“I told you to wait twenty minutes. Twenty! One thousand two hundred seconds! Not twenty-five, you absolute imbecile!”

  The wooden spoon sliced through the air like a well-aimed dagger. It whistled past the hanging pans, weaving between them in a deadly arc before cracking against Tom’s skull—despite the fact that he was already ducking behind the kitchen counter like a coward who knew he’d messed up.

  I darted to the oven, yanked it open, and a wave of burnt sugar and despair hit me in the face. My eyes went wide as I beheld the destruction.

  Brown.

  Not golden brown.

  Just… brown.

  “Mary,” I breathed, clutching my head in agony as the world blurred for a moment. “Look how he massacred my boys…”

  I grabbed the tray with gloved hands and flung it across the kitchen without hesitation—charred cookie corpses and all. It crashed against the far wall with a dramatic clang, sending a rain of scorched crumbs flying like a pastry funeral pyre. Tom yelped and hit the floor again, narrowly avoiding the second culinary missile.

  I was fuming. My cookies—my masterpiece, the crown jewel of centuries of taste refinement—ruined because this idiot couldn’t look at a clock properly.

  “Boss, are you… high again?” Tom peeked up with a worried squint. “You look like you’re about to cry.”

  “Again?” Mary asked, voice sharp with sudden interest. Oh no.

  I blinked. Slowly. “I… can explain.”

  I stood there for a moment, hands on hips, eyes narrowed in judgment, until I pointed at Tom with dramatic flair. “He forced me to take them!”

  Tom’s mouth dropped open in sheer disbelief. “What—”

  But I was already moving. I scooped the salvageable cookies—my remaining pride—into a bowl, dashed around the counter, and tackled Tom to the ground in case he had any bright ideas about stopping me.

  Cradling the bowl protectively like a sacred relic, I sprinted out of the kitchen and down the hall with an almost gleeful energy, the tension behind me fading under the weight of sugar and victory.

  Holding up one of the cookies like a trophy, I examined it under the dim hallway light. Just the right texture. Still warm. I tossed it in the air, caught it effortlessly in my mouth, and let the flavor spread across my tongue.

  For one blissful second, I tasted triumph.

  And then I nearly vomited.

  I gagged, paused mid-step, and stood frozen in the hallway like a hunted animal. Then, like a rewinding film reel, I shuffled backward—dropping cookies like breadcrumbs—until I reached the kitchen door again and slipped back inside, defeated.

  “Cwan, you wean rwr—”

  “Lucinda,” Mary cut in gently, her voice oddly soft for someone still holding back laughter. “Maybe chew first. These cookies are the best I’ve ever had, don’t get me wrong, but we really can’t understand you like this.”

  I spat the cookie into the sink like it had personally betrayed me and grabbed the nearest bottle of wine. A long, bitter gulp later, I slammed it down and turned toward Tom with fire in my eyes.

  “Can you even read a clock, you dumbass?” I growled, snatching up a heavy frying pan and holding it threateningly above my head. “The long hand shows the minutes, genius. So what does the short one tell us?!”

  Tom blinked, face pale with dawning horror. “That would be… the hours and—oh, fuck.”

  Exactly.

  It was midnight.

  I’d been so completely immersed in baking therapy that I missed the most important part of the entire plan. Nightfall. I had given Tom the one simple job of watching the clock for dusk—one job—and he’d still managed to ruin everything.

  With a dramatic screech of metal, I dropped the pan on the counter and slammed my bowl of innocent, beloved, but also betraying cookies beside it. Sadly, they did not taste good anymore. My footsteps echoed behind me as I stormed out of the kitchen in righteous fury.

  "That’s the wrong direction!" Mary’s voice rang out behind me like an alarm bell as she burst through the doorway, her heels striking the stone floor with urgent rhythm.

  “FUUUUUCK!” I skidded to a halt and pivoted, nearly colliding with her in my haste to change course. She surged ahead, her eyes wild, and I trailed just behind, cursing under my breath.

  Arthur.

  I wasn’t worried about him, not really. He’d survive just about anything. But I couldn’t shake the gnawing question of what he had done while I’d been six hours away, baking cookies like an idiot. We’d locked the door, sure—but there were windows, and with the sun now gone…

  We rounded the final corner. The hallway yawned ahead like a tunnel of guilt and dread. The door was still intact—no blood, no bodies. Good sign. No screams, either. That meant he hadn’t escaped, or worse, hadn’t started massacring the staff… yet.

