Claimed by the Prince of Darkness-Chapter 33: Under The Same Roof As Him

Though it was the middle of the day, Mr. Mortis’s office continued to say slightly dim. A faint smell of old parchment and candle wax hung in the air, along with the scent of dust that never seemed to settle. Behind his large, aged desk sat Mr. Mortis, his hollow gaze resting on Ezekiel, who stood before him, his expression tightly controlled.

"It was a little stab. Nothing an Elite vampiress couldn’t handle," Mr. Mortis said, his tone as dry as the ancient walls around him.

Ezekiel’s polite smile strained at the edges, a flicker of frustration passing beneath the calm exterior. His voice, though measured, carried an edge of insistence, "But Mr. Mortis, a Groundling raising a hand against an Elite—it sends the wrong message, don’t you think? It undermines the hierarchy that maintains order at Sexton."

"Elites here are taught better than to become baits, Mr. Henley. Sexton’s rules may appear harsh, but they are balanced. Elites, Halflings and the Groundlings cause trouble every once in a while, doesn’t mean it warrants an expulsion," Mr. Mortis replied, leaning back slightly in his chair, as he regarded Ezekiel with a gaze that betrayed nothing.

Ezekiel’s jaw tightened, but he quickly composed himself and stated, "I think of the establishment, Mr. Mortis, of the greater order. It is just that allowing a Groundling to remain after such a bold act might cause disruption. And now she’s rooming with an Elite vampire. Surely, you see how this could create complications?"

Mr. Mortis’s face remained impassive. He remarked, "Miss Belmont chose her arrangement. She is aware of the consequences. Unless there are further instances of misconduct, I see no reason to alter the decision."

Chose her arrangement? Innocent and sweet Ruelle would never do something like that unless she was coaxed! Ezekiel’s fingers twitched at his sides. He had expected compliance, but Mr. Mortis had proven more difficult to manipulate than anticipated. Still, he held his smile. He softly replied,

"No. No further complaints."

"Then I believe we are finished here. Good day, Mr. Henley," Mr. Mortis returned his attention to the papers in front of him.

Bowing stiffly, Ezekiel’s nails bit into his palms as he turned to leave. His thoughts churned as he exited the room. He couldn’t bear the thought of Ruelle slipping further from his grasp, especially now that she was staying under the same roof as another male.

The very image of her in another man’s room gnawed at him, and he would not rest until he found a way to remove her from such a dangerous proximity.

By the time Ruelle had finished her evening classes, she could feel the weight of eyes on her—more than usual. Their gazes followed her with whispers and their murmurings.

The fabric of her dress clung tightly to her, its collar feeling too constricting against her throat. Her fingers instinctively reached up, slipping beneath the edge of the collar in an attempt to loosen the fabric. But it didn’t help.

Her footsteps were soft as she made her way along the cobblestone paths lined by trees. As she approached a large tree, her stomach knotted. Standing beneath its shadow was Gwendolyn Bloom, the Elite vampiress she had been sent to serve. The vampiress carried herself with an air of privilege that was impossible to ignore, and everything about her screamed superiority.

"Well, well, the little Groundling finally arrives," Gwendolyn purred. "You are late."

Ruelle lowered her head, the humility in her voice soft but sincere. "I apologise, milady, I didn’t mean to—"

"I didn’t ask for an explanation," Gwendolyn interrupted, her lips curving into the ghost of a mocking smile. Her gaze swept over Ruelle, taking in every detail, every flaw. "So, you’re the one who’s moved into Lucian’s room."

Was that why the vampiress had hired her? Ruelle asked herself.

Gwendolyn’s gaze travelled down Ruelle’s form, and she spoke loudly, "Patchwork clothes, torn shoes.You must have trouble finding food outside of Sexton," she added.

Ruelle’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and she instinctively tried to hide her worn shoes beneath the hem of her dress, though it wasn’t long enough to fully cover them.

"Perhaps there’s something about your looks... something beneath all that dirt," Gwendolyn continued, her tone indifferent yet piercing. "But I still don’t understand why Lucian would tolerate a human in his space. How did you manage that?"

"I didn’t do anything," Ruelle replied. "He hates me—"

Gwendolyn laughed before replying, "Of course he does. I had bet the chances of him running a stake through your heart while you sleep are higher than him ever letting you stay willingly."

