step back, but Damian held my arm gently, not letting me retreat.

—You have nothing to fear, Jun. I only wanted to offer you a true Romanian experience, a place to find inspiration and finish your work —his voice was hypnotic, and I found myself falling into his words like a spell.

And then I noticed—he was carrying my backpack with my laptop inside. I hadn’t seen him take it.

Inside the castle, the walls were adorned with ancient paintings and candelabras casting dancing shadows. Though beautiful, there was an emptiness, as if every corner whispered secrets from centuries past.

He led me to a lavish bedroom with a canopy bed and heavy velvet curtains. The window offered a stunning view of the mountains, though in the dark, all I could see were distant lightning flashes.

—Rest —he instructed, his voice so serene it felt like a command.

I barely protested; an unnatural exhaustion weighed on me, as if my energy had drained the moment I stepped into his domain.

I closed my eyes, my mind torn between fear and confusion, yet unable to resist sleep’s pull. The last image I had was Damian watching me, his dark eyes enigmatic in the dim light. I felt vulnerable, trapped in a place frozen in time.

When I stirred awake in the early hours, something felt off. The bedroom doors were shut. I tried to open them, but they wouldn’t budge.

—Damian? —I called, but my voice echoed in silence.

That’s when I realized it. I was trapped. I’d fallen into his web, ensnared by this strange, seductive man who burst into my life so suddenly. And I had no idea how to escape.