Chapter 5
384words
In the hallway one day, Genevieve performed her usual fragile act, leaning dramatically against the wall, chest heaving.
Damian appeared instantly, producing a crystal vial from his pocket and pressing it into her hands.
"Drink," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for refusal.
I recognized that vial—identical to those that collected my blood during "donations."
After drinking, color flooded Genevieve's cheeks, her weakness miraculously vanishing.
She gave him a smile that mixed gratitude with possession.
Dozens witnessed this exchange, but none felt it branded into their soul as I did.
Whispers spread that Lord Damian was using a sacred family treasure to heal his beloved.
That "sacred treasure" was me—my blood, my life force.
By ancient law, my blood belonged exclusively to Damian—only he could consume it.
Yet he gave it freely to another—proof that he had accepted her as his future mate.
Genevieve's "attacks" grew more frequent, conveniently timed.
My "donation" schedule doubled, then tripled.
The constant blood loss left me hollow-eyed and trembling. Human bodies aren't designed for this kind of depletion.
During an advanced practical magic class, we were tasked with maintaining energy shields for extended periods.
When my turn came, I barely lifted my wand before darkness swallowed my vision. I collapsed like a puppet with cut strings.
Just before consciousness fled, strong arms caught me—cold yet somehow solid as earth.
That embrace carried the scent of winter cedar and something uniquely him.
Damian.
I woke in the infirmary, disoriented and weak.
Rowena—still speaking to me then—told me Damian had carried me himself, shocking everyone who witnessed it.
"The whole school saw," she whispered excitedly. "Ophelia, does he actually—"
I cut her off with a bitter smile. "He was just protecting his investment. Nothing more."
After she left, the door swung open. Damian strode in, his presence filling the small room.
He set a bottle of premium recovery potion on my nightstand—the kind reserved for noble families.
"Drink," he ordered, not bothering with pleasantries.
I remained still, turning my face toward the window.
With what little strength I had, I whispered, "Don't waste this on me. Lady Genevieve might get jealous."
My words seemed to strike him physically. He stood frozen, something unreadable flashing across his face.
