The Monster Behind The Door

The Monster Behind The Door

MARCUS dragged himself into the small bar nook tucked beside the living room, a space he had proudly set up years ago, back when he still had a job, back when he still acted like a husband. Now it was a shrine of his downfall. He scratched his rough jaw, his eyes heavy, breath sour with last night’s whiskey.

He reached for a bottle automatically.

It was empty.

He checked another.

Also empty.

He shook the third violently, as if willing liquid to appear. Nothing. Not a single drop.

“Are you kidding me?” he barked, his voice hoarse.

Scowling, he tossed the bottle onto the counter, where it rolled and clinked pathetically. His temples throbbed, the hangover mixing with hunger. He trudged toward the kitchen, feet dragging across the hardwood floor.

The moment he stepped inside, the stale smell hit him. Old takeout containers sat stacked on the counter. The trash bin was overflowing, not with garbage, but with empty liquor bottles, beer cans, and crumpled receipts from the liquor store down the street.

All his purchases. All the comfort he had drowned in.

And now they mocked him.

His stomach growled hard enough to hurt. Marcus grimaced and stomped to the stove. He yanked open the first pot.

It was empty.

Second pot.

Also empty.

He slammed the lid shut, metal clanging angrily. 

“Can’t this damn woman leave one thing in this house?”

Still fuming, he pulled open the refrigerator door.

Freezing light spilled out, over bare shelves and nothing else. No leftovers. No groceries. No eggs or milk. Not even a slice of bread.

It was completely empty.

Marcus clenched his fists. 

“Unbelievable. Just unbelievable.”

He stormed out of the kitchen, his boots thudding heavily on the floor. In the living room, Evan sat on the carpet, small and quiet, building a tower of old toy blocks. The boy didn’t look up until Marcus’s shadow fell over him.

Marcus frowned. 

“Hey, why aren’t you in school?”

Evan blinked up at him. 

“No school today. It is mid-winter break, Daddy. My teacher told us on Friday.”

Marcus scoffed. 

“And your mother couldn’t bother to tell me anything? Figures.”

Evan lowered his gaze back to the blocks.

Marcus stared at the kid again. 

“Did you eat?”

Another hesitation. 

“Um… yeah. Mommy made me something before she left for work.”

Marcus cursed under his breath. 

“Great. Just great. So she leaves the house, can’t make me food, can’t leave me food, can’t do one damn thing right.”

He didn’t bother looking at Evan's expression, the boy was quietly twisting one of the blocks in his hand.

Marcus stomped down the hallway and entered the bedroom he shared with Elena. The place looked neglected, clothes tossed around, blankets crumpled, a pair of jeans abandoned on the floor. He went straight to Elena’s dresser and yanked the drawers open.

He wasn’t looking for anything specific, just something that could get him out of the house and into the liquor store. He rifled through makeup bags, perfume bottles, folded shirts.

Then he saw it.

Her credit card.

Sitting there like fate had set it aside just for him.

With a triumphant snatch, he grabbed it and stuffed it into his back pocket. 

“Finally,” he muttered. “Someone in this house doing something useful.”

He slammed the drawer shut and walked out, without even bothering to check on Evan, without bothering to ask the boy if he needed anything. He didn’t care.

He just grabbed his jacket from the hook near the door, stepped outside, and shut the door behind him.

His only mission was simple:

Restock the only thing that had given him peace for three years— alcohol.

***

Elena didn’t stop running until she practically slammed into the ladies’ restroom. She stumbled inside and kicked the door shut behind her, twisting the lock with trembling fingers. Her chest heaved violently, every breath scraping her throat.

Her mind replayed the image again and again— Eamon’s fangs, sharp and inhuman, glinting under his office lights as he held Ava’s neck like prey.

“Oh God,” she whispered, pressing both palms to the cold metal door. “What did I just see?”

The restroom lights hummed softly above her. Her pulse refused to settle. She rushed to the sink, turned on the tap, and splashed cold water on her hands, then pressed the dripping fingers against her face. It did nothing. Her reflection still stared back— wide-eyed, pale, terrified.

She gripped the edges of the sink. 

“He’s… a vampire? The CEO? ‘My’ CEO?”

Her stomach twisted painfully. She took another shaky breath.

And then—

Click.

Her head snapped toward the door.

The lock she had twisted, the lock she was certain she secured, shifted on its own. The knob turned slowly— not fast, not forced— but deliberately. Someone was opening it.

But no footsteps followed.

No shadow appeared under the door.

No one pushed it.

Yet it creaked open an inch… then another… then another.

Elena backed away slowly, whispering, “No. No-no-no…”

She turned toward the mirror, hands shaking—

And froze.

Because reflected behind her, so clear it sent ice pouring through her veins, was Eamon.

Tall. Still. Watching her with an expression so unreadable it was worse than anger.

Her breath caught painfully. She spun around—

And he was right there. Just a few meters away.

Not a sound. Not a footstep. He was simply there.

Her knees nearly buckled. 

“Oh God… oh God…” she whispered, lips trembling in frantic prayer.

Eamon began walking toward her. Slow, controlled steps from a man who looked barely twenty-eight yet carried an unnerving, ancient stillness. His eyes were darker than before, like ink swirling in water. His presence seemed to fill every corner of the room.

“Please,” she choked out. “Please, please— I swear I won’t say anything, I won’t tell anyone, just let me go—”

He let out a soft scoff, almost amused.

“There would be no need for that.”

His voice slid over her like velvet dipped in danger, low, deep, carrying a commanding edge that felt older than him.

She pressed herself against the sink, her heart thundering. For a fleeting second, she wondered if this was how prey felt when the predator had already decided.

He moved closer, so close she could smell the warmth of his cologne, that expensive woodsy scent that should have been comforting but wasn’t. Not now. Not when she knew what he was.

“Just stay still,” he whispered, leaning in. “It won’t hurt.”

His breath brushed her neck. His lips parted. His fangs slid out again— sharper, clearer.

“Oh God…” she whimpered, breath hitching violently.

“He won’t save you now,” Eamon murmured.

He lifted his right hand toward her neck—

And the moment his palm hovered over her skin, a searing crack snapped through the air.

HIS SKIN SIZZLED.

Eamon recoiled instantly, his jaw clenching as he jerked his hand back. Steam rose from his palm, the skin turning an angry, blistering red as though he had touched fire instead of a woman.

He stared at her, the shock on his face unmistakable. Confusion. Pain. Something else. Something primal.

Elena didn’t wait to analyze it.

She shoved past him with every ounce of adrenaline in her body and bolted for the door.

Eamon was still staring at his palm, watching the angry red slowly fade into normal skin, the burning cooling, the steam dissolving.

“What… was that?” he whispered to himself, astonished, infuriated, intrigued.

His eyes snapped toward the door she had escaped through.

And for the first time in a very, very long time, the cursed billionaire felt something unfamiliar:

A woman he couldn’t touch.

A woman who burned him.

A woman he suddenly needed answers about.