The blood drained from Ruelle’s face, her heart skipping a beat. Would he do that? Her voice wavered as she replied, "Mr. Slater—Dane Slater—helped me. It’s temporary. A roof over my head, nothing more."

Gwendolyn’s interest waned, her fingers tapping idly against her arm as she grew bored with the conversation. Her detachment was evident, the kind of indifference that only those born into endless privilege could exude. She declared,

"I’m bored. Dance for me."

Ruelle blinked, startled by the demand. "Dance?" she repeated. She had never learned to dance—there had never been time or opportunity for such luxuries in her village, where survival was all that mattered. "I don’t know how to..."

"It is precisely why you will now," Gwendolyn said, her voice flat, as though the request were as simple as asking for water. "I suppose if you can’t, you won’t be earning a penny."

Desperation tightened around Ruelle’s chest. She needed this job, needed the money. Swallowing her pride, she nodded and began to move, her limbs stiff and awkward as she tried to mimic the few dancers she had seen from a distance. Laughter erupted from her and the nearby students who had gathered to watch the spectacle.

"Is that what she calls dancing?" a voice jeered from the crowd.

Another joined in, mocking, "I’ve seen better moves from a puppet!"

The heat of humiliation crept up Ruelle’s neck, spreading across her cheeks. Her movements faltered under the weight of their laughter, and her heart pounded in her chest. But her mother’s words rang in her ears, urging her forward despite the shame that gripped her.

To get your work done, sometimes you have to hold a donkey’s feet and praise it.

When Gwendolyn finally seemed satisfied, she turned away, leading Ruelle through the forest with casual indifference. The sky had grown dark, and the unfamiliarity of the path filled Ruelle with a sense of unease.

They arrived at the bank of a river, the water glittering under the faint starlight. Gwendolyn stopped, a wicked glint sparking in her eyes. She said,

"Since dancing is clearly beyond your abilities, let’s see how you fare with something you’re already used to. Washing clothes."

Ruelle nodded, relieved to be given a task she knew well. She replied, "Yes, Lady Gwendolyn."

But her relief was short-lived as Gwendolyn motioned towards a large wicker basket, overflowing with clothes. The sheer volume of garments made her stomach drop. It was far more than she had expected, a mountain of fine, delicate fabrics and heavy cloaks that would take hours to clean.

"This should keep you busy," Gwendolyn remarked lazily, her voice dripping with amusement. "These are mine... and a few from my dear friends. Finish them before you sleep."

Ruelle could tell that the vampiress expected her to fail, to collapse under the weight of the work. But she was determined to complete the task and she offered a bow,

"I’ll get it done, milady."

By the time she finished, the night had deepened, the sky inky and cold. Her hands were raw, her back aching from the hours of scrubbing. The pile of clothes had felt endless—stained with dirt, blood, and the lingering perfume of the Elite who had worn them. She had heard the faint sound of the tower bell ring.

Gwendolyn returned, her lips curling with mock surprise. "It seems it was an easy task for you."

Ruelle said nothing, her body weary but her spirit unbroken.

With a smug smile, Gwendolyn pulled out a coin pouch, her fingers fishing inside. She produced a silver coin but then dropped it back into the pouch, pulling out a single penny instead. Her hand stretched out, dangling the coin in front of Ruelle, only to let it fall to the ground before she could take it.

"This is for today’s work," Gwendolyn said, her voice saccharine. "Consider it generous. If we Elites made things easy for you humans, you’d never appreciate the value of money."

Then, without another word, the vampiress turned and disappeared into the night, leaving Ruelle alone by the river.

After searching for the penny in the grass, Ruelle made her way back to her room. As she walked, her fingers slipped under the collar of her dress again, tugging at the fabric that now felt tighter against her throat.

"Why has it gotten tighter..." she muttered to herself, her brow furrowing in confusion.

When she reached the door, she pushed it open quietly. Candlelight flickered softly inside, and her eyes immediately landed on Lucian, who sat on his bed, his back resting against the wall, as if lost in thought. freēnovelkiss.com

He didn’t look at her as she entered.

Ruelle stepped inside, trying to be as quiet as possible, but her foot slipped on a stray parchment that had been scattered on the floor. Her balance faltered, and her hand collided with the chest of drawers, sending the contents on top clattering to the ground. The same time, the pencil Lucian was holding, its tip broke from her disruption.

