Vanity Project

Elisa had spent all night trying to fall asleep. It would not come, obviously.

She should be glad. She didn’t have the mental fortitude to face any more of this ridiculous situation—especially not in the face of her… ‘husband’.

She had been holed up in her room since came the noon, only coming out and in when she awkwardly asked Cynthia whether she had anything to eat, or to use the washroom.

“There’s plenty,” Cynthia had said. This whole manor was plenty.

Running water. A wonder. Some part of her idly wondered if Highcliff had progressed enough in her wake to get that feature—or if it had always been this way, and she had simply never been high enough on the ladder to notice.

She was also fatter than she remembered.

One might even say sinfully so, for a Highcliff girl.

Reeks of nobility. Of pampering.

Her fingers ran down her sides, pressing into the layer of softness over the muscles of her abdomen, and much more than bone in her arms besides. Not weak, exactly. That was good; at least that version of Elisa did not forget where she came from.

It was sinful in more ways than one.

She matched the softness and figure of the touted succubi from demonkin lands. It was utterly colonial, but she wasn’t sure if she had been colonized by the Count’s excesses… or willingly colonized by herself.

She exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples.

But that was not the main thing that kept her up at night.

It was more that Kael knew more about her than she did herself.

Obviously. Comes with the territory of five-year memory loss.

But what pissed her off the most was that she didn’t know the first damn thing about him.

It ate at her.

How had she not killed him?

Five years. Five years in his presence, in his world. She had three years to comfortably do the job. To lower his guard, to strike.

Had she been so shallow?

Had she fallen for him?

Clearly, judging by the fact he still walked on two legs and his shins were not broken in.

Was it true what they said? That love blinded?

But there was hardly anything to love about demonkin—much less the Count.

A penchant for psychotic behavior. A culture built on might makes right.

So why had she spared him?

Elisa exhaled through her nose, pressing her palms against the sheets, pushing herself up. Fine. If she was going to be haunted by thoughts of the Count, she may as well get some answers.

She had never asked where his room was.

Well, she supposed—where their room was. The idea made her mouth curl. Still, she knew vampires needed sleep, just not as much as humans.

Maybe he would be resting.

Maybe, if luck was kind, she could catch him in some moment of vulnerability—something to tilt the balance back in her favor.

Oh, who was she kidding? She blew it. The poison, much like needles, could only be used once. It didn’t help he had experienced its effects already.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, steadying herself before standing. Her body still ached, but she ignored it.

Then, she stepped out into the hallway.

Her footsteps were loud. She supposes it made sense. This manor was much like the Shimmercast caverns she used to climb into when she was a babe.

The corridors stretched long and empty, lined with ornate, too-tall windows, framed by draping curtains so heavy they might as well have been woven from shadow itself.

Elisa’s steps faltered.

A painting.

It was modestly sized compared to the towering portraits of long-dead lords that lined the halls. Large enough to command attention, yet not so extravagant as to be gaudy.

It was framed in gold, hung at the center of the main hall, positioned so that the floating chandelier’s soft candlelight illuminated it perfectly.

Elisa did not want to look at it. And she immediately wished she hadn’t.

It was a painting of them.

Not a formal portrait, not some stiff depiction of a Count and his bride. It was candid.

Kael was seated, his posture unguarded, his head turned toward her as if caught mid-conversation. And she was there, beside him, relaxed, eyes sharp, a smirk on her lips like she was teasing him.

She swallowed hard. Her eyes drifted lower, toward the bottom right corner of the canvas.

The signature.

Kael Blac’hil.

Her breath stilled.

No.

She got on her toes as her fingers traced it. She felt the bumps and the contours of dried oil, the layering, even the technique—

It was her painting style—it had to be.

Did he… steal from her?

And worse—she allowed it?

Godsdamn snake...

She might as well have been under a hypnosis spell for five years. It would explain everything. The way she allowed him to steal. Her supposed loyalty. The way everyone, even Cynthia, spoke of her with such surety and... reverence. 

She shuddered. Making bedfellows and fraternizing with the enemy was so amateurish.

What else had she surrendered to him?

"Darling."

Elisa stiffened.

She turned, half-expecting something just as fantastical, like a ghost butler. But no—it was Kael stood before her.

He looked worse.

Not the gaunt, ghostly pallor from the poison, nor the effortless elegance he always carried.

His shirt was undone at the collar, sleeves slightly wrinkled. His hair was tousled, like he had been running his fingers through it absentmindedly. His eyes had very apparent eyebags. 

But gods help her, he smelled good. A faint, lingering scent—daisies.

Her favorite flower.

Why is he like this? She hated that it made her feel something other than contempt. She hated that he probably took on a suggestion made by here.

"Couldn't sleep either? Surprise, surprise," she feinted.

Kael exhaled, a quiet laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "It seems neither of us will be particularly well-rested by the morrow."

Elisa refused to acknowledge the way his voice prickled under her skin.

Instead, she turned back to the painting, her voice dry. "Admiring your stolen masterpiece?"

