All Chapters of Mated To Valentine : Chapter 121 - Chapter 130

The velvet cushions of my father’s throne sink beneath my weight as I lean back, legs draped over one of the armrests, fingers lazily tapping against the hilt of my dagger. The throne room is vast, grand, and utterly suffocating. Gilded chandeliers flicker with eerie candlelight, casting long shadows on the black marble floors. Stained glass windows depict the long reign of my father, the vampire king. It’s all so dramatic. So tedious. The air is thick with the scent of aged wood, polished stone, and the faint metallic tang of blood—always blood. Even here, in the heart of Paris, it lingers. A reminder of what we are. What I am. The doors swing open with a low groan, and I don’t bother lifting my gaze. The heavy scent of jasmine and ancient power floods the air. I know exactly who it is. A sigh, sharp and disapproving, slices through the silence. "Valentine." Her voice is smooth but laced with displeasure. "Get off that throne." I exhale slowly, letting my head fall bac

The gas lamps outside the cabaret flicker weakly, their orange glow barely cutting through the thick fog that clings to the streets of Paris.Inside, the air is heavy with the scent of cheap perfume, spilled wine, and the faint, metallic tang of blood.The orchestra plays a frenzied waltz, the violins screeching like banshees, while couples spin across the floor in a chaotic blur of silk and sweat.I sit in a shadowed corner, a glass of absinthe in my hand, the green liquid swirling like liquid poison.Across from me, a young woman—Marie, she said her name was—chatters incessantly.Her voice is high-pitched, grating, and she’s been going on about her village, her family, her dreams of becoming a singer.I smile, though my patience wears thin.“Do you come here often, monsieur?” she asks, leaning forward, her décolletage on full display.Her French is tinged with a provincial accent, marking her as new to the city.I tilt my head, letting my lips curl into a dangerous smile. “Only when

The moment we step into the manor, I hear Achilles’ heart pick up its pace.He’s overwhelmed.It’s evident in the way his wide, dark eyes dart around, struggling to take everything in—the marble floors polished to a mirror shine, the chandeliers dripping with golden light, the tapestries lining the hallways like relics of another time.He hasn’t lived like this before. That much is clear.I don’t acknowledge his awe. Instead, I lead him down the grand hall, past the looming portraits of my ancestors who watch us with unblinking eyes. The silence between us stretches, but I don’t break it. Not yet.We arrive at the dining hall. A long, gleaming mahogany table stretches nearly the entire length of the room, fit for a feast that no one ever has.Achilles lingers at the doorway.“Sit,” I tell him.He hesitates before obeying, perching stiffly on one of the velvet chairs like he’s ready to flee at any second.I turn to one of the maids, who bows instantly. “Something hefty,” I instruct, g

Achilles is a menace.A charming, loud, dramatic menace.And somehow, against all logic and reason, I am enjoying myself.I’ve spent nearly three centuries in this world, drifting through time with the same predictable routine. Nothing ever surprises me. But Achilles—Achilles is unpredictable. A whirlwind of sarcasm and chaos wrapped in a too-thin frame, wearing my clothes as if he owns them.And now, I am taking him into the city.Paris at night is a sight to behold—cobblestone streets glistening under the glow of gas lamps, the murmur of voices spilling from cafés and carriages rolling down the avenues. The scent of warm bread lingers in the air, mixing with the ever-present perfume of the Seine.Achilles stretches his arms above his head as we step onto the street. “Ah, freedom! I can already smell the possibilities.”I give him a dry look. “That would be fresh bread, not possibilities.”He waves a hand. “Same thing.”We walk, side by side, and I notice he’s still too thin. The

A century. A mere blink in my existence, yet it feels like an eternity when spent with him. He. He, the chaos incarnate, the walking, talking embodiment of every headache I've ever endured. Achilles. Even now, a hundred years on, he manages to fill the mansion with his incessant chatter, his ridiculous schemes, his… his presence. Tonight, I seek a reprieve. A hunt.The moon hangs heavy, a silver coin in the velvet sky. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, a familiar aroma that usually soothes me. Tonight, it merely serves as a backdrop to my frustration. I stalk through the shadows of the old cemetery, my senses heightened, searching for the telltale signs of wild vampires. They’re a nuisance, these feral creatures, a stain on our kind.Then, I smell it. Something sweet. Caramel, with a delicate hint of lavender. A human scent, but unlike any I've encountered before. It draws me in, a strange, compelling pull.I move silently, a shadow among shado