The loud noise echoed through the quiet room.

Ruelle’s breath caught in her throat as she froze. She noticed Lucian’s body turn tense, and the room felt unbearably still, the silence thick and suffocating even though he didn’t look at her.

"I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you," Ruelle’s words barely carried across the room, soft and fragile.

Lucian didn’t respond. His eyes remained fixed on the parchment before him, his features carved in sharp, unforgiving lines. For a moment, Ruelle wondered if he hadn’t heard her, but the rigidity in his posture told another story. The way his broad shoulders tensed, the slight tightening of his jaw, as though he was holding back... his anger?

Her gaze followed the taut line of his jaw, the faint flicker of tension in his otherwise stoic face, before landing on the broken pencil tip resting between his fingers. The silence felt heavy.

Without a word then, Lucian reached for the knife on the table beside him, his movements unnervingly calm. The soft scrape of metal against wood filled the space as he began sharpening the pencil, each stroke slow and deliberate, almost hypnotic.

He was ignoring her, or at least pretending to.

Just as the silence threatened to stretch on forever, Lucian’s gaze snapped towards her. His expression was unreadable as ever, and when the pencil tip reemerged, his eyes returned to the parchment without sparing a word.

What was that?! Ruelle asked herself, a shiver running down her spine as if he had given her a silent warning.

With him in the room, she hesitated to change her clothes. Her fingers hovered over the edge of her collar, fidgeting nervously as if trying to loosen the fabric. How could she change her clothes with him in the room?

She glanced towards Lucian, who hadn’t moved from his position, his eyes still focused on the parchment. Her heart raced, unsure of what to do.

Ruelle bent down, her hands trembling slightly as she untied her shoes before setting them aside. Picking up the blanket, she was ready to sit down.

"Are you really planning on sleeping like that?" Lucian’s voice cut through the stillness, low and unhurried, as though her presence was merely an inconvenience in his otherwise orderly world. His gaze flickered to her briefly, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his tone—something that felt like disapproval mixed with... annoyance?

Ruelle’s pulse quickened. "I was going to sleep," she started, her voice faltering under his gaze, "I thought I would just... rest for now."

Lucian’s eyes darkened slightly, the sharp edges of his features cast in shadow by the candlelight.

"Go change," he said coolly, not looking at her again. "Unless you want to bring dirt on the couch." His tone was flat, but something about the way he said it made her feel as though she was being scolded like a child. He didn’t wait for a response, turning back to his parchment with an air of finality.

"My clothes aren’t dirty," Ruelle frowned, her lips pressing into a thin line.

"Tell that to the dirt smeared on your dress," Lucian said, before going back to sketching whatever he was doing.

Ruelle looked down, and there was dirt smudged on the hem of her dress. It was probably from the time she was at the river, washing the clothes. Hesitantly, she picked up her nightgown in her hands and stepped towards the small partition at the corner of the room. At least there was a wall, some form of privacy, though the thought did little to ease the nervousness fluttering in her chest.

Once behind the wall, she hurriedly changed out of her dress, her fingers fumbling with the buttons in her rush.

A scandal. That’s what this was. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of her dress as her thoughts raced. The boundaries between them were sharp and unforgiving, and yet she had no choice but to remain here. Lucian didn’t want her in his space, she could feel it. His silence was as cold as the stone walls around them.

She couldn’t shake the feeling that the entire academy was watching her. Judging her. But that wasn’t what terrified her. No, what terrified her was the man sitting just a few feet away, a vampire masked in elegance, whose silence spoke of danger far greater than any whisper she had heard of.

Ruelle could still hear the faint sound of Lucian’s pencil against the parchment. She slipped into the nightdress, her movements quick and anxious.

When she emerged again, Lucian didn’t bother to look at her and she made her way towards the couch. The couch creaked slightly as she lowered herself onto it, pulling the thin blanket up to her chin.

She couldn’t help but glance at Lucian, wondering what he must think of her—an intruder in his space, disrupting his night. But his pencil was already scratching against the paper again, as though her existence no longer mattered. There was something oddly comforting about the sound of the pencil, a quiet rhythm that eased the tension in her body.