Chapter 18: Lost Lovers

I walked through the great corridors of the Count’s estate, and it struck me how nothing had changed.

Not one bit.

The same towering arches. The same crimson runners stretched across polished marble floors. The same oil paintings of long-dead ancestors staring down with hollow pride. Even the chandeliers—golden, elaborate, dripping with crystal—hung exactly where they had fifty years ago.

Fifty years.

And yet the place felt frozen in time, as if it had been preserved in glass the day I left.

The air still carried that faint scent of aged wood and candle wax. The guards still stood in the same positions at the same corners. Even the echo of my footsteps sounded familiar—measured, lonely.

I wondered where she was.

My beloved.

I had scanned the great hall earlier, hoping to catch a glimpse of her face among the crowd, but she was nowhere to be found. Now my feet carried me instinctively toward her private quarters.

It was almost dawn.

She would be preparing to rest.

I smiled faintly at the memory.

Fifty years ago, when I was still here, we were inseparable. So in love that we shared the same coffin—her coffin. I had it redesigned myself, expanded and reinforced so it could fit both of us comfortably. We would lie side by side… sometimes with her curled into my chest, sometimes with her resting on top of me, her fingers tracing patterns across my skin until sleep claimed us.

She had been devastated when I left with Juliet.

I still remember the way she held my coat that night, refusing to look at me because she knew if she did, she would beg me to stay. She promised she would find me one day.

She never did.

But I couldn’t blame her.

Juliet and I were always moving—city to city, country to country. It would’ve been like chasing smoke.

None of that mattered now.

I was back.

And that was all that mattered.

I arrived at her door, my heart beating faster than it had all night. The door was slightly unlocked.

A small smile formed on my lips.

I pushed it open gently.

And there she was.

Rebecca.

Sitting gracefully on her white coffin—our coffin.

She was as breathtaking as ever. Pale, flawless skin. Long blonde curls cascading over her shoulders. Lips the color of fresh blood. She wore a flowing white nightgown that matched the coffin perfectly, the fabric shimmering softly under the dim candlelight.

For a moment, I couldn’t move.

The Count had turned her when she was barely seventeen.

I remembered that night vividly.

The Count and I had traveled to Europe, hunting a coven rumored to be plotting against the pure-blood lineage. We found the leader—a witch powerful enough to cause whispers across continents.

Rebecca’s mother.

We tortured her for information, demanding to know her plan.

There was none.

She had been bluffing.

We were about to release her when the door burst open.

Rebecca stood there, frozen.

She saw everything.

And instead of screaming… instead of running…

She calmly reached into her pocket, pulled out a pen, walked past us, and stabbed her mother repeatedly in the neck.

No hesitation.

No tears.

Just cold resolve.

Then she looked at the Count and said, “I know who you are. I’ve seen your paintings many times. I want to go with you.”

Even the Count had been speechless.

But he took her.

Later, we discovered the truth—her “mother” was actually her stepmother. She had adopted Rebecca to use her blood for witchcraft rituals. Rebecca had known. She had endured it silently.

I was assigned to train her.

To show her what it meant to be a vampire—especially one carrying the direct blood of Asogun.

Somewhere between training sessions, midnight hunts, and centuries-old lessons… we fell in love.

And we had been together ever since.

Or so I thought.

I took a step forward—

And froze.

There was someone else in the room.

A man.

He walked toward her casually, like he belonged there.

Like I once did.

He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her up gently.

Rebecca smiled at him.

Then she kissed him.

The world inside me collapsed.

It wasn’t rage.

It wasn’t even shock.

It was something quieter.

Something worse.

I stood there, unable to breathe, watching as they held each other. Watching as she touched his face the way she used to touch mine.

I wanted to storm in.

To rip him apart.

To demand answers.

But my feet wouldn’t move.

They pulled apart only to step toward the coffin.

Our coffin.

The one I built with my own hands.

They climbed inside together.

She didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t look back.

I slowly closed the door.

Carefully.

Silently.

Then I sank down against the cold corridor wall.

I couldn’t believe what I had just seen.

Memories flooded me all at once—

Her laughter echoing across snowy mountains in Switzerland.

The way she clung to me during our first hunt together.

The nights we lay awake in the coffin whispering plans about ruling our own territory one day.

The way she cried when I left.

The promises.

The forever.

I buried my face in my hands.

