Claimed by the Prince of Darkness

Chapter 36: The weekend

It was Saturday noon, and Ruelle sat at the worn wooden table, a warm bowl of stew in front of her. The smell of herbs and broth filled the small kitchen, mingling with the sound of Hailey’s mother, Mrs. Sylvie Elliot, bustling around, setting more bread on the table. The kitchen was modest, the chairs worn, but there was a kind of quiet comfort in its simplicity.

Across from her, Mr. Elliot leaned back in his chair, his large frame making the chair creak under his weight. His boots were still dirt-streaked from the fields, and his hands, rough with calluses, rested on the table. His voice, when it came, was a low rumble that filled the room like distant thunder.

"Pass the bread, love," he said to Mrs. Elliot before turning to Ruelle, his sharp gaze softening as it settled on her. "You girls need to eat more," he said, his gruff voice carrying a note of warmth. "You’ve got those tests comin’ up at that academy of yours, don’t you?"

Mr. Elliot tore off another piece of bread and leaned forward, placing it on Ruelle’s plate with a firm nod.

Ruelle hesitated, "Oh, I’m fine, thank you—"

"Go on, girl. Eat up. You’ll need the strength," his rough voice carried a warmth that was as thick as the stew they ate, softening the hard lines of his face.

Mrs. Elliot, from across the table, smiled as she handed Ruelle a napkin. She said, "He’s right, dear. You and Hailey have been studying hard, and it’s important to look after yourselves."

There was a gentleness in the way they spoke to her, as if Ruelle weren’t just a guest for the weekend but someone they truly cared about. It was a stark contrast to the cold, polite distance of her own home—where she often felt invisible.

"Thank you," Ruelle said softly, a bit taken aback by their concern. She took the piece of bread, her fingers lingering on the warm crust. The simple gesture stirred something inside her, something unfamiliar and bittersweet.

Hailey nudged her with a grin. She said, "Told you my father likes to pretend he’s tough, but he’s a big softie. He won’t stop until we’re stuffed."

mouth twitched upwards before replying, "I just know what’s good for you," he

the kitchen surrounded them, filling the small gaps in Ruelle’s heart. The easy banter, the affection between Hailey and her parents—it was all so foreign to her, but

conversation continued, Ruelle found herself retreating into her thoughts. The thought of returning home had filled her with a kind of dread that lingered, even though the worst of the tension between her and Ezekiel seemed to have passed. Which was why she had

extra piece of bread without a second thought, the way Mrs. Elliot refilled her bowl with a smile, as if she were one of their own. There

her eyes soft as she glanced at Ruelle. "Is

she had been staring at her half-eaten bread for far too long. "Oh, yes," she said quickly, offering a small smile. "Everything’s fine. This... this is all very nice.

over to gently pat Ruelle’s arm. "We’re happy to have you here. You’re welcome any time, you

at the words. Welcome. It had been a long time since she had felt truly welcome anywhere. The Elliot family was different in ways she hadn’t expected. Their love wasn’t hidden behind stern

books that belonged to Lucian, her eyes immediately drawn to the neat, precise handwriting in the margins. His

his notes, silently appreciating the clarity of his mind. She could sense the discipline in the way he had written. Even though he had glared and warned her to not create trouble,

still

out a soft, nervous laugh. She replied, "Got on his last nerve..." recalling the way Lucian had told her

the familiar corridors. The afternoon light filtered through the tall windows of his mansion. His footsteps were quiet against

low hum of conversation carried through the slightly ajar door, causing Lucian to slow his steps. His sharp

about the Belmont

Count Westerling, a man whose reputation echoed throughout the vampire courts. But it wasn’t the Count’s presence that made Lucian stop—it was the name that had slipped

harrumph followed, and then came the voice of Lord Azriel, Lucian’s father. "I didn’t think I would

at first, but I recalled it later. The one she married is a nobody, of course, nothing that could match the

tugged at something beneath the surface. Ruelle. The word hung in the air for a moment, but he let it settle, kept it locked beneath layers of practiced