IN HIS IMAGE

I didn't know what to expect when I clocked in that day—but him? Definitely not on the bingo card.

He looked as if he'd stepped straight out of a late-'90s vampire noir—brooding at the edges, dripping with cinematic menace, as if he'd once starred in some forgotten cult classic nobody appreciated until twenty years later.

The sort of chap who'd wonder how high he could make you scream and precisely how much blood loss was too much. The type who'd hunt you down in a horror mask only to plough you in an alley and listen to you beg for mercy.

Mercy he wouldn't give.

His dark hair, thick and textured with artful little streaks of azure, fell around ears modded into points and crowded with silver hoops and studs. Lush black lashes framed kohl-lined eyes set against sun-warmed skin—big, brown, and utterly ruinous.

Silver rings stacked along his fingers caught the low light as he moved, all flash and clink against layered chains and a heart-shaped padlock. And he didn't just sit. He sprawled. All that dark energy coiled in the back booth as if the Moulin Mug were his personal throne room.

Halfway through cleaning the espresso machine, I saw him finally bloody move.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

His rings tapped against the counter, almost coded.

"Flat black," he said, his voice low, like treacle over broken glass.

Looking up, I realised he was taller than I'd thought. Lean, broad-shouldered, and draped in an ebony leather trench coat, he had the kind of aura that said he hadn't wandered in off the street—he'd arrived from someplace far more sinister.

His eyes were warm, but there was nothing warm about the way they landed on me.

"Why're you the only one dressed in red, legs?"

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

He tilted his head slightly, studying me. "Everyone else is black as the grave. You? All red." His lips curled into a smirk.

"You like standing out, don't you?" He leaned closer. "Tell me, muñeca—do you dress for the attention, or merely for the reaction?"

Then he extended a hand—his fingers cold, his silver rings heavy.

"Me llamo Alvarus Carmine."

Something possessed me to take his hand.

"Felicity," I said, leaning in just enough to give him a peek at my cleavage. "Felicity Randone."

He paused, letting the name roll over his probably pierced tongue as if he were tasting it. His rings drummed softly against the countertop as he nodded. "Randone," he repeated, eyes darkening. "You Italian?"

"Sicilian." I winked.

"Sicilian, eh?" he echoed, lips twitching.

Completely smitten already, I nodded.

"Well, as for moi, I hail from the Kingdom of Castile," he drawled, one hand pressed to his chest and the smile on his heart-shaped lips far too amused for polite company. "Spain—if we must stoop to modern geographical nomenclature."

"I've heard about that place. Land of castles, right?"

"Bravo." He applauded softly. "Ten points for geography, love. And you, mi amor, are staring at the last—and by far the most gorgeous—piece of its precarious legacy."

He winked and slid a few crisp notes across the counter, one black-lacquered fingernail tracing the lid of his flat black.

"Now tell me, muñeca—with those killer looks... are you dangerous? Because there's nothing sexier than a woman who might shiv me mid-thrust."

A smirk spread slowly across my face, my eyes fixed on his. "Well, that depends, Al." A nervous laugh slipped out. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Leaning in, I let the heat between us settle. "Now tell me, Alvarus—" I fluttered my lashes. "—are you dangerous?"

He gave me the kind of death stare that could sour milk. "Only," he drawled, "to the ones who earn it." His tone dropped into a purr—sombre, smug. "¡Qué guapa!"

He touched me.

Just one knuckle, glistering with silver, grazed my cheek. Cold. Adoring. Then it slid beneath my chin, tilting my face up.

Our eyes locked. Brown on brown, but his were so much deeper—like a well or a coffin.

Endless.

"You wear red like it means something," he said softly. "You should."

And then he promptly left, java in hand.

No wave. No goodbye. He just spun on a heavy platform heel and fucked off, cool as you like—as if he hadn't wrecked me with one look and the faintest touch.

After that, I couldn't get it out of my head—what else those hands could do. Bet he'd have me by the throat, gasping for air while his lips scorched my neck, whispering filth in my ear and sweet praise in that sexy Castilian lilt.

