Soulbound

Flashback

The house was quiet that evening, save for the occasional crackle of the fire in the hearth. She sat in the drawing room, the book in her hands forgotten as her thoughts wandered. Something had been gnawing at her for weeks now, a strange tension between her and Vincent that she couldn't quite place. He had been more distant, more secretive, disappearing for longer stretches of time. When he returned, he would offer no explanation, just a hollow smile that did little to ease her growing unease.

Isabella—or rather, she had been Isabella back then, not the woman she would become—sighed, glancing out the window. The storm outside had grown fiercer as the night deepened, rain beating against the panes in steady, relentless taps. The wind howled like a wounded animal, the kind of night that made her feel small and fragile. She wondered where Vincent was, what urgent business had called him away this time.

She had asked him once, during one of his more extended absences, where he went on these late-night excursions. His answer had been evasive, something about business in the city that required discretion. At the time, she had accepted it, not wanting to pry. But now, after all the unexplained absences, she couldn't shake the feeling that there was something far darker at play.

Tonight, something was different. She could feel it. A chill had settled into her bones that had nothing to do with the storm outside. The house, usually so warm and inviting, felt oppressive, the shadows deeper, the silence heavier. And then, there was that lingering scent—coppery and thick in the air, something metallic that stuck in the back of her throat.

She rose from her chair, unable to sit still any longer, and made her way down the hall toward Vincent's study. It was a room he had always kept locked, one she had never been allowed to enter. But tonight, for reasons she couldn't explain, she felt drawn to it. The smell was stronger here, seeping from beneath the door like a warning.

Isabella hesitated, her hand hovering over the doorknob. She knew Vincent would be furious if he caught her in there, but her curiosity had grown too strong to ignore. Her heart thudded in her chest as she turned the handle and pushed the door open.

The room was dark, lit only by the flickering firelight from the hearth. It was a grand room, filled with bookshelves that stretched to the ceiling and antique furniture that exuded wealth and power. But it was not the room itself that caught her attention. It was the figure standing in the center of the room, his back to her, bathed in the glow of the fire.

"Vincent?" she called softly, her voice trembling.

He didn't respond. He stood unnaturally still, too still. The firelight cast long, jagged shadows across his form, making him appear almost monstrous. She stepped closer, the floor creaking beneath her feet.

That was when she saw it.

At his feet, sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood, was a man. Isabella's breath caught in her throat, her body freezing in place as her mind struggled to process what she was seeing. The man's eyes were wide open, glazed over in death, his face twisted in a grotesque expression of terror. His throat had been torn open, the wound jagged and raw, as if something had savaged him.

"Vincent!" she gasped, horror flooding her chest. "What have you done?"

Her voice must have startled him, because Vincent turned, slowly, his face half-obscured by shadow. But what little she could see made her blood run cold. His mouth was smeared with blood, the crimson staining his lips and chin, and his eyes—once so warm and full of charm—were now cold, predatory, and glowing with an unnatural hunger.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The crackling of the fire was the only sound in the room as Isabella stared at him, her mind racing to make sense of the scene before her. This couldn't be real. It couldn't be Vincent. This was some terrible nightmare, surely.

"Isabella," Vincent finally spoke, his voice low and rough, a far cry from the smooth tones she had once loved. "You weren't supposed to see this."

"See what?" she whispered, her voice shaking. "Vincent, what have you done? Who is this man? Why... why is there blood...?"

Vincent took a step toward her, and she instinctively backed away, her heart pounding in her chest. "It's not what you think," he said softly, though the coldness in his eyes betrayed his words. "I never wanted you to find out this way."

"Find out what?" Her voice was rising now, a mixture of fear and fury. "That you're a murderer? That you've been lying to me this whole time?"

He sighed, running a bloodstained hand through his hair. "I'm not a murderer, Isabella. Not in the way you think. I... I'm different. I'm not like other men."

Her pulse quickened as the realization began to dawn on her, though she could hardly bring herself to believe it. "What do you mean? What are you talking about?"

Vincent's expression hardened, his eyes narrowing as he took another step toward her. "I'm not human, Isabella."

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Isabella shook her head, refusing to accept it. "That's impossible. You're—no. No, you can't be..."

"I am," he said, his voice calm, as though he were explaining the simplest of truths. "I'm a vampire."

A cold, paralyzing terror shot through her. She stumbled backward, her legs weak beneath her. "No. No, this can't be real. You can't be—"

"I am," Vincent repeated, and this time his voice was firmer, more commanding. "This is who I am, Isabella. It's who I've always been. You were never meant to know."

Her mind raced, flashes of memories returning to her—the nights when he hadn't come home until dawn, the way his skin felt so cold to the touch, his refusal to eat with her. She had dismissed all of it, written it off as eccentricity or the nature of his business. But now, standing here in this room, with a corpse at his feet and blood on his lips, she couldn't deny the truth any longer.

Tears filled her eyes as the weight of it all crashed down on her. "Why?" she whispered, her voice breaking. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Vincent's gaze softened for a moment, and he took another step toward her, his hand outstretched. "Because I didn't want to lose you. You have to understand, Isabella—I love you. I didn't want you to see me like this, to see the monster that I am."

She recoiled from his touch, her stomach churning with a sickening mix of fear and betrayal. "You lied to me," she spat, her tears falling freely now. "All this time, you lied to me. You made me believe you were someone else—someone human."

"I had no choice!" Vincent's voice rose, his frustration clear. "If I had told you the truth, you would have run from me, and I couldn't allow that. I love you, Isabella. I needed you."

"Needed me?" She backed away further, her heart racing. "You're a monster, Vincent. A murderer. And I've been living with you, loving you, not knowing what you really are."

The room seemed to close in on her, the shadows pressing in from all sides. Her entire world had been shattered in an instant, the man she had loved turned into something dark and terrifying. She couldn't stay. She couldn't be near him, not anymore.

She turned on her heel and ran. The sound of her footsteps echoed through the empty hallways as she fled the house, her mind a swirl of confusion, fear, and heartbreak.

Behind her, Vincent's voice called after her, a desperate plea that cut through the storm.

"Isabella! Wait!"

But she didn't stop. She couldn't.

She was running for her life.