A Wolf's Heart, A vampire's Vow

h. The estate loomed ahead,three stories of dark timber and stone, with tall windows that watched like eyes and a long verandah draped in ivy. The Thorne family crest, a silver wolf mid-howl, w

nd her, and for the first time since entering Ravenglade, Lydia let herself breathe fully. She crossed the room in two steps and sank onto the edge of the bed. Her hand went to the necklace beneath her collar, fingers pressing against the pulsing charm. Still warm. Still cloaked. You're safe for now. But how long can you keep it up? That night, Lydia didn't sleep. She lay in the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling while the sounds of the manor whispered around her ,footsteps above, doors creaking down the hall, the howl of a distant wolf echoing through the trees. She hadn't heard that sound in years. And it was beautiful. Not because it was mournful or wild, but because it was alive. So few of her kind remained now. Vampires didn't howl. They hid. They whispered. They ran. But werewolves ..they had been given the freedom to live, to sing under the moon as if the night itself belonged to them. She didn't realize she was crying until she tasted salt on her lips. Her first morning in the estate began before dawn. The uniform was simple, a charcoal dress with white cuffs, a high collar, and an apron tied at the waist. She pulled her hair into a braid, slipped on black shoes, and stepped into the halls with her head down and her eyes open. The kitchen was bustling. Steam hissed from pots. A heavy-set woman with broad shoulders barked orders at a line of maids and kitchen boys. "You're the new one?" she snapped when she saw Lydia. "Don't just stand there like a ghost. Chop those carrots!" Lydia obeyed without protest, sliding into rhythm as if she'd done this her whole life. She'd learned a thousand practical skills under Isolde, chopping, sewing, cleaning, blending into a room. A vampire couldn't afford to be noticed. Especially not now. At seven o'clock sharp, she was summoned to the main stairwell where Mrs. Halston, a sharp-eyed woman in her forties, waited. "Master Duncan has returned from patrol," she said. "He'll expect his study aired, his breakfast delivered by eight, and his armor cleaned by noon." Lydia nodded. "Yes, ma'am." Mrs. Halston gave her a long look. "You're quiet." "I prefer to listen." "Good. You'll last longer that way." Duncan Thorne's study was on the second floor, a large, wood-paneled room lined with bookshelves and weapon racks. The scent of wolf was strongest here, leather, steel, and something pine-wild and electric beneath it all. Lydia paused at the threshold. Her heart thrummed once, hard. No footsteps. No breathing. He wasn't here. She moved quickly, opening the tall windows, sweeping the hearth,