Kael followed her gaze, then—the smirk. Damn him. He casted a spell that lit up the entire hallway they were in, but no other hallways.

“What is with the showboating?” she snapped. “Taunting your wife about how utterly hopeless the situation is?”

“I am capable of much, much more than this. The lands I am from demanded excellence, not least limited to the arkane arts,” he said, voice still lofty—though a crack had begun to form beneath it. “Fire, ice, even electricity itself. I can manipulate the very fabric of gravity and bend it to my will.”

With a flick of his fingers, the furniture around them began to tremble—chairs scraping slightly, a table rising half an inch off the ground.

Then the spell faltered.

The table clattered back down. Kael swayed, eyes fluttering for half a second before he caught himself on the wall, chest heaving.

“But… as demonstrated,” he muttered, breathless, “I am not exactly in the position to be performing such feats at the moment.”

She noticed how he didn’t deny stealing her work.

"A fine piece, in any circumstance," he said, looking fondly at it.

"Did I let you take credit for this?"

A pause. 

"Nothing so amateurish. I would never have any bride of mine to serve the halls of the Blac’hil family unwillingly. You taught me how to paint."

Elisa turned sharply, eyes narrowing. "Liar."

"Believe it or not, I had not a shred of artistic ability until you whipped it into me."

"Doesn’t sound like me at all. Except for the whipping part."

“Indeed. It was more a challenge than anything else. One I graciously accepted. A gift for our forth anniversary."

She swallowed, forcing herself to sound indifferent. "And I let you paint me like this?"

"No, it was I that insisted, and you laughed."

"That’s ridiculous."

"Is it? I'd have never painted myself in such a compromising position otherwise."

Kael exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "Ever made the fool in parties for this one, but for you, I will endure it all."

..."I came to ask you something."

That was what she wanted to say. That was what she came out of the comfort of her room for.

Instead, she cowed with all the grace of a mangy kitten. “I... shan’t bother you any longer. Good night.”

Elisa turned on her heel, nearly sprinting.

But Kael was faster.

Elisa groaned internally and slowed her steps, but she refused to turn around fully. "I must insist that you respect my appeal for common sense. It is getting late."

A low chuckle was the response she got.

Damn him.

She gritted her teeth. "It's been a long day. For both of us."

"Oh, I don’t doubt it." He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Finding out you’ve spent five years tolerating my presence—quite exhausting, I’m sure."

Elisa turned her head just enough to glare at him. "That’s one way to put it."

"What’s the other way?"

"A tragic lapse in judgment."

Kael laughed—a real one this time.

Okay. That was it.

Elisa whirled around. "Do you take anything seriously? Your wife is hurting, and your first response is to laugh?"

"Would you rather I weep?"

The tone wasn’t mocking. Not quite.

"I’d rather you acknowledge that this is a nightmare for me."

"Elisa, do you think I don’t know that?"

She scoffed. "Hard to tell, what with all the degradation."

His jaw twitched. "You are—" He inhaled sharply, as if reining himself in. "You are not the only one who has lost something."

Kael’s voice was quieter now, edged with something raw.

"Sometimes I forget you are not the same person. All those memories we made—good, bad, ugly." He exhaled, slow, measured. "They’re gone. They mean nothing to you, but everything to me. But it may as well not have been meaningful at all."

"That’s not fair. You are not the one who shaved years of her finite lifespan. The woman I was back then? Maybe she entertained you and your silver tongue. But standing here now, all it does is make me feel like shit."

"I know." His voice was quieter, more measured. "You’re right about demonkin in that respect. Pride is in our nature. We hold onto it, wield it, live by it. But it is no excuse. I shouldn’t have put that on you."

A pause.

"It’s just… it’s been…"

Kael sighed, stepping back, watching her with that look—one she couldn’t quite place, one that unsettled her more than any smirk or knowing quip ever could.

He ran a hand through his hair. "I don’t want to overload you with information. That’s another thing about you that I know, that you don’t know that I know."

What in the hells...?

"So please, for me, rest up. You will need it for tomorrow. We have plans we made that you are not weary of. The type that we cannot cancel. And I know it’s meaningless coming from me. But… I love you. Truly."

Kael’s gaze flickered toward the painting, his expression unreadable. "That painting was the fifth canvas."

Her brows furrowed. "What?"

"It took around a month for the fourth canvas." His lips quirked, but there was no humor in it. "I tried working on it on and off from my trips to and fro the Capital. I ended up throwing it out and starting anew. The light in your eyes wasn’t quite right."

His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer—searching, waiting, maybe even hoping.

But whatever he was looking for, he didn’t find it.

Then, with quiet finality, he inclined his head.

"Hate me all you want. You are well within your rights to. But when you go to bed tonight, I want you to know this: you will never ever bother me. Ever. I want you to acknowledge this. Promise me."

"Kael..."

"Promise me. Please."

"I..."

Oh hells. Those sad, pathetic puppy-dog eyes.

Down, dog.

"OK."