The sky bled red the night Anastasia Beurie's life changed forever.
She didn't believe in omens, but the blood moon hanging over the city made her skin crawl. The kind of chill that sank into bones and whispered—run.
"Another body drained of blood," the radio crackled in her shop. "Third victim this week. Authorities urge residents to stay indoors—"
Click.
She shut it off.
"Fearmongering nonsense," she muttered, brushing crimson candle wax from her fingers. The apothecary smelled of dried lavender and burnt sage—comforting to most, suffocating to her tonight. Something in the air wasn't right.
As she leaned over to blow out the last ritual candle, a sharp sting pierced her collarbone.
"Damn it—"
She pulled down the neckline of her sweater and froze.
There, just above her heart, a glowing silver mark shimmered under her skin. A jagged crescent, surrounded by ancient runes she'd never seen before.
She stumbled back, heart hammering. That mark—she'd seen it once. In a forbidden book, bound in crimson leather.
The Mark of Moonfire.
A relic from an extinct bloodline.
A death sentence.
"No…" she whispered. "It can't be."
But the pulse of magic in her veins said otherwise.
---
Far across the city, in a chamber bathed in shadow and wine-colored velvet, Antoine Vellaria lifted his head.
His crimson eyes flared open.
"She's awakened," he whispered.
The woman from the vision. The one born with the mark.
The soul that had betrayed him in another life.
"Anastasia…" he breathed her name like a curse and a prayer.
He stood, the floor cracking beneath his bare feet. His body, built of ancient blood and vengeance, trembled not with fear—but longing.
He had waited five centuries for her soul to return.
This time, he would not let her go.
---
The next night, the bell above Anastasia's apothecary rang.
She didn't look up.
"We're closed."
"Shame," came a voice like black velvet and thunder. "I was told you deal in rare ingredients."
The hairs on her arms rose. That voice… not human.
She looked up—and time stopped.
The man in the doorway was tall, dangerously beautiful, and entirely wrong. Midnight-black hair swept over high cheekbones, his skin pale as bone, and eyes—
Red. Not contacts. Not fake. Real.
Predator eyes.
Every part of her screamed to run. But she stood, frozen.
He took a single step forward. "You're afraid. Good. Fear makes people honest."
"Who the hell are you?"
He tilted his head. "You don't remember me."
"Should I?"
"No," he said darkly. "But your soul does."
---
She should've run. Called someone. Used a binding spell. But her magic had been wild ever since the mark appeared. Nothing worked right.
And something deep, deep inside her whispered:
You know him. You always knew him.
"What do you want?" she demanded.
He walked around her tiny counter, slow and deliberate. "To look at your mark."
"You're insane."
"Possibly." He was behind her now, a breath away. "But not wrong."
She spun, heart thudding. "Touch me, and I swear—"
He grabbed her wrist. Gently. But the power behind it was overwhelming.
And then, he saw it—the mark glowing through her shirt.
He exhaled a single, ragged breath. "It's real."
Her skin burned under his gaze. Not with pain, but a strange… pull. Like her magic recognized his. Like her soul leaned toward him.
"What is it?" she demanded. "What does it mean?"
He looked into her eyes, and for a moment, she thought she saw pain there.
"It means," he whispered, "you were mine once. And you'll be mine again."
---
She slapped him.
Hard.
His head snapped to the side, but he only smiled.
"I deserved that."
"Get out."
"Can't," he said casually. "There's a bounty on your head. The council sensed your awakening. If I don't protect you, someone else will come. Someone who'll kill you."
"Why would they kill me?" she snapped.
"Because the last time the Moonfire Witch was reborn, she almost ended our world."
---
Anastasia didn't sleep that night.
She couldn't.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face. Heard that voice. Felt the burning heat of his presence. And worst of all—she dreamed of him.
Not him now, but him in another time. Another life.
A battlefield soaked in blood. A kiss stolen under falling stars. A sword piercing her chest.
She woke screaming.
The mark pulsed again.
---
Three days passed.
She tried to erase him from her mind.
She couldn't.
Because he didn't leave.
He lingered outside the shop like a shadow. Never entering again, just watching. Waiting. Always dressed in black, his eyes unreadable, his body still as a statue.
"I'm not yours," she shouted at him one day through the window.
His answer?
A slow, wicked smile. "Not yet."
---
On the fifth night, the attack came.
Three cloaked figures—Elites, not human—broke through her wards like paper.
She barely had time to scream before one of them grabbed her by the throat, lifting her off the ground.
"The Moonfire must die," he hissed. "Her soul is cursed."
"Let her go," came that voice again—low, deadly.
Antoine.
He didn't walk in. He appeared.
And what followed wasn't a fight. It was a massacre.
Anastasia watched in horror as he tore through her attackers with inhuman speed and ruthless precision. He moved like smoke and lightning, his hands glowing with power she couldn't even name.
When it was over, the floor was soaked in blood.
He turned to her, breathing hard, red eyes glowing.
"You see now?" he said, voice raw. "You're not safe without me."
She staggered back, terrified. "You're a monster."
"Maybe." He took a step closer. "But I'm your monster."
---
That night, he didn't leave.
She let him stay—not because she trusted him, but because she didn't feel safe without him. That terrified her more than the attack.
They didn't speak much.
Until she asked, "Who was I to you? In… the life before?"
He looked at her for a long time, shadows dancing in his eyes.
"You were the woman I loved. And the one who betrayed me."