Chapter 3

Rector’s gaze fell on the pale purple mark on Isabella’s wrist—identical to the curse mark beneath his collarbone.

For three years, he had scoured ancient vampire curse texts, even sneaking into forbidden archives, until he finally found a method to guide curses of the same origin: using his own curse energy to smooth out the chaotic power within another host.

Rector made up his mind.

He would break Isabella’s curse—not only because they shared the same suffering, but because three years ago, on that storm-split night, their curses had ignited almost at the same time.

She might know the truth—if only she could wake up.

Besides, this marriage was a transaction to begin with. He wasn’t here to marry her. He was here to find a killer.

But first, Isabella had to open her eyes.

Rector slowly rolled up his left sleeve, revealing an old scar left by a vampire’s claws along his forearm.

Taking a deep breath, he extended his fingertips toward Isabella’s forehead.

He began channeling his curse.

The sensation was like pressing his finger into an open wound.

Pain. Burning heat. A tearing force from within.

Rector clenched his jaw and did not move.

Cold sweat seeped from his temples, sliding down his cheeks and dripping onto Isabella’s golden hair scattered across the pillow.

Time passed second by second.

Isabella’s breathing began to change—still weak, but no longer as shallow and rapid as before. It steadied slightly.

Her pale lips seemed to regain the faintest trace of color.

Almost there.

Give him twenty more minutes, and he could pull the twisted curse pattern out completely.

But then—

A sharp scream came from the doorway, slicing through the still air like a blade.

Rector’s eyes snapped open.

A young maid stood frozen at the door, her tray crashing to the floor. Porcelain shattered across the tiles as she stumbled back, covering her mouth with both hands, eyes wide in terror.

“What are you doing?” her voice trembled. “Someone! Someone’s hurting Ms. Cohen!”

“Wait—” Rector stood quickly, trying to explain.

But it was already too late.

Heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs, followed by Evan’s furious roar.

“What’s going on?”

He burst into the room—and froze at the sight.

Rector standing by the bed. Isabella unconscious beneath him. The maid cowering in the corner. Broken porcelain scattered everywhere.

Evan’s face twisted with rage.

He shoved Rector hard. “What did you do to my daughter? Did the Thorne family send you here to destroy her?”

Rector stumbled back but quickly steadied himself. “I was helping her break the curse.”

“Break the curse?” Evan let out a cold, disbelieving laugh. “Since when did the Thorne family become saints? You’re either using her—or you’re cursed yourself and trying to feed on her blood.”

The maid nodded frantically. “Yes! I saw him! He touched Ms. Cohen’s forehead—and his arm has scars! He’s dangerous!”

Evan’s gaze snapped to Rector, then to Isabella’s slightly disturbed bedding.

His breathing turned heavier. Veins rose at his temples.

“Rector,” he said hoarsely, “I told you not to touch her.”

“Mr. Cohen, I was just—”

“Shut up!”

Evan grabbed him by the collar and shoved him back against the wall.

Rector did not resist. He raised both hands slightly, showing no hostility.

“Her curse has the same origin as mine,” Rector said calmly. “I can stabilize it. I was infected three years ago—I know how this works.”

“Enough!” Evan’s voice cracked with fury. “Doctors, exorcists, specialists—none of them could do anything. And you think you can? A criminal? Get out! Don’t touch my daughter again!”

Rector looked at him quietly.

He understood the anger. A stranger. A forbidden room. An unconscious daughter.

Any father would react the same.

But he also knew—if he had twenty more minutes, everything would be different.

“Mr. Cohen,” Rector said, his voice lower now, controlled, “her curse won’t last much longer. She’ll either mutate or die. Give me one chance. If I fail, I’ll disappear. If I succeed, she’ll wake up—and you can ask her anything yourself.”

Evan’s grip tightened.

His eyes burned with rage and hesitation.

Behind that anger, fear lingered.

He glanced at Isabella.

Her breathing was weaker than before. Fragile. Fading.

Three years have passed.

In three years, he hired all the doctors in London and searched for all the possible mediums and exorcists.

No one had saved her.

No one.

And now this man—discarded by the Thorne family, standing here in a worn jacket—claimed he could.

Evan’s jaw tightened.

Finally—

“Fine,” he said through clenched teeth. “But if anything happens to her, I’ll bury you beside her.”

The maid gasped. “Sir, you can’t trust him!”

Evan ignored her.

His eyes stayed locked on Rector.

Rector stepped back to the bedside.

His fingertips returned to Isabella’s forehead.

Energy flowed.

Invisible, yet real.

Isabella’s eyelashes trembled.

Her breathing deepened—just slightly, but noticeably.

Evan’s breath caught.

The maid froze.

And in the room, only one thing remained constant—

Rector’s steady presence, and the faint return of a heartbeat that had nearly disappeared.