I fanned myself with a pastry receipt.

"Get it together, slut."

But before my thoughts could spiral too far into those very vivid mental images, the door dinged—and just like that, the vibe was shot to bits.

In piled a gaggle of Alt-TikTok girls—stomper boots, knock-off Shein corsets, glitter spiderweb eyeliner, and chokers that probably read Daddy's Girl or some shite.

"Oh my God, it's the girl in red!" one of them squealed. "Told ya she was real."

Up like a barista possessed, I plastered on my customer-service grin and slipped back behind the counter as if I hadn't just been in my head getting railed by a possible time-travelling vampire named Alvarus behind the bins.

"Welcome to the Moulin Mug," I said, my voice sticky-sweet. "You here for coffee or just to stare at me?"

One of them giggled. "Both."

After taking their orders, I posed for a few pictures and sent them on their way. Lots of thank-yous, too many compliments, and far too many tips stuffed into the glass skull jar at the register.

By the time the lights dimmed and the last track on the Spotify playlist faded out, it was closing time—and just like that, my thoughts slipped right back into the gutter.

Back to him.

While I stacked trays and handed them to Cordelia to wash, she paused and gave me that look.

"Where's your head at, Lissie? You haven't seemed here all night." She turned off the water.

My shrug probably came too fast. "I'm here."

She arched a brow. "Not since that decadent goth boy deigned to drop a few lines and vanish without so much as a proper farewell."

Decadent. Yeah. That was one word for Al.

I froze, tray in hand, my heartbeat doing that faithless little skip.

Cordelia smirked, catching it instantly.

"Ohhh, so that's what's got you acting all puppy-eyed and gooey. Goth boy really got to you, huh?"

"I'm fine."

Which only made her laugh harder.

"And I'm old as dust..."

Rolling my eyes, I went back to wiping down the counter.

"He touched your face, Liss. Seriously, who does that? What is this, Days of Our Lives?"

"He was just... intense."

"Uh-huh."

A smile tugged at my lips. "He ordered a flat black."

"Of course he did. Pessimistic, glum, and likely cursed. Practically a walking red flag."

I bit my lip. Cordelia wasn't wrong. But so help me, I wanted to climb that red flag like a pole.

"His name's Alvarus."

Cordelia blinked. "Alvarus? Shit. That's a name. You reckon he came up with that himself once he hit peak broodlord status, or is it actually printed on a birth certificate somewhere?"

A laugh escaped under my breath. "Honestly, Cordelia, who knows? He probably emerged fully formed from a velvet-lined coffin with a trust fund and a poetry journal."

She snorted. "Sounds about right."

We finished the dishes in companionable silence.

But my brain? My brain was anything but quiet.

It was late by the time I made it back to my place. Nothing fancy, just a little flat with neighbours below me. But it was mine.

My favourite bit was the bed.

An antique iron frame with a red velvet canopy and silky sheets that felt like a kiss on the back of your knees. The sort of bed you'd have a filthy tumble in—either on your tod or with a salacious Castilian with dark-chocolate eyes.

God, I couldn't stop thinking about him.

Alvarus.

Just saying his name gave me goosepimples.

And now I was feeling a wee bit frisky.

It had been ages since I'd had a real date. Even longer since anyone had made love to me. My poor little rose vibrator probably had grounds for emotional neglect.

But tonight? She got the night off.

A hot bath. My own hands. Perhaps, if I closed my eyes, I could pretend it was Al.

Bollocks—I should've given him my number. He could've been a late-night mistake. Could've been my favourite one.

Ugh.

After lighting a few candles, I left the clawfoot tub to fill. Dropped in a bath bomb the colour of arterial blood and watched it fizz, staining the water a murderous crimson.

Turned on the camera and angled it just right.

New folder on my drive. Hit record.

I slid in slowly, letting the heat climb my legs and thighs as steam curled around my shoulders like a lover's breath. My hair floated around me like sacrificial fire. My fingers? Already twitching.