  Mary fumbled with the keys like a drunk locksmith, hands shaking as she searched the ring. “Come on, come on…” she muttered under her breath until—click—the door opened.

  I exhaled a shaky breath and stepped in.

  Arthur was still there, hunched on the mattress like a shadow given flesh. Relief surged for a fraction of a second—until he looked up and saw me.

  In that moment, I knew.

  His hunger had devoured what little control I thought he had. He didn’t see me as his master, not anymore. Just prey.

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  There was no time to speak—no time to command, negotiate, or reason. He lunged like a feral beast unchained. I had just enough time to shove Mary out of the way before the full weight of him slammed into me, sending us crashing against the wall.

  And then—his fangs sank deep into my neck.

  I gasped—not in pain, but in ecstasy. That first puncture was like lightning down my spine. I collapsed with him on top of me, my hands reflexively tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. I wanted it. Needed it.

  One last time, I wanted to feel it—the pure, euphoric surrender of blood leaving my veins, drawn out by the very creature I had brought into this world. My creation. My nightmare. My child.

  The warmth bloomed outward from the bite, a slow, molten wave washing over my body. It wasn’t like pain—it was release. Gentle. Beautiful. Like being on the finest drug imaginable, but without the haze. My mind was clear. Every nerve tingled with awareness. Even as I sank lower, I saw Mary watching in stunned horror.

  And I smiled at her.

  Because this, this, was what it meant to be a vampire. To exist at the edge of agony and pleasure. To give life and feel it slip away, drop by crimson drop.

  But all highs come with a fall.

  As soon as Arthur withdrew, my flesh stitched itself back together, and the warmth disappeared—like someone yanked a sunbeam out of my chest. In its place came the familiar drag of exhaustion, cold and heavy.

  My body sagged. Arthur, still wild-eyed and unsatisfied, leaned in again, but I gently peeled him off. He whimpered, clawing lightly at me like a starving pup, but I held him back.

  “Not yet,” I whispered, already crawling toward the table nearby.

  The bottle of blood still stood there, untouched, blessedly intact. With trembling fingers, I grabbed it and popped the cork, drinking it all in one breathless go. The taste was sharp—ironic, metallic - human - and soothing all at once.

  Only then did I truly feel the tremors of what had just happened. I had enjoyed it. I had enjoyed being hurt by my own creation. Feeling a mixture of emotions about this reveal, I gazed towards the others who didn’t exactly feel the same way.

  “What? Are you worried that some gossip will spread about your daughter?” I asked, more amused than concerned, cocking my head as I studied my mother’s expression.

  “No. No…” she said slowly, her voice trailing off as if she wasn’t quite sure how to finish the thought. “I’m just wondering…”

  “Hey, I’m two hundred and nine,” I cut in, eager to defend myself. “At that age, I think I’m allowed a few kinks.”

  The corner of her mouth twitched—almost a smile, almost. “Great,” she muttered under her breath, “my daughter is seven times older than me.”

  Ouch.

  I shouldn’t have said it. Her face fell, not dramatically, just enough to sting. There was a flicker of something—melancholy, maybe. Or the quiet realization that her child had lived through centuries she never would.

  “Age is but a number,” I offered weakly, trying to salvage the moment.

  She raised an eyebrow. “…That’s what all paedophiles say.”

  I sighed deeply, resisting the urge to slam my head into the wall. Emotional connections weren’t my strength. Between centuries of solitude, being surrounded by manipulative bastards, and occasional stints of raising traumatized servants, I’d never really learned how to talk like a normal person.

  “I think I’m going now,” she said, her voice cooler now as she turned toward the door. “Come down in a few minutes.”

  “Alright,” I mumbled, waving her off as she left to gather the servants. The door closed with a soft click, leaving me alone with Arthur.

  “Well,” I muttered, plopping onto the nearest chair, “having a mum is seriously challenging.” I looked at him as if he might have advice to give. “I expected guilt trips, emotional blackmail, maybe the occasional slap… but she just ignored all my weirdness. She didn’t even flinch when I threw a hot tray at Tom.”

  Arthur offered a grunt of agreement. Supportive, as always.

  I smiled faintly. It was strange. Comforting, even.

