[redith].
Mrs. Oatrun answered without hesitation. "My na is Rosalie Edward."
My breath caught in my throat.
"I am a vampire," she continued calmly, as though stating the weather. "But I am not a pure old blood."
For a heartbeat, the room felt too small. ’A vampire.’ I forced myself not to react, not to betray the storm that erupted in my chest.
This was the first ti I had ever heard her real na spoken aloud. The first ti she had acknowledged her identity so plainly—without anger, without accusation, without madness clouding her words.
And the way she said it so simply sent a chill down my spine.
’Not a pure old blood. Was she mixed, then?’
My mind raced ahead of my restraint, connecting threads I had been afraid to touch before.
If Rosalie Edward was a vampire... If she was not pure-blooded... Then what else was she?
And what, exactly, did that make Draven?
I kept my voice steady, though my pulse thundered in my ears. "What do you an... not a pure old blood?"
She answered my question without hesitation, as though the knowledge had never been lost, only waiting to be asked for.
"It’s nothing unusual," Rosalie said calmly. "Not anymore. The bloodlines were altered long ago."
I kept my face still, my pulse steady.
"Originally, there were only pure-blood vampires," she continued. "But power attracts fear. And fear breeds extinction. So the family trees were... adjusted."
Her lips curved into sothing that might have been a smile, but lacked warmth. "Many of them were forced to breed outside our kind. It was the only way to survive."
Understanding settled into slowly. So, when she said she was not of pure old blood, she didn’t an weakness. She ant history.
"So, I don’t know what my direct ancestor bred with," Rosalie added lightly, as if it didn’t matter. "It stopped being important centuries ago."
I agreed silently. Whatever she was mixed with wasn’t the answer I needed right now.
"What I want to know," I said gently, "is how you got here."
Her expression changed to one of confusion. She glanced around the room, her gaze skimming the walls, the iron door, the low ceiling, as though truly seeing the place for the first ti.
"I woke up here," she said softly. "That’s all I rember."
My brow furrowed.
"When I asked the woman from earlier," she went on, referring to the caregiver, "she told people found outside the house and brought in."
A chill ran down my spine.
That was a lie. And not a protective one. It was deliberate and calculated.
I filed it away carefully, keeping my tone neutral. "What is the last thing you rember?"
Her answer ca instantly. "I am looking for my daughter."
The words landed hard.
"Her na is Estella," Rosalie said. "We were together. And then... I woke up here."
I repeated the na quietly. "Estella." Sothing clicked into place as she imdiately learned that person’s na.
Though it was a na never spoken aloud, a subject always avoided. This had to be her.
"How old is your daughter?" I asked.
Rosalie smiled faintly. "Five."
My heart sank. "Is she your only child?"
"Yes," she said with certainty. "Only Estella."
I drew in a slow breath. "Were you married?"
She shook her head. "No. But I had a lover. He was Estella’s father."
Her gaze drifted, eyes unfocused now, lost in mory. "He was a vampire too," she murmured. "Pure-blooded. Old. Strong." Her voice softened. "He was my mate."
’Mate?’
"He died," she continued quietly. "Left with our daughter."
I said nothing, letting her speak.
"Estella was just like him," Rosalie went on, a fragile fondness threading her words. "Fierce. Bold. Strong-willed. Even as a child."
That makes her a full-blooded vampire, then. And if Estella existed...
My thoughts spiralled, but I kept them tightly leashed. Then, without warning, Rosalie stood up, crossed over to my side and settled down.
Then, she reached out and took my hand. Her grip was cold.
"Please," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Help find my daughter. I asked that woman to help , but she doesn’t want to." Her lips trembled. "Maybe because I’m a vampire. And she’s a werewolf."
As she spoke, sothing changed about her.
I saw it. Her eyes—golden—flared briefly, catching the dim light with an unnatural gleam. If I hadn’t been watching closely, I would have missed it entirely.
Instantly, my instinct scread, and I pulled my hand back slowly, deliberately.
"I will help you," I said evenly. "I promise."
The glow faded.
Rosalie nodded, relief softening her features. "Thank you."
I leaned back against the sofa, my mind already racing. But I didn’t have much ti to dwell on my thoughts as the iron door creaked open again.
The caregiver returned with a tray balanced carefully in her hands. The scent of warm food—sweet potatoes glazed in sauce, simple bread, a faint herbal note—spread through the room.
She set the tray down on the small table with practised precision, but her eyes didn’t leave us. They flicked between Rosalie and —sharp, assessing, and uneasy.
I caught every last bit of it. And that alone confird what my instincts had already begun screaming.
This was no longer a matter of an overworked caretaker watching an unstable woman. This was sothing else entirely. Sothing guarded and controlled.
Why would a servant be alard simply because Rosalie had moved from her sofa and sat beside ?
Though I knew better not to give any sign that I had already noticed sothing very wrong here.
anwhile, the caregiver poured a glass of water and placed it directly in front of Rosalie, aligning it almost too carefully with the edge of the table. Then she straightened and forced a polite smile.
"I will go dress the bed," she said quickly. Then, she turned and walked into the bedroom, but she didn’t shut the door.
Of course, she didn’t.
I almost smiled. Instead, I waited. Counted my breaths. Listened to the faint rustle of fabric from inside the room—too slow, too deliberate. I knew her ears were right here.
Calmly, I stopped the recording on my phone, saved the file, and slipped it back inside my bag without a sound.
Then I turned my attention to Rosalie. She hadn’t touched the food, not even the water.
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