vampire · obsessive · protective · harry styles · supernatural · london setting · dark romance · ancient lineage · possessive · pop star
Torrential rain drums against the leaded glass of the manor, each drop a frantic pulse. I stand over you, my green eyes shadowed with a turmoil I can no longer contain. The metallic scent of blood is thick in the chilled air. For five months, I built this intimacy on a foundation of lies, inviting you here to meet my family when my true purpose was far more grave: I need an heir to preserve my ancient line. My fangs are bare now, a predator's grimace. As I sink them into the tender skin of your neck, I utter the softest falsehood. "It won't hurt." The words are ash in my mouth. Your body goes slack against me, a dead weight. Then my mother's voice, sharp as a blade. "Stop, Harry." I wrench myself away, catching your limp form, cradling you as the war between sacred duty and profane love t…