Fifty years.

And I had returned to a stranger.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor.

Slow.

Measured.

I prayed they would pass.

Please… just pass.

But they didn’t.

They stopped directly in front of me.

I slowly lifted my head.“The great Babatunde… the Count’s most loyal guard. The warrior who stood beside Juliet and helped slay the Dhampir… now reduced to sitting outside a woman’s door, weeping because she chose someone else.”

The voice dripped with amusement.

It was smooth. Confident.

Familiar.

I looked up slowly.

Of course.

Emmanuel.

Juliet’s cousin.

He stood at the end of the corridor like he owned it. Tall—easily a head above most men in the estate. Broad shoulders stretched beneath a perfectly tailored black coat. His skin was deep bronze, unblemished, almost glowing under the chandelier light. His jawline was sharp enough to cut glass, and his high cheekbones gave him that effortless royal arrogance. His eyes—golden, predatory—always carried the quiet certainty of someone who had never truly lost.

His dark curls were tied loosely at the nape of his neck, a few strands falling over his forehead in calculated imperfection.

Even I had to admit—

He looked like power carved into flesh.

“What do you want?” I asked, still seated on the cold floor.

He tilted his head slightly, studying me.

“Spending too much time in the outside world has made you weak.”

I let out a dry laugh and slowly rose to my feet.

“Well at least I’m not a pampered palace parasite,” I replied, brushing dust from my coat, “a decorative mutt who confuses inherited status for earned power. You were born into a throne you could never build yourself.”

The smile on his face faltered for half a second.

Just enough.

But he recovered quickly.

“Where is she?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

In a flash he was in front of me. His hand fisted in my shirt and slammed me against the stone wall so hard it cracked slightly behind my shoulder.

“I said,” he growled, golden eyes blazing, “where is she?”

I grabbed his wrist, trying to pry it off.

It was like trying to bend iron.

Pure blood strength.

“I said I don’t know,” I hissed through clenched teeth. “She took off.”

His eyes searched mine, calculating.

“Somehow I don’t buy that. You two are always scheming. So tell me where I can find her.”

“Maybe it’s time you forget about her,” I shot back. “She doesn’t love you anymore. She hasn’t even spoken your name in fifty years.”

His grip loosened.

Not completely—but enough.

He stepped back slightly.

“I’ve been searching for her since I returned and heard she was banished,” he said, quieter now. “Every lead I get… when I arrive, she’s already gone. Forty-three years, Tunde. Forty-three years I’ve been looking.”

There was no arrogance in his voice now.

Just exhaustion.

“Please,” he added. “Just tell me where to find her.”

“She’s with someone else now,” I said flatly.

“It doesn’t matter. I just need to see her again. She still loves me.” His eyes hardened with certainty. “She’s my blood mate.”

I hesitated.

Then sighed.

“The last place she was… Abuja. At her hotel.”

His hands gripped my shoulders tightly—not aggressive this time.

“Thank you. What’s the name?”

“Juliettes.”

A slow smirk spread across his face.

“Juliettes,” he repeated. “That’s so like her.”

He turned and began walking away, long strides confident once more.

I called after him.

“You know… these days it’s considered strange for cousins to be this attached. I think they call it incest now.”

He stopped mid-step.

Turned his head slightly over his shoulder, profile sharp under the chandelier glow.

“You’ve never experienced true love, Tunde,” he said calmly. “True love knows no boundaries. It cannot be caged or controlled. It burns hotter than any flame and outlives kingdoms.”

His gaze shifted back to me.

“Something you wouldn’t understand… considering it only took a few years for your beloved to crawl into the coffin of the next handsome royal guard who smiled at her.”

The words hit harder than his shove.

He faced forward again and disappeared down the corridor.

I stood there.

Silent.

Then I gave a small nod to myself.

As if accepting a verdict.

The door beside me creaked open.

I looked.

Rebecca stood there in the doorway.

No longer radiant.

No longer composed.

Her golden curls framed a face twisted with guilt. Her red lips parted slightly, but no words came out at first. Her eyes—those same eyes that once looked at me like I was her entire world—now shimmered with something fragile.

“Tunde, I—”

“No,” I cut her off sharply.

My voice didn’t shake.

“I don’t want to hear it.”

I walked past her.

I could feel her gaze on my back.

Heavy.

Lingering.

But I didn’t turn around.