"Hope you like a little dark fantasy," I purred into the lens. "Because tonight, I've got one stuck in my head."

Water lapped at my skin as I leaned back, the red curtains drawn open around the tub and candlelight dancing on the tiles like some erotic séance. Both hands teased my nipples—pinching, rolling, coaxing them stiff before sliding south, slow and syrupy, like I had all the time in the world to be lewd.

"His name," I whispered, my breath sticky with want, "is Alvarus Carmine."

The name melted on my tongue like honey from hell.

My fingers dipped lower, into the heat, into the ache, as I pictured Al's eyes, pitch-black with secrets. Could almost hear his rings scraping against the porcelain. Feel his lips on my neck, his voice a hazy murmur in my ear, whispering things no good girl should ever think about.

"I bet he'd make me beg." The words came out as a moan into the steam. "Choke me just right... leave little love marks I'd powder over and pray never faded."

My hips rocked. Water lapped at the edge of the tub while I touched myself as if those fingers belonged to him. His name fell from my lips again. Right at the edge. Right before the fall.

And then—

The candles flickered.

All of them.

Like they were listening.

Like he was listening.

The air thickened. Heavy. Hot. Like breath against my bare shoulder.

I stilled. Fingers wet. Heart in my throat.

Then came that sound.

Clink.

A flash of silver against cold tile.

I sat up fast.

Water spilt over the sides. The bath bomb's scent had changed. No longer sweet. Now—smoke. Burnt anise.

My gaze darted towards the corner.

Something was there.

And then, from behind me, came a voice. Soft as sin, velvet as midnight, deep as a freshly dug grave, and rich as melted dark chocolate poured over plump strawberries.

"Feliiiiiciiiiityyyy..."

Sing-song. A lullaby meant to drive me feral. Or perhaps he was tsking because I'd been very, very naughty.

I froze.

"Fuck."

It came out like a moan.

The water rippled. Then hands. Unseen. But there. Touching. Claiming. Caressing. Creeping up my thighs, cold as death. Rings grazed my skin, lingering at my ribs. My neck. My throat.

I didn't scream.

My legs floated apart. My head fell back, mouth agape. My body? Greedy. Starved. Aroused. My mind? A million miles away.

"Alvarus?"

Silence.

Only the worship of touch.

My fingers gripped the edge of the tub as if it were the last thing holding me in place. The camera light blinked once. Then died.

The room dropped ten degrees.

But I burned. God, I burned.

My body wasn't mine anymore, not in any bloody way I'd choose. Waterlogged with heat, baptised in steam. Trembling beneath cold hands I couldn't see but felt everywhere.

One curled around my throat. Another slid between my thighs. Bigger than mine. Stronger.

"Please," I gasped.

"Aye, hermosa." The voice rumbled inside me. In my skull. My chest. The hollow of my quim where my fingers had been.

"All that fire... and you don't even know who it's for yet."

My legs spread wider. My back arched, offering up everything.

"Take me. Use me."

The bathwater surged. My back struck porcelain as my hips bucked into nothing and everything. Invisible teeth grazed my nipples. A mouth. A tongue. Fangs?

I cried out. My hands clawed at the curtain. My legs shook.

A low, breathy whisper curled around me.

"Summon me."

"Al—Alvarus?" I sobbed.

And then I was under.

The bath swallowed me. Hair spread like flame. Bubbles broke against my lips as I thrashed beneath the surface. Choked. Drenched. Weightless. Helpless. All while something pulsed inside me, stretching my wee cunt until my sense of self bled quietly away.

My legs—useless.

And just when I thought I'd drown in it, I broke the surface, gasping. Moaning.

My orgasm hit like a full-body possession.

Back arched. Thighs quaked. The tub rocked beneath me as water crashed over the rim, and my mouth hung open in a silent scream.

Shadow poured through me like smoke.

And then—

Silence.

Stillness.

I lay there, wrecked. Coughing up water. Fucked senseless. Shivering in the comedown.

And there, carved into the condensation on the mirror, one word stared back.

Mine.