  “You know,” I said more softly, my gaze wandering to the wall, “I do wonder what it would be like… living a normal life.” My voice dropped further. “What do people do? Make small talk? Attend brunch? Get bored of their jobs?”

  Another grunt from Arthur. A glob of spit landed on my hand. I didn’t even flinch.

  “Did you know there are places called schools?” I continued, wiping my hand absentmindedly. “Big buildings where they teach children all kinds of things. And apparently, it’s not just basic education—they do drama there. Literature. Moral philosophy. Can you imagine?” I laughed to myself, shaking my head. “Places like that are the setting for a lot of novels, too. The hero meets the antagonist in some dusty hallway, they build grudges, chaos ensues… and eventually, someone gets brutally murdered.”

  Arthur grunted again, more enthusiastically this time. Or maybe he was just hungry. Hard to tell.

  “Of course, I get resurrected anyway,” I added, casually.

  It was quiet for a moment.

  “Alright,” I clapped my hands once, “let’s get you dressed.”

  I rummaged through the drawers until I found the horrendous garments he was expected to wear for the farce ahead. White trousers. A white shirt. All of it looking like it had been designed by a blind cultist with an obsession for purity and no taste.

  “These clothes make me want to walk into the sun.”

  Still, I helped Arthur into them, tugging at sleeves and adjusting collars with practiced hands. He didn’t resist, but he didn’t help either. He just stood there, occasionally drooling on the floor and looking vaguely confused.

  I sighed again. Loudly.

  “And now, because I’ve agreed to play the role of Mary’s obedient, well-mannered daughter, I get to wear this crap too.” I looked down at the ensemble waiting for me on the chair and winced.

  After dressing myself in a similarly ghastly outfit, I grabbed Arthur by the collar and dragged him out into the hallway.

  Then stopped.

  We stood at an intersection—two hallways stretched out in opposite directions, equally unremarkable.

  “I seriously need to improve my orientation,” I muttered. “Left or right?”

  Arthur let out a low, guttural growl in response. Honestly, what else did I expect from him? Communication wasn’t his strong suit.

  “Alright, Mary did say it’s on the ground floor,” I reminded myself with a shrug. Without hesitation, I moved to the opposite side of the hallway, grabbed Arthur by the collar, and practically tossed him out of the open window. He didn’t tumble far, but that was never my goal — more like a gentle nudge to get him moving.

  Carefully, I climbed up onto the windowsill, balanced myself for a split second, then jumped down after him. The gravel crunched beneath my landing as I rolled to absorb the impact. Shaking off the fall, I bent down and helped Arthur back to his feet, steadying myself before heading for the front door.

  A familiar noise greeted me — the sharp, high-pitched bickering of a woman. Relief flooded me; I’d found them.

  With Arthur’s hand loosely held in mine, I navigated the maze of hallways until we arrived at a large room. Forty humans filled the space — a mix of armored guards standing stiffly by the walls and maids who had clearly dressed in haste, their uniforms rumpled and imperfect.

  “Shoo, shoo,” I murmured, gently nudging Arthur toward Mary, who was standing in the center, trying desperately to maintain control.

  I stationed myself near the only exit — or so I thought — and watched the scene unfold.

  Mary was trembling, her voice wavering but determined. She refused to stop speaking, as if her words alone could keep the panic at bay. Meanwhile, Arthur swayed slightly, restrained by some invisible force that kept him from lunging forward and wreaking havoc.

  Some of the attendants were clearly losing interest in Mary’s speech, though none dared to show it outright. A few noticed Arthur’s restless movements, unease flickering in their eyes. Others cast wary glances in my direction, suspicion and fear mingling in their stares.

  “Mary! Now or never!” I barked sharply.

  At last, she stopped mid-sentence and slowly turned around. She would never be able to look at the massacre Arthur was about to unleash — not really. Even if her eyes happened to be open, they’d glaze over, flinch away, see everything and nothing all at once. That kind of bloodshed wasn't something Mary was built for, not deep down. And yet, despite her trembling hands and the ghost of protest in her voice, she had already given her approval. Quietly. Hesitantly. While we baked cookies, of all things — in that absurd moment of pretend domesticity, with flour dusting our fingers and chocolate chips melting into dough, she had nodded. She had agreed to this. Not because she wanted to, but because I’d left her with no other choice.