A Heart Fierce and Blooming (Her Fangs in My Heart #3)

Prologue

Marienne

Evening drapes itself in gold across the parlors of Bloomhill Manor. The air smells of sweet clove and warm brioche. My teacup, bone china with ivy filigree, steeps blood-orange leaves and a touch of rose honey.

As much as I need blood to live, I enjoy tea. And brioche. And sugared cream. No doubt that makes me odd to certain circles of vampire courts, but I’ve always believed in pleasure where one can find it.

Why live forever, if not well?

It’s an eccentricity I’m permitted, I suppose, as one of the few vampires who reside openly within the Court of Eldermire—a human court, all polished civility and careful hierarchies.

I’m halfway through a note to the village harpist to request a change of strings when a knock raps smartly on the parlor door.

“Baroness,” Ruthen, my butler, says, shifting awkwardly at the threshold, “you… have visitors.”

I blink. “Unexpected ones?”

He swallows. “They say they’re… from the Garden.”

The pen stills in my hand.

The Garden of Selene. That pale, perfumed place, more dream than sanctuary. A moon-worshipping vampire coven cloistered away from the world.

I visited years ago, bearing a gift of embroidered linens and a carefully worded letter of respect.

On paper, it was a diplomatic courtesy on behalf of the Court of Eldermire.

In truth, I wanted to go. It was right after I’d inherited my title and Bloomhill Manor.

I’d been eager to prove I was more than smiles and silk.

I remember the hush of it… the way no one spoke above a whisper, and the way the light shimmered around the “blessed” children like mist. The children there…

they glowed. Literally. Light clung to them like a second skin.

I was told they were carriers of Selene’s sacred grace.

“Moonborn,” they called them. Divine vessels.

It unsettled me more than I let on.

I left early. Blamed a headache. But the truth was simpler: The Garden felt like a prayer sharpened into a blade.

I rise.

“Show them in,” I say, already fastening the clasp of my outer cloak—silk with pearl-beading.

But they do not wait to be shown.

By the time I reach the great entrance hall, the doors are already open. My household staff linger in a line of confusion and cautious alarm.

Two women stand in the threshold. Ragged, hollowed at the edges.

One is pale as drifted snow, her eyes wide with something like hope.

I know her: Naera. She was one of the glowing girls from the Garden—though now, she does not shine.

She looks far older than I remember, worn thin at the corners, but when she sees me, she softens.

“Marienne,” she breathes.

I smile and step forward, pulling her into a careful embrace.

“Naera,” I say, my voice warm, if not steady. “I remember you.”

She hugs me like someone who’s run out of places to go.

The second woman watches me with narrowed eyes, arms crossed like a wall she’s not ready to lower. Her presence crackles—something sharp and wild curled just beneath the surface.

Behind them: six children. Correction, six vampiric children, if their fangs are any indication.

The children do not smile. They do not cry. They simply stare at me… quiet, and watchful, and so very still.

“I’m sorry for arriving like this,” Naera says. “We didn’t know where else to go.”

I glance at the children again. The youngest is barely more than a babe. Her skin dull, her eyes unfocused. No glow. Nothing divine left—just exhaustion, and bones.

I nod once. “Come inside,” I say gently. “All of you.”

***

Later, once we are seated in the solarium, I uncork a bottle of blood for the children, Naera, and myself. An ale for the sharp one—Selis, Naera affectionately calls her.

The children drink slowly, cautiously. Their movements are too quiet. Their eyes never stray far from the shadows.

Naera leans close, voice low. “The Garden is gone. It… burned.”

I don’t press. Not yet.

Instead, I ask the question I already know the answer to.

“And the children?”

“They’re all that’s left.”

I glance at each of them, at the way none of them meet my gaze. “You want me to take them in.”

Naera nods. “I know we don’t know each other well, but…” She swallows. “...I trust you. I couldn’t think of anyone else.”

Trust is simple; permission is not. The Court will not approve—yet there is no decision left to make. I smile, a promise.

“They’ll have rooms,” I say. “Safety. Candied bloodfruit, if they want it. And they’ll thrive with love and music.”

Selis stares at me like she’s waiting for me to break.

I don’t. I never do.

That’s the trick of it: if you’re bright enough, no one sees the cracks.

I reach for the smallest hand. The little one doesn’t take it. That’s fine. I’ll try again tomorrow.

By morning, Naera and Selis vanish into the wind, like shadows chased away by the sun. But the children remain.

My staff whispers. Ruthen pulls me aside. “Baroness… are you certain—?”

“Of course I’m certain.” And I, fool that I am, beam at them. “They’re my little bats now.”