Chapter 45

I had never encountered a medic so enthralled while collecting blood. Doctor Blackwell's uncontainable enthusiasm surged with every drop of my blood that fell into the test tube. It wasn’t just his keen interest that struck me it was his madness. That madness was his charm. With every drop, he seemed entranced, as though savoring the world's finest perfume. Yet, deep down, my instincts whispered that his excitement stemmed more from a scientific thrill than a sinister obsession.

When he finally finished, he bowed deeply, thanking me for the fifth time for allowing him to test my blood. I won’t lie—curiosity tugged at me. What would his results reveal?

When I was younger, my father never a man of science had nonetheless assembled a team of specialists from the pack. Their tests had labeled me as something extraordinary, a priceless anomaly. But what if their conclusions had been flawed? Or what if I harbored untapped, supernatural abilities waiting to surface? Surely, the findings of an ancient vampire one who had lived over three centuries—would be far more accurate. That thought alone made my own anticipation start to mirror Caspian’s.

“Thank you, Thalassa! Um... May I call you Thalassa?” he asked, his voice jittery with excitement. “Please, call me Caspian from now on.” He grinned boyishly as he moved toward the door.

“Why not... Caspian,” I replied with a chuckle. “And thank you for taking care of my headache.”

“My pleasure, Thalassa,” he said with a charming smile before disappearing through the doorway.

I spent the better part of the day in Hadrian’s bedroom, and though the space was warm and inviting, I knew it was time to retreat before I grew too comfortable. Leaving the room, I wandered back toward my chamber in the west wing. Every servant I passed greeted me with bows and smiles that felt unnervingly reverent, as though I had somehow become the castle’s mistress overnight. Their deference unsettled me, but I ignored it. Thankfully, I didn’t encounter any of the blood-bags. I was fairly certain they’d rather see me dead. Not that I feared them, but harming one of those girls wouldn’t exactly improve my already precarious standing in the castle.

Once I closed the door to my chamber, I exhaled a sigh of relief. Though the headache was gone, my body still felt weak and my mind clouded. At least I had the rest of the day to recover before resuming my duties. For now, my brain was operating at a mere fraction of its capacity—enough to handle basic functions like eating and walking, but far from capable of deep thought or analysis. Only one thing would restore me: sleep.

I forced myself to power on my laptop, but fatigue made even typing a monumental task. Two hours later, Freya arrived with dinner, and the effort of eating it drained the last remnants of my energy. Embracing the luxury of rest, I crawled into bed before six o’clock, grateful for Caspian’s miraculous remedy.

Before sleep claimed me, my mind wandered to a memory of my first hangover—a moment I wished I’d had Caspian’s concoction. That memory led me to Oberon, the man who had been my mentor, my friend, and a surrogate father. His methods of raising me, though unorthodox and far from gentle, had shaped me. I recalled my seventeenth year when he’d decided it was time to teach me to drink. Werewolves, as I quickly learned, had entirely different alcohol tolerances. Suffice it to say, the hangover was the most vivid detail I remembered from that misadventure. And yet, the recollection was one of happiness—an innocent, carefree moment when I could laugh at my own foolishness despite the pain.

I closed my eyes, but sleep brought no respite. Instead, I found myself back at St. Augustine’s Orphanage, reliving the day I arrived there.

My earliest memories of my mother were faint, but the cruelty of my arrival at the orphanage was etched into my soul. I had been taken from her arms while I slept, only to awaken in a strange, unfamiliar place. Terror gripped me as I lay on a shabby bed, three nuns hovering nearby, their eyes brimming with disdain.

One nun brandished a cross as though warding off evil. “Silence!” she barked when I began to cry. Her voice was cold and commanding, making me swallow my sobs.

“Can you speak, child?” she asked, her tone dripping with superiority.

I nodded timidly, glancing around in confusion.

“I am Sister Aradia, the Mother Superior here. This is St. Augustine’s Orphanage, your home now,” she declared. “You will remain in isolation until I deem you fit to join the others. You will obey, work, learn, and pray as instructed. Failure to comply will result in punishment. Do you understand?”

I nodded again, more vigorously this time. I would do whatever they asked, anything to avoid being left alone.

Life among the nuns was harsh, their treatment of me laced with hostility. To them, I was a devil’s child, unworthy of kindness. They despised my name—Thalassa—claiming it was demonic, and forced me to adopt a new one. I resisted, trying to prove I was good, but nothing changed their minds.

One night, at eight years old, I was dragged outside to kneel on the cold ground as punishment.

“It wasn’t my fault!” I cried. “Vivienne pushed me first. She said I have demon blood!”

“Silence!” Sister Faustina snapped. “Vivienne is a kind, God-fearing girl who wouldn’t lie. Admit your wrongdoing, Teresa.”

“My name is not Teresa!” I shouted, defiance breaking through my fear.

“You will kneel here until dawn. May the rising sun cleanse your soul,” she spat, leaving me shivering in the darkness.

I wept quietly, curling into a ball against the cold. Exhaustion overtook me, and just as sleep began to claim me, I felt something warm and soft drape over my body. Smiling faintly, I drifted into a dream, comforted by the mysterious presence. When I awoke, sunlight filtered through my closed eyelids. As I stirred, I reached out and touched the warmth around me. It was... fur.