Claimed by the Prince of Darkness-Chapter 36: The weekend

It was Saturday noon, and Ruelle sat at the worn wooden table, a warm bowl of stew in front of her. The smell of herbs and broth filled the small kitchen, mingling with the sound of Hailey’s mother, Mrs. Sylvie Elliot, bustling around, setting more bread on the table. The kitchen was modest, the chairs worn, but there was a kind of quiet comfort in its simplicity.

Across from her, Mr. Elliot leaned back in his chair, his large frame making the chair creak under his weight. His boots were still dirt-streaked from the fields, and his hands, rough with calluses, rested on the table. His voice, when it came, was a low rumble that filled the room like distant thunder.

"Pass the bread, love," he said to Mrs. Elliot before turning to Ruelle, his sharp gaze softening as it settled on her. "You girls need to eat more," he said, his gruff voice carrying a note of warmth. "You’ve got those tests comin’ up at that academy of yours, don’t you?"

Mr. Elliot tore off another piece of bread and leaned forward, placing it on Ruelle’s plate with a firm nod.

Ruelle hesitated, "Oh, I’m fine, thank you—"

"Go on, girl. Eat up. You’ll need the strength," his rough voice carried a warmth that was as thick as the stew they ate, softening the hard lines of his face.

Mrs. Elliot, from across the table, smiled as she handed Ruelle a napkin. She said, "He’s right, dear. You and Hailey have been studying hard, and it’s important to look after yourselves."

There was a gentleness in the way they spoke to her, as if Ruelle weren’t just a guest for the weekend but someone they truly cared about. It was a stark contrast to the cold, polite distance of her own home—where she often felt invisible.

"Thank you," Ruelle said softly, a bit taken aback by their concern. She took the piece of bread, her fingers lingering on the warm crust. The simple gesture stirred something inside her, something unfamiliar and bittersweet.

Hailey nudged her with a grin. She said, "Told you my father likes to pretend he’s tough, but he’s a big softie. He won’t stop until we’re stuffed."

Mr. Elliot huffed, though the corners of his mouth twitched upwards before replying, "I just know what’s good for you," he said, his tone a mix of gruffness and affection. "A strong mind needs a strong body to match."

The warmth in the kitchen surrounded them, filling the small gaps in Ruelle’s heart. The easy banter, the affection between Hailey and her parents—it was all so foreign to her, but at the same time, it felt right. This was a kind of love she had never been close enough to touch.

As the conversation continued, Ruelle found herself retreating into her thoughts. The thought of returning home had filled her with a kind of dread that lingered, even though the worst of the tension between her and Ezekiel seemed to have passed. Which was why she had chosen to escape to her friend’s village for the weekend.

It wasn’t just the warmth of the hearth or the filling meals that made Ruelle feel safe. It was the small, unspoken gestures. The way Mr. Elliot handed her an extra piece of bread without a second thought, the way Mrs. Elliot refilled her bowl with a smile, as if she were one of their own. There were no conditions, no expectations. Just care, given freely.

"You’re awfully quiet," Mrs. Elliot observed gently, her eyes soft as she glanced at Ruelle. "Is everything alright, dear?"

Ruelle blinked, realising she had been staring at her half-eaten bread for far too long. "Oh, yes," she said quickly, offering a small smile. "Everything’s fine. This... this is all very nice. Thank you."

Mrs. Elliot’s smile deepened, and she reached over to gently pat Ruelle’s arm. "We’re happy to have you here. You’re welcome any time, you know."

Ruelle’s heart squeezed at the words. Welcome. It had been a long time since she had felt truly welcome anywhere. The Elliot family was different in ways she hadn’t expected. Their love wasn’t hidden behind stern words or cold rules. It was right there, open and warm, filling the small kitchen like the scent of stew that still hung in the air.

After lunch, the young women settled by the window. Ruelle opened the first of the books that belonged to Lucian, her eyes immediately drawn to the neat, precise handwriting in the margins. His notes were clear, concise, each thought methodically laid out as though guiding her through the difficult material.

She traced a finger lightly over one of his notes, silently appreciating the clarity of his mind. She could sense the discipline in the way he had written. Even though he had glared and warned her to not create trouble, she was grateful for his books.

Hailey leaned over, peeking at the page. She murmured in awe, "I still can’t believe he offered his textbooks. What did you do to get these?"

Ruelle let out a soft, nervous laugh. She replied, "Got on his last nerve..." recalling the way Lucian had told her to stay out of his way.

Miles away, within the towering halls of the Slater estate, Lucian walked through the familiar corridors. The afternoon light filtered through the tall windows of his mansion. His footsteps were quiet against the carpet as he moved.

But as he neared his father’s study, the low hum of conversation carried through the slightly ajar door, causing Lucian to slow his steps. His sharp hearing caught the familiar voice mid-sentence.

"... heard about the Belmont family?"

Lucian paused, his attention narrowing on the words. The voice belonged to Count Westerling, a man whose reputation echoed throughout the vampire courts. But it wasn’t the Count’s presence that made Lucian stop—it was the name that had slipped into the conversation.

A soft harrumph followed, and then came the voice of Lord Azriel, Lucian’s father. "I didn’t think I would ever hear that name again. What of them?"

"Their daughter married a Halfling last week. I believe her name was Ruelle," Count Westerling said thoughtfully. "The name didn’t strike me at first, but I recalled it later. The one she married is a nobody, of course, nothing that could match the first match. His name is Ezekiel Henley. It is said he’s an instructor in Sexton."

Lucian’s expression remained unflinching, his face a mask of calm, though the name tugged at something beneath the surface. Ruelle. The word hung in the air for a moment, but he let it settle, kept it locked beneath layers of practiced indifference.

Inside the study, his father responded, his tone steady, dispassionate. "Henley, you say? I’m unfamiliar with the name. Perhaps Lucian or Dane might know him."

"He’s been making a push to involve himself with the vampire courts," Westerling remarked, though his tone suggested Henley’s efforts were hardly noteworthy.

Lucian let no change slip across his face as he moved towards the door, pushing it open with measured grace.

"Lucian," Lord Azriel greeted him, a faint note of warmth in his voice as his gaze lifted to his son.

Lucian inclined his head, stepping into the room with calm confidence. "Father. Count Westerling," he greeted, his tone smooth and polite, betraying nothing of the conversation he had overheard.

Count Westerling turned, his sharp eyes landing on Lucian with a slight smile and a nod of acknowledgment. "Lucian. Good to see you, as always. I trust things have been well?"

Lucian offered a faint smile in return, his expression as inscrutable as ever. "Well enough," he replied, the words slipping out effortlessly, almost automatically.

Westerling’s gaze swept over Lucian, an appraising glint in his eye. "I hear Sexton is fortunate to have you. Your reputation precedes you—always at the top of your class. It won’t be long before you join us in the court, where, I believe, you’ll rise just as quickly."

Lord Azriel’s expression remained steady, though there was a faint look of pride in his eyes. "Lucian has always been dedicated to his studies and the responsibilities that come with our name."

Count Westerling nodded approvingly. "No doubt. The Slater name has always carried weight in our world, and I must say, with sons like yours, Azriel, that weight only grows. Handsome and capable—you’ve certainly raised fine heirs."

"I have simply done what’s required," Lucian replied, his voice calm, almost detached. His demeanour remained polite, though the flattery rolled off him like water on stone. His ambition wasn’t born out of the desire for compliments but a deep, unspoken drive for control.

And yet, as he stood there, surrounded by the familiar faces of his world, the earlier name from their conversation lingered in the back of his mind. Ruelle was married.