Mine, Whether You Bleed or Burn

Elaina was holding a paintbrush.

Which would've been fine—if it weren't currently dripping blood-red paint on a balloon that looked suspiciously like Marissa's face.

"Uh…" a small child tilted their head. "Is my bunny… dying?"

Elaina blinked. "It's... artistic expression. Postmodern decay. Very in."

The kid walked off, unimpressed.

Daisy appeared behind her with narrowed eyes. "Okay, Picasso. You want to talk about the murder you're planning, or just keep stabbing bunnies?"

"I'm not jealous," Elaina said.

"You said that five minutes ago. Right before you tried to draw fangs on a rainbow."

But Elaina wasn't listening anymore.

Because Lucien wasn't alone.

He never was, not lately. Not with Marissa.

Today, though, something was off. Marissa was standing a bit too close. Her smile a bit too sharp. And Lucien? He wasn't even pretending to care.

But he wasn't leaving either.

Elaina's breath caught when Marissa touched his arm—and Lucien didn't flinch.

Why now?

He hated people touching him. He hated people, period.

And suddenly, Elaina knew something had shifted.

This wasn't just another flirtatious attempt from the resident peacock.

Something was wrong.

A ripple passed through her, cold and quiet.

"What are you thinking?" Daisy asked softly.

"That I'm going to regret what I'm about to do."

"Which is?"

"Claim what's already mine."

Daisy gave a low whistle. "Oh, it's one of those days."

Elaina dropped the brush and marched straight across the field, weaving through picnic blankets and toddlers with cotton candy, like a storm in sneakers.

The rose garden shimmered ahead—too peaceful for what was coming.

Marissa was laughing again, head tossed back like she was auditioning for a toothpaste commercial.

Elaina hated that laugh. It sounded like insincerity and broken fingernails.

"Elaina!" Marissa trilled. "You have to see this. Mr.Blackthorn was just telling me about his time in Transylvania—"

"Funny," Elaina cut in, "he never mentioned visiting clichés."

Marissa's smile faltered. "Excuse me?"

Elaina stepped closer, her gaze locked on Lucien. "I said he doesn't entertain… nonsense."

Lucien said nothing. His arms remained folded, his expression unreadable—but the tic in his jaw gave him away.

"Elaina," he said quietly.

But she didn't stop.

"Dr. Marissa," she said sweetly, "this is a community picnic. Not an audition."

Marissa stiffened. "Excuse me?"

"I know you're used to chasing power and mistaking silence for interest. But you're barking up the wrong vampire."

Lucien gave a warning glance, but Elaina ignored him.

"I suggest you find someone less emotionally unavailable," she added. "Or maybe just less… taken."

Marissa scoffed. "Are you saying he's taken?"

Elaina didn't hesitate.

"Yes."

Lucien's head snapped toward her.

Marissa narrowed her eyes. "By who?"

"By me," Elaina said simply, and without another word, she took Lucien's arm—gently, firmly—and turned away with him.

Marissa watched them go, seething.

Lucien's footsteps were silent as they moved away from Marissa, his expression unreadable, eyes flicking toward Elaina but not speaking. The garden path was nearly empty now, children's laughter distant, the sun casting soft gold over their shadows.

He stopped suddenly.

"Elaina."

Her heart clenched at the way he said her name—low, cautious, as if he already knew something dangerous was coming.

He didn't face her.

But she stepped in front of him.

"I'm not sorry," she said, voice trembling, "for what I said back there."

His gaze locked with hers. Cold. Sharp.

"Why did you say it?" he asked, his voice like ice breaking over stone.

Her lips parted, then closed.

Then—

"I said it because it's true," she whispered. "Because I've been trying to stop… trying to ignore it. But I can't."

Lucien's jaw tensed.

"I love you."

The words broke free like a dam bursting.

"I love you in a way that terrifies me, Lucien. Not gently. Not sweetly. I love you like a firestorm—violent and consuming and wrong."

She took a breath, eyes gleaming.

"And I know you don't want me. I know you look at me like I'm a mistake you regret letting get close. But I don't care. I don't care if you never love me back."

Her voice cracked, but she kept going.

"You're already under my skin. You're already inside my soul. You haunt every thought, every breath—and I hate it, but I want more."

Her hands curled into fists.

"You are mine, Lucien. Even if you never admit it. Even if you never say my name with love. I still see it—I see how you look at me when you think I'm not watching. I feel the tension when I'm near."

She stepped even closer.

"You can try to push me away. You can try to be cold. But I will never pretend I don't feel this. Because it's real. And it's destroying me."

For a second, the only sound was the wind rustling through the trees.

Then Lucien's voice came, low and dangerous.

"Elaina…"

But she cut him off—pressing a hand over his chest.

"You are mine," she repeated, softer now. "And I won't let anyone else have you. Ever."

Silence.

Lucien stared at her with unreadable eyes.

Then—he turned and walked away.

No reply.

Not even a glance back.

Elaina stood alone among the roses.

And this time, it wasn't jealousy stabbing her.

It was hope—dying in her hands.

Elaina didn't move. Couldn't.

The sunlight that had bathed the rose garden moments ago now felt like a spotlight on her humiliation. Lucien hadn't just walked away—he had left her. No words. No expression. Just silence.

The kind that echoed.

Behind her, the laughter of children continued like cruel background music to a heart unraveling.

A part of her whispered, He didn't owe you anything. Another part screamed, He owed you everything.

"Elaina?"

She turned sharply. Daisy had followed—out of breath, hesitant. "What happened? You just—he just—"

"He walked away," Elaina said flatly, voice scraped raw.

Daisy stared at her for a second, then took a step closer. "Okay… but why does it feel like something else just cracked open?"

Elaina didn't answer. She was still staring in the direction Lucien had gone, as if willing the world to reverse.

The night after her confession

Lucien didn't sleep.

Instead, he stood motionless in front of the antique mirror hanging in his private quarters—the one no one ever saw but him.

The glass was cracked in the corner.

It hadn't been, until tonight.

He didn't remember shattering it.

Didn't remember throwing the book that caused it.

Only the look in her eyes when she said she loved him.

Only the sound of her voice, trembling but certain: You are mine.

He should've ended it.

Erased it.

Erased her.

But instead, he had walked away like a coward. Like a man still pretending he didn't feel.

A shadow flickered behind him in the mirror—something ancient and knowing. But when he turned, nothing was there.