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The Parisian protocol
Last Updated:
2026-01-11 15:20:55
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The House Beneath the Blood Moon The Parisian protocol
Samantha POV The drone’s interior was a cramped cockpit of black carbon fiber, vibrating with the frantic hum of electric rotors. Outside, the lights of Paris were a smear of neon and rain against the glass, receding at a velocity that made my heart feel like it had stayed behind on that rooftop. I was shaking. It wasn’t just the adrenaline of the fight. It was the terrifying, incandescent heat still singing under my skin. I felt like a star trapped in a glass jar, waiting to shatter. "Samantha." Lucien’s voice was a low, resonant rumble that anchored me instantly. He was sitting directly across from me, his knees nearly touching mine. He’d shed his tactical gear, and in the dim red light of the cabin, he looked less like a king and more like a man haunted by the woman sitting in front of him. His silver eyes didn't track my magic this time. They tracked me. The curve of my neck, the rise and fall of my chest, the way I was drowning in his oversized shirt. "I can't turn it off,
The House Beneath the Blood Moon The Zero-Day Exploit
Samantha POV Adrenaline is a corrosive fuel. Tonight, it was laced with grief, rage, and something incandescent that absolutely did not come with a warranty. One second, I was pressed against a vampire king who had just remembered how to breathe; the next, the desk beneath us screamed. Not metaphorically. Actually screamed. A sharp crack split the mahogany surface, fractures racing outward like lightning trapped under glass. The scent of rain-soaked cedar vanished—replaced by rot. Wet earth. Open grave. “Move.” Lucien’s voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. Command snapped through the room like a physical blow. He hauled me upright in one clean motion. I didn’t bother reaching for my dress—what remained of it was a tragic silk crime scene on the floor. I grabbed Lucien’s discarded shirt instead, yanking it over my shoulders. It smelled like him: storm, iron, and something dangerously royal. Buttons. Missed one. Didn’t care. The hum in my bones spiked.
The House Beneath the Blood Moon The Architecture of Friction
Samantha POVThe safe house didn’t smell like Paris. It smelled like ancient secrets—old paper, cold stone, and the ozone-heavy scent of high-end filtration systems.Lucien moved through the dim foyer of the Haussmann-style apartment with the silence of a shadow. He didn't turn on the lights. He didn't need to. His silver eyes caught the stray moonlight filtering through the heavy velvet curtains, glowing with a soft, predatory luminescence that made the air feel thin."Go to the terminal in the study," he said, his voice a low, velvet register that vibrated directly against my ribs. "I need to secure the perimeter."I didn't argue. My body felt like a live wire, humming with the aftershocks of the mountain’s collapse and the sheer, intoxicating proximity of the man beside me. I walked down the long corridor, my boots clicking against the chevron-patterned oak floors, until I found the study.It was a fortress of mahogany and silicon. I sat in the heavy leather chair and flipped the
The House Beneath the Blood Moon Glitch in the System
Samantha POVThe night air tasted like ash and ice—like the world had been set on fire and then dared to pretend it wasn’t.Lucien set me down on the cliffside, but he didn’t let go of my arms. His grip stayed firm—necessary, almost bruising—like if he loosened it for even a second, I might blow away with the snow.I could feel the tremor in him. Not fear. Not weakness.More like the internal shudder of a perfectly engineered machine that had just met a force it couldn’t out-muscle.Behind us, the mountain was gone.Not exploded. Not collapsed in drama and debris. It had simply… folded inward. A smooth, steaming crater where my mother had been.A hole where my past had lived.A hole where the future I’d been clawing toward had been swallowed whole.I hugged the laptop to my chest. The casing was cold enough to burn through my ribs. It was the only thing I had left that wasn’t grief.My hands shook anyway.Not from the cold.From the memory of Silas’s eyes—two matte-black voids that di
The House Beneath the Blood Moon The Scythe and the Silicon
Lucien POV The air didn’t just turn cold. It collapsed. Not a drop in temperature—an absence. A sudden, violent subtraction. Reality hesitated, as if it had briefly forgotten how to exist in the space we occupied. Sound flattened into a dull, underwater thud. Light lost its depth, draining into a sickly, ashen grey. Even the ancient granite of the mountain seemed uncertain—stone wavering between matter and memory. I knew this sensation. It was a phantom limb of my own history. I had felt it during the charcoal fall of Carthage. During the purge of the Black Monasteries, when sanctuaries were scrubbed not just of life, but of remembrance. This was the atmospheric signature of a High Council decree—the precise moment they decided a thing no longer deserved a future. “He’s here,” I said. The words did not echo. They were swallowed. Behind me, Samantha stiffened. She hadn’t sensed him yet—not the way my kind did. Her mind was still racing through cascading logic trees, riding t
The House Beneath the Blood Moon Fault Lines
Samantha POV Silence isn’t peace. It’s the echo left behind when the blast is over. It’s the moment your ears are still ringing and your lungs burn, while the world hesitates—deciding whether you’re a survivor or just debris waiting to settle. I slid down the front of the console until my spine hit the stone floor. The impact was dull, grounding. My hands were shaking—not the delicate tremor of fear, but the violent aftershock of a system that had run far past safe limits and hadn’t crashed. Yet. I stared at my fingers. They smelled faintly of ozone and glass. I’d erased people. No blade. No blood on my knuckles. Just a keystroke. And the worst part—the part I didn’t know how to forgive yet—was how natural it had felt. Efficient. Clean. Like clearing corrupted cache from a system that refused to heal on its own. Lucien stood a few meters away, still as a drawn line. Blood streaked his jaw—dark, viscous, not his. He didn’t turn. It was as if he knew that if he looked at me to
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