Chapter Three
CLARA
The village felt different with Laszlo here, and I didn’t like it. Having him here, in this place that felt special and strange in the best ways, was like something shifted in the wrong direction. Laszlo’s presence changed the air.
At first, I thought it was just me overanalyzing the situation, but as we walked the cobbled streets hand-in-hand, I couldn’t shake the weight pressing down on me.
It wasn’t just the growing awkwardness between us—something that I’d felt long before leaving home. It was something else. Something I couldn’t name.
“This place is...quaint,” Laszlo said, glancing around as we passed a row of flower-covered balconies.
The tone of his voice said he didn’t like it.
He was one of those people who thrived in a bustling city where everyone was shoulder-to-shoulder, trying to rush to get to wherever the hell they were going.
He didn’t sound impressed in the least, not even in awe at the incredible beauty of the thick forests and massive mountains peaking in the distance. But I didn’t comment. Quaint wasn’t a bad thing in the slightest. It was quiet. Peaceful.
At least, it had been until now.
“Quaint is part of its charm,” I finally said softly, offering a small smile even though I was the one feeling irritated now. “It’s not London, but it’s special in its own way.”
He shrugged, his hand tightening around mine in a way that made my skin prickle, and on instinct, I tugged it away and tucked my hands in my pockets.
“I guess. Just seems like there’s not much to do here.”
I held in my smartass response after he spoke. “Try living in the moment,” I offered, hoping to lighten the mood. I didn't want to be pissy while he was here. That sounded miserable.
But even as I said it, I knew it went in one ear and out the other. He clearly wasn’t open to anything positive I had to say.
I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand on end again, like someone was watching us. I turned my head slightly, scanning the nearby buildings, but the street was empty.
The sun had already set, the streetlights on and illuminating the road and people passing by. But I noticed, for the first time, the villagers seemed hurried. They rushed past as if there was a fire lit under their asses.
“You okay?” Laszlo asked, stopping when he noticed me looking distracted.
“Yeah,” I lied quickly. “I’m fine.”
His brow furrowed, but he let it go, taking my hand again and tugging me forward. “Let's stop for a drink.” I didn't have time to respond before he led us toward a little tavern.
The interior was cozy inside with the warm glow of lanterns reflecting off the wood-paneled walls and lumber beams above us. The smell of roasted meat and ale filled the air along with the sound of cheerful chatter from the patrons. And for a moment, I let myself relax.
We took our place at a little two-seater table, and Laszlo ordered us drinks, his fingers brushing my arm as he leaned closer to say in my ear, “This is nice, isn’t it? Just you and me?”
I nodded, forcing a smile just as our drinks arrived. I once again kept my comments to myself regarding I was a grown ass woman and could order my own drink. I picked up my glass of wine and took a long sip.
We didn’t speak for a moment, and the longer we stayed silent, the more I felt uncomfortable. Every time Laszlo touched me, a strange unease crept over me as if the surrounding air had grown heavier, colder.
It wasn’t just unease—it was dread, the kind that made my chest tighten and my pulse race. It was such an intense sensation and feeling to have that I knew this just wasn't going to work out.
I couldn’t be with him anymore.
But here and now wasn’t the time. I sipped my wine as Laszlo talked about his travel again. I let him ramble on about his plans to take me back to London after my internship, and how he’d “missed me too much to stay away.”
I took a drink every time I felt grossed out. And before I knew it, I’d emptied my glass and ordered another one.
Laszlo didn’t notice my discomfort and kept having a one-sided conversation. This was a familiar scenario between us.
But I wasn’t listening. My mind was elsewhere, my gaze flicking to the door every so often as though expecting someone—or something—to walk in.
The patrons inside the tavern grew more boisterous the more they drank.
“Hello?” Laszlo said, snapping his fingers in front of my face.
I blinked several times and turned my head to look at him. “Sorry,” I said, but there was no sincerity in that lone word.
He finished his whiskey, ordered another one, and finished that one in a matter of seconds.
“Pardon,” a man beside me said as he accidentally bumped into me when he leaned against the bar and ordered another drink.
I smiled politely at him. “No worries.”
The man gave me a wide smile. “You’re not from here.”
I shook my head, feeling Laszlo’s stare latched on me like it was a noose around my neck. This friendly encounter was for sure gonna add fuel to this imaginary fire Laszlo had conjured up in his mind.
“I can tell. You look like a city woman even without saying a word.” He looked at the ceiling and started murmuring in Romanian, clearly assuming I didn't understand him because of my foreign accent.
I smiled because he was mumbling about not speaking English well enough, and he’d fuck this up and look like a drunken asshole to a visitor in his beautiful village.
I could have spoken in Romanian, but before I could say anything, the local man grabbed his drink, said he’d leave before making an idiot out of himself, and to enjoy my evening while he left.
I chuckled and shook my head, taking a drink from my glass and still feeling Laszlo staring at me.
It was only a second of silence before he went in on me. “What the fuck, Clara?” His cheeks were pink, and when I looked at him, he was staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched.
Great, he was getting drunk and getting pissed.
“Always pulling strangers into our conversations,” he ground out.
I rolled my eyes. “I wasn’t pulling anyone into anything,” I said. “He was just being friendly.”
“Too friendly,” Laszlo muttered as he downed the rest of his third drink.
I didn’t miss the way his hand gripped the glass a little too tightly, his knuckles white from the force. I tried to steer the conversation back to neutral ground, but I could see the more I spoke, the more he got annoyed.
“What the hell? You’re always invalidating how I feel and what I think,” he spat, his voice low but heated.
“Laszlo, stop,” I said, glancing around as a few patrons looked our way because he was raising his voice and making a scene.
But he didn’t stop. “What, are you collecting admirers now? Is that why you came all the way out here?”
I exhaled loudly, rubbed my temples, and knew he had to go back to London. I wasn't doing this shit. “Laszlo, enough,” I hissed, glaring daggers at him. I’d never raised my voice, never allowed myself to vent my anger outwardly.
The bartender appeared, his face stern. “Are you okay?” He addressed me. I nodded. “Good. But you two need to leave,” he said firmly, his focus solely on Laszlo. “We don’t tolerate trouble here.”
Laszlo looked ready to argue, but I grabbed his arm, flashing a smile at the bartender. “I’m sorry. We’re leaving.” I bared my teeth at Laszlo again. “Shut the fuck up, leave quietly, and we’ll discuss this outside.” I didn't give him a chance to respond as I hauled his ass toward the front door.
But once outside the tavern, I let go of him and started walking to my guesthouse. I was fuming, and so pissed I couldn't even look at him let alone say one damn word to him. So that made the trek tense. Laszlo muttered under his breath while I stayed silent, my thoughts swirling.
By the time we reached my front door, I realized he was on the verge of being too drunk to have a constructive conversation. I unlocked the front door, and before I could tell him I thought he needed to get a room in town, he burst through the door and beelined to the little loveseat.
He slurred something about how I “shouldn’t be so friendly to strangers and be disrespectful to him,” before he closed his eyes and passed out.
I let out a breath and closed the front door behind me. I stayed outside on the porch staring up at the night sky and the moon above. The air was chilly, wrapping around me as I pulled my sweater tighter. The forest stretched out like a sea of shadows, its presence both calming and unnerving.
I leaned against the front door, my breath creating white clouds in front of me with every exhale. For a moment, everything was quiet. Too quiet. And then I felt it again—that heavy, unshakable feeling of being watched.
My pulse quickened, but I didn’t go inside. Instead, I closed my eyes, letting the sensation wash over me. Consume me.
Control me.
I felt no fear. Not genuine terror. But there was something else—a pull, a strange heat that coiled low in my belly, spreading through me until my breath hitched.
My fingers curled into my palm, and I kept my eyes closed, opening myself up mentally, emotionally—in every way imaginable—until those feelings turned into pleasure.
A soft moan escaped my lips, and I rested fully on the front door, flattening my palms on the wood and moaning again.
“What is happening to me?” I whispered.
“You are mine,” a familiar, deep, distorted voice swirled around me. “This is where you belong.” I felt his voice vibrate by my ear and felt this heat surrounding me. God, I felt him so close…pressing against me so I could feel how big and hard he was.
His fingers were on me, his hands holding me to the door, his tongue making a hot, wet trail from my ear down the length of my throat. And the more moans I let out, the more my dark stranger gave me.
I felt his teeth at the soft spot where my shoulder and neck met, and when I felt the sharp sting of him piercing me, I gasped and opened my eyes. The breath left my lungs in a sharp gasp.
I expected to see nothing. This had to be a twisted figment of my imagination.
But I wasn't alone. A figure stood before me, massive and shrouded in the shadows of night, the clouds shielding the moon and washing everything in an onyx blanket. His presence was suffocating, his broad shoulders and towering frame blocking out the forest behind him.
I opened my mouth to scream—or maybe to moan for more—but the sound never left my lips.
Instead, as I stared into a face I couldn't see because of the shadows, I lifted my hand and touched my neck where I’d felt the pain.
I pulled my fingers back, looked down, and saw the tips smeared with blood. Mine.
He’d bitten me.
“You’re mine, Clara. You’ll realize that soon.”
Then everything went black.
I shot upright in bed, my heart hammering in my chest, and the sound of Laszlo snoring heavily from the loveseat a backdrop I could have done without. Sweat clung to my skin, and my breathing was ragged as I scanned the room.
I stared at Laszlo as he lay haphazardly on the couch, one leg hanging off, an arm thrown over his head, and his mouth hanging open. The first rays of sunlight peeked through the window—the curtains wide open although I knew I closed them before we left the house yesterday.
I swallowed hard, my hands trembling as I placed my fingers on the side of my neck, felt a tender spot, and closed my eyes because I knew what was there.
A bite mark.
That was proof that I wasn’t going crazy. I was being watched, and he’d come for me last night.
His words played in my head. “You’re mine, Clara. You’ll realize that soon.”
And I knew he meant every word. Whatever I felt was real. That should have scared me, but it…thrilled me.