IN HIS IMAGE

I didn’t know what to expect when I clocked in today—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 subtle azure streaks, fell around ears modded into points, crowded with silver hoops and studs. Lush black lashes framed kohl-lined eyes set against sun-warmed skin—big, brown, and utterly devastating.

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.

I was halfway through cleaning the espresso machine when he finally bloody moved.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

His rings tapped against the counter, almost coded.

“Flat black,” he said, voice low, like treacle over broken glass.

I looked up. He was taller than I 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 mouth 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.”

I took his hand, surprising even myself.

“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 like he was tasting it. Rings drumming softly against the countertop as he nodded. “Randone,” he repeated, eyes darkening. “You Italian?”

“Sicilian.” I winked.

“Sicilian, eh?” He mocked, lips twitching.

I nodded, completely smitten already.

“Well, as for moi, I hail from the Kingdom of Castile,” he drawled, hand to his chest, the smile on his heart-shaped lips far too amused for polite company. “Spain—if we must stoop to geomorphologies.”

“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.”

I let the 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?”

I leaned in, letting 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 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 promptly left, java in hand.

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

Now I can’t get it outta 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 I can spiral too far into my very vivid mental images, the door dings—and just like that, the vibe’s shot to bits.

In piles, this gaggle of Alt-TikTok girls—stomper boots, knock-off Shein corsets, glitter spiderweb eyeliner, chokers that probably read daddy’s girl or some shite—come flooding into the Mug.

“Oh my god, it’s the girl in red!” one of them squeals. “Told ya she was real.”

I’m up like a barista possessed, plaster on my customer-service grin, and slip back behind the counter like I haven’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, voice sticky-sweet. “You here for coffee or just to stare at me?”

One of them giggled. “Both.”

I took their orders, posed for a few pictures, and sent them on their way. Lots of thank-yous, too many compliments, and way 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.

I stacked trays and handed them to Cordelia to wash, but 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.

I shrugged. Probably 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, 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...”

I rolled my eyes and 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.”

I cracked a smile. “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? Shiit. 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?”

I laughed 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 a real date. Longer since anyone had made love to me. My poor little rose vibrator probably had grounds for emotional neglect.

But tonight? I gave her the night off.

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

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

Ugh.

I lit a few candles and left the clawfoot tub to fill. Dropped in a bath bomb the colour of arterial blood and watched it fizz, staining the water crimson. Turned on the camera. Angle just right.

New folder on my drive. Hit record.

I slid in slowly, letting 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, red curtains drawn open around the tub, candlelight dancing on the tile 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, breath sticky with want, “is Alvarus Carmine.”

I let it melt on my tongue like honey from hell.

My fingers dipped lower into the heat, into the ache, and I pictured Al’s eyes, pitch-black with secrets. Could almost hear his rings scraping 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.” Moaned it into the steam. “Choke me just right... leave little love-marks I’d powder over, and pray never fade.”

My hips rocked. Water lapped the edge of the tub while I touched myself like it was his hands. I repeated his name. 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 on my bare shoulder.

I stilled. Fingers wet. Heart in my throat.

Then 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.

I looked toward the corner.

I felt something.

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

“Feliiiiiciiiiityyyy...”

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

I froze.

“Fuck.”

It came out like a moan.

The water rippled. Then hands. Not seen. But there. Touching. Claiming. Caressing. Creeping up my thighs, cold as death. Rings grazing skin, lingering at my ribs. My neck. My throat.

I didn’t scream.

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

“Alvarus?”

Silence.

Only the worship of touch.

I gripped the tub’s edge like it was 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 under 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.”

I spread wider. Arched and offered up everything.

“Take me. Use me.”

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

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

A low, breathy whisper curled around me.

“Say my name.”

“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. 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 in the condensation on the mirror, one word stared